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The Avengers have always gotten along fairly well with Spider Man-sure, he can talk too much sometimes, but he's competent, genius, and very, very good at what he does. They have no qualms with working with him, and have even made a sort of tentative friendship with him.
What had really caused the gap had been his identity.
Because in the past they had had their share of people pretending to be other people, of doppelgangers, of shapeshifters. So really, they were not unjustified in their mistrust-even if it was unfounded. They had no reason not to trust Spider Man, but still. They were wary. And they had asked Natasha if she knew-and she, genuinely bewildered, had responded that she had no idea who Spider Man was.
Which is probably why they believe Fury so easily, probably why Fury believed Skip so easily, probably why they're cursing themselves in a conference room.
“We have a lead-well, more of a lead, a name-for Spider Man.” That's the first thing that Fury tells them when he walks in the door, looking vaguely sick and very guilty.
The Avengers perk up, eyes blown wide as they look at each other-they had tried for months, months, and gotten absolutely nothing on the dude. Not an age, a race, any connections, not even a home address. And now Fury is just dropping the dude's name in their laps?
“So…who is he?” Asks Clint tentatively, leaning forwards eagerly. They all flinch back when Fury slams his fist into the metal table, which creaks ominously.
“A motherfucking bastard is what he is!” And Fury is boiling, absolutely on fire, throat soaked in gasoline. And they seem to falter, quizzical expressions on all of their faces, because Spider Man? Did the man somehow wrong Fury?
“Are we thinking of the same guy?” Rhodey asks because, really, the vigilante is (technically) illegal, but is just about the sweetest, most helpful person ever. He walks old people across the street, takes down trafficking rings and saves fucking cats from trees. There isn't a bad bone in that dude's body.
Fury snarls, sweeps the papers off the table, eyebrows fighting with each other in agitation. His lips are contorted furiously, twisted and marred like deep cuts in his skin. “Just ask him.” And he snaps his head forwards to the door, which seems to open on cue. In comes a stumbling man with blonde hair and distinctly blue eyes. He seems to stutter, falter in the greatness that are the Avengers, but he pulls himself together quickly enough, and they notice the red rimming his eyes.
“I-I sorry I just-I know you work with Spider Man and-” The man seems to crumble, tongue tripping over itself as he tries to force out words and apologies.
“Easy there, son-what's your name?” Steve asks, hands placating, face pinched in concern. The man hiccups, throat bobbing up and down harshly.
“Skip Westcott, sir.” He answers, eyes trained completely and utterly on the floor. His face is pale, white washed, and he looks like an utter wreck. Natasha’s brows jump but quickly lowers-she's sure she heard something about a Westcott awhile back, something to do with a legal case.
While Steve and Bruce work on calming Skip down, Tony sends a completely baffled look to Fury, who frowns and seems to adjust himself.
“Skip knows who Spider Man is, and he wanted to tell us so we could put that bastard behind goddamn bars.” Fury hisses, seething through his teeth. His feelings taste sour in his mouth, shriveling his tongue, and it's all he can do not to vomit all over the floor.
“He-He raped me, when I was a kid, before he became Spider Man. And I'm just so-so scared, and his name is Parker Peterson and I just don't want him to do it again-” Skip is cut off by his sobs as he sinks to the floor, even as the Avengers surge backwards, tripping over themselves in their shock. Spider Man, a rapist? The world seems to tilt completely to its side as their visions narrow, breaths shallow.
God, they've been working with a rapist, and that rapist had powers.
Who else had he hurt?
How many people, and with his powers, and how many people-
They snap into action, an elastic band filled with anticipation, snapped with exertion. And they grab their weapons, grab their sanity, wrench their molten feelings off of their tongues and swallow them. They have a fucking spider, a fucking pedophile to find.
And they leave, Fury turns away, hands shaking, trying to collect himself. And they leave, and Skip smiles on the ground, wipes away his false tears.
They're going to ruin Peter’s life, just like Peter ruined his.
