Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

May Parker

Bruce is a reasonable man. Composed, rational, collected. Very much in control of his emotions, no matter how often Tony tries to jab him with sharp objects.

That being said, when he gets a phone call right after taking his first bite out of the delicious pear-and-brie sandwich he had been thinking about all morning, he certainly feels like hulking out would be entirely justified.

The culprit is Natasha. “Bruce, we’ve got another one. Female, late 50s.”

Bruce mutters a curse under his breath, putting the sandwich down and switching his phone to his other hand to grab a pen. “Is this one still alive?”

“Declared dead,” Natasha reports. “Foaming at the mouth, eyes rolled back, just like the others.”

“Spider bite?”

“Yes, right upper arm.”

“Found in her home?”

“On a rooftop.”

Well, that’s new. And… weird. “Really?”

“Thirty feet up. I got two eyewitnesses who swear they saw her crawling up the walls.”

Bruce gives a small, surprised noise as he scribbles out notes. “We haven’t heard a story like that since the first case.”

Natasha hums in agreement. “Seems that first eyewitness wasn’t as drunk as we all assumed she was. Police is still figuring out her identity. Hang on – the officer is waving me over. I’m hanging up. I’ll get you blood samples.”

Natasha knows the way to his heart. “See you in a bit.”

Bruce puts the phone down, gathering his papers together. “FRIDAY, inform Tony, please. Another dead mutate on the way; lab one.”

“Same story as all the others,” Natasha informs him as she follows him into lab one. “Name’s Diane Mason. A woman with a clean record, middle-management at some company that produces dishwashers. All very white picket fence. Husband kicked the bucket two years ago. She had two children in college.”

“And she had a brain tumor the size of a tennis ball,” Tony’s voice sounds from somewhere behind them.

The man is sitting in a desk chair, wearing only his sunglasses and a faded purple bathrobe, blearily staring at the computer screen in front of him. He cradles a massive cup of coffee like it’s his lifeline. Bruce lifts his chin in greeting. “Already hacked her medical records, I gather?”

“Hacked everything,” Tony says, a supercilious sort of boredom in his voice. “Get a load of her MRI, never seen a tumor that big.”

“A little respect, please,” Bruce chides as he steps closer to peer at the screen, Natasha at his heel. “Did the files say how long the doctors gave her to live?”

“Months.”

Again, same story as all the other dead mutates they had found. “Perhaps we shouldn’t have discarded our theory that we are dealing with human experiments. This is now our seventh case of a spider-bite related death. Four victims had cancer, one had HIV, one had Lou Gehrig's, one had early onset Alzheimers… All people who might be so desperate that they’ll subject themselves to illegal treatments.”

Tony waves an arm around, coffee sloshing over the rim of his cup. “Yes, darling. And you remember why we discarded that theory? Experiments are generally conducted indoors. With people observing. Lots of machines. Scary lab coats. Possibly, aliens. They don’t generally let their lab-rats roam freely around the city.”

“Maybe they didn’t want to deal with getting rid of the dead bodies,” Bruce suggests.

Tony hums, not looking terribly convinced. But Bruce hasn’t seen much of any emotion in those hollow eyes, lately.

“We have two new eyewitnesses confirming that they saw her climbing straight up a wall,” Natasha says.

“Yeah, I read the reports,” Tony mutters, leaning back and running a hand across the stubble covering his chin. “I vote we call them ‘wallcrawlers’ from now on, instead of ‘Spider-Mutates’. All those in favor, say ‘aye’!”

“I’m in favor of you putting on some underwear,” Natasha says.

“Took a little peek, did you?”

“You’re the one manspreading all over that chair.”

“It’s my house.”

“I know it’s your house. You don’t have to rub your bits on the furniture to prove that point.”

“Nat, leave it,” Bruce says, tiredly. Natasha always gets Tony worked up, but then Bruce is the one cooped up in a lab with him for the rest of the day. And Tony’s mood has been particularly foul ever since Pepper moved out.

Neither Tony nor Natasha are the type to just let something go, though, and they keep glaring at each other in a stand-offish way.

FRIDAY swoops in to save the day. “Boss, you have an incoming videocall from Mr. Ross.”

Tony pushes his sunglasses up into his hair and covers his eyes with his hand. “Which one?”

“The nice one.”

“Fine, put him through.” Tony lets his glasses fall