“FRI, be a doll and pull up all the Parker Petersons in the area.” Tony grits out as the team gathers around him. News articles and police reports flash by, stored away, and their all left staring at five possible candidates. The first one they immediately push away-a man in his seventies, with a sagging stomach and pillowy arms, there's no way that's Spider Man. The second one they also cross off-A Peter Parker, goes to Midtown, Bambi eyes.
“Way too young, and besides, the name doesn't fit.” Sam comments, and the rest of the team hum agreements, crossing out the next one-a three month old. The last two are floating up on the screen. Two men, one with curly brown hair, the other with flat hair like the sand on a beach. Both between the ages of 35-40, which puts them at perfect age for child rape.
The Avengers don't know whether to throw up or dance.
They opt on letting their rage consume them, feeding their frantically clicking fingers to inhale hungrily everything about these two men. The first one doesn't seem to fit-there are catalogs of all his work hours, and he works far upstate, typically until nine o'clock at night. And that doesn't work because Spider Man is seen patrolling as early as four, seven in the morning on the weekends.
Maybe they should have caught that.
Maybe they should have stopped for a moment and realized that Spider Man was small, and had a still-broken voice, and that the times he went patrolling didn't make any sense for someone with a job. And maybe they should have realized that he would drop anything for little kids and that he had raced into a burning Midtown before screaming about a boy named Ned and a girl named MJ.
But they don't.
Their anger eats at their veins, snacks on their brain cells, pulls apart their tendons. It nestles itself in as they read that Parker Peterson does not work on the weekends, that he has a seven-three job he attends every day. They read that he lives alone in Queens with two dogs and a parakeet, and that he volunteers at children's hospitals.
Childrens. Hospitals.
Clint lets out an animalistic growl, fingers tearing into the flesh on his palms, and Nat tries to placate him, promising that Parker will lick the blood from his own knives. And Clint fucking smiles, eyes hooded, a sick sense of justice screaming in him.
And they don't even need to go to the guy's apartment, because Spider Man has been spotted, swinging around the city. He's been spotted and they jump into action, ignoring the accusations and facilities that lay hidden under their smoldering surfaces, the doubts and fears and tension that pulls at their tendons like bowstrings.
They don't listen to it, in the anxiety that curls in their gut.
They hunt.
Peter has been having a relatively good day, despite getting pushed down the stairs by Flash-he got a ninety eight on his Spanish test, which wasn't so bad, considering he hadn't slept in the past two days. He made May laugh today, and agreed to build a Lego set with Ned.
It's even better when the Avengers show up.
He waves at them energetically as he loops himself up and over a lamppost, grin they can't see splitting his face.
God, this is so cool.
“Hey! Are there aliens to fight? More chitauri weapons to take out?” He asks eagerly, hopping from foot to foot excitedly, because that's Captain America wow-
But his bubbling giddiness falters, fades slightly, as he takes in the frowns marring their faces. As he sees what is obviously anger, something he had seen so much on the streets, in the gutters, in windows and on the tv. It's snarling and narcotic at the same time, drawing him in even as he struggles to get out.
Maybe this is bad.
“We know who you are.” Tony–Iron Man--finally says, after he's been clenching his jaw so hard it looks like it might crack. And Peter stumbles back, mask lenses wide, even as the breath is stolen from his lungs.
Shit. Definitely bad.
“You-you what-I-how?” Peter asks, strangled, trying not to fall off the building as the ledge tickles at his heels. And Tony tilts his head mockingly, faceplate lifted up so the vigilante can see the pout he showcases like a trophy.
“Well, your darling friend Skip told us of course, Parker.” The man all but yells, his throat constricted and saturated with so much disgust that Peter doesn't fully understand what he had said until-
His body freezes, nausea working its way up his throat, shaking through his vertebrate.
Skip.
Skip Skip Skip, the name that hadn't been allowed to be spoken in the apartment, the name he had spent years washing and ripping off his tongue and skin, the hands that still covered his dreams like crawling insects, hands everywhere and everywhere over him dripping with gasoline-
A choked noise escapes his lips, a mewl of terror. And he barely sees Natasha’s eyebrows jump up, as though something has clicked into place for her, a dawning horror on her face, and her lips are moving but he is not hearing-
“Yeah, we heard about what a piece of shit you were.” Bucky coughs out, his eyes huge and blown and completely covering his face, like huge craters of disgust.
“And we aren't going to stop until you know it, because you should be in jail-but you aren't, and you have some paying up to do.” Clint hisses, knowing damn well that his kids could suffer because of people like Parker.
And then they attack.
Peter still isn't sure whats happening, just knows that his SPidey Sense is screaming, and there are things coming to him all at once and-
He dodges out of the way, drops off the roof and flicks out a web blindly, just hoping he doesn't run into a wall. An arrow-followed by more and more- fly past him, just barely missing his chest. And he's seized with fear as he tumbles out of the way, feet stinging as he lands incorrectly, before taking off. He's running and he hears Natasha’s voice screaming for them to stop but they arent and-
He knows he needs to get away.
They're on his tail, and he knows that it would be really stupid to get out in the open but he doesn't want to get cornered. He leaps to the top of an apartment roof in one swift bound, turns around for a fraction of a second to see where they are.
It's all they need.
A repulsor blast knocks into his shoulder, sending him flying forwards onto his knees, which pop ominously. He leaps up nearly instantly, black bubbling at the edge of his vision, but as he does an arrow pierces his stomach.
He looks down shakily, mouth dry, tries to process the pain and the sound of his flesh getting ripped open.
He looks up shakily, too, sees the Avengers converging on him, only fifteen feet away.
Maybe it's the disgust in their eyes.
Maybe it's the fact that their faces look all too much like Skip’s.
Maybe it's the fact that he still hates himself for it.
But he stays standing. He stays standing and he flicks out a web, attaching it to the Iron Man suit, even as more arrows rain down around him. And he flicks Tony to the side like a doll, sending him colliding into Steve, who collapses under him.
Bucky lets out a roar and launches himself at Peter, filled with nothing but fury and vehemence and god-
The man has landed two solid punches against his face before he can fight back, but when he does he makes quick work of it. You don't train with Daredevil, Deadpool or the Punisher for nothing.
He leaves Bucky writhing and spitting furiously, trying to claw off the webs covering him entirely, focusing his energy on the rest of them-Steve and Tony are comatose, it seems.
Clint, Sam, Rhodey.
There's no sign of Natasha, and his heart gallops up at that, trying to sense her, even as he's attacked by Sam, the wings of his suit slicing into his shoulder. He lets out a gasp of pain, shoves the man off of him, even as the Iron Patriot decks him clear across the rooftop. His jaw aches and fizzles in pain, and he's pretty sure it's broken, already bruised.
It's fine, it's okay.
He gets himself up by attaching to a satellite dish, twisting up and over the offensive peoples heads, landing heavily on the other side.
Maybe it's the blood loss, but he's pretty sure the Black Widow is at his side, then.
He flinches away from her, burying his tongue into his throat, and backs away quickly-fast and not fast enough, because he's never been fast enough, will never be fast enough, and those hands are crawling all over him again-
The Iron Patriot suit lands on his leg, crushing, breaking, pushing, until it completely snaps and Peter lets in a sharp gust of air. There's energy and fire and poison seeping up from where it's already swelling, and Peter’s head thunks against the ground even though he's not sure when he got there.
As he stares into the creation of Tony Stark, Rhodeys eyes visible, Sam Wilson also rushing at him, he realizes he's going to die.
This happens just as two widow bites are inserted into the gaps of the suit, and the Iron Patriot seizes, convulses in electric shocks, before crashing backwards.
And really, Peter would say thank you if Sam hadn't chosen that exact moment to crash–hard–into his ribs. Peter feels them crack-one or all of them he isn't sure-and he lets out an absolutely destroyed noise. And he struggles feebly, pinned down by invisible arms, even as Sam is kicked away, and Natasha hovers over him all concern and nothing more. No disgust, no hatred, just understanding.
“I-I-” He's cut off by Natasha shushing him, peering over the edge. She flicks something down, and there's a small squawk before Clint is leaping up, eyes blazing, not enough time to move before she stabs a needle into his leg.
He crumples to the ground, a look of utter betrayal on his face.
And then there's just him and Natasha. Just him and the Black Widow he can't win against, not like this, not right now.
He turns to the side, eyes squeezed shut, and prepares for the final blow.
It never comes.
It doesnt come and he just blinks, a slow, lethargic thing, like sweet candy floss under his eyes. He blinks and turns his head lightly, almost flinches away from the scrutinizing gaze of the woman in front of him.
He doesn't flinch, but she does.
She ducks her head the slightest bit, eyes lowered and neck bared.
“I’m sorry.” She whispers, the first time he's ever seen her use emotions and it hits him that she is a kid. Not really, but a kid because she hadnt been able to be a kid. That had been taken away from her, and now she's staring at broken kid even with a broken mask on and it breaks her heart just a little bit more-
“I'm so fucking sorry. I'm sorry I didn't realize sooner and we did this and this happened. I'm sorry we thought you were the bad guy.” And Peter realizes her eyes are shining with tears, and he's always been a comforter, so he just reaches up even when it makes him lightheaded.
He reaches up and wraps her in a hug, one she stiffens against like plywood.
This isn't the point.
She gingerly removes his hands, holds them, leans him back.
“Your name isn't Parker Peterson, is it? You're Peter Parker, aren't you?” And Peter has the feeling it doesn't matter, that she already knows, and she's just giving Peter a choice. He nods slightly, chin dipping down and not rising again.
“I'm so sorry.” Peter says this time, and Natasha snaps her head over an inch, eyes comically wide and furious.
“You-You have nothing to be sorry for. We,” She gestures at the other Avengers, in similar states of disrepair. “Have something to be sorry for not you.” And her anger is so familiar that he wants to nestle inside of him and burn up inside of it like a dying, smoking bird, because he can deal with angry and hurt-
“I'm sorry I was weak, that I wasn't stronger, I understand that…I understand how that would cause this reaction.” He responds even though he really doest, doesn't really understand why they couldn't have just ignored it and listened to his triumphs and not dug up his past or his name or everything wrong with him-
Suddenly he's wrapped in arms, warm arms as tears stream down his face, as spit attaches his mask to his lips. There are soft ‘no’s’ that reach his ears, as he is rocked back and forth and back and forth and back and forth.
The rest of the Avengers slowly come back to themselves, coiled up and ready for a fight, but stop when they see Natasha holding Spider Man.
And they realize that they might have just made a huge miscalculation.
It doesn't take much to get it out of Spider Man-he tells them his name, his age, where he goes to school, trembling with fear. And they stand ramrod still, knowing that they saw him and dismissed him as too young.
Too young to do it to a man when he was a child.
But not too young to have it done to him.
Just about everyone has to grip onto the backs of seats in the hospital room, nausea fighting for space in their throats and stomachs and beind their fucking eyes that are looking at a broken kid-
It isn't hard to learn that Peter is not the only one.
It isn't hard to learn there were at least three others that Skip acted as babysitter too, and it isn't hard to have Fury let them have access.
It isn't hard for them to mute his screams.
It is hard to apologize.
Not apologizing in itself, that's easy, but for it to be enough. For putting him through the absolute hell that they did, for falsely accusing and not looking harder and actually checking anything-
Peter forgives them, which makes it somehow worse.
He forgives them even after what they did, but it would be so much easier to deal with someone who wanted them dead for it, who wanted them away and gone and to never see or hear or think about them anymore.
But they soon come to realize that the only person Peter has hated and will most likely ever hate is Skip, SKip who violated him and touched him and told him that he was his-
It takes many days for the smell of vomit to actually leave the tower.
It doest take many days for the one and only May Parker to slam her way into the tower to scream at all of them for two hours solid. It takes her voice completely getting obliterated, and several times of her hitting Steve and Tony and Sam and Rhodey and Clint-God, Clint-for her to stop. And when she does she just smolders out and walks, tight-lipped and broken eyed to Peter's bed, holds his hands and kisses, kisses, kisses it better.
And it would be so much easier if Peter hated him, but he doesn't, because the only person he hates is currently lying at the bottom of the Hudson River.
It isn't enough, will never truly be enough, but for now, maybe it is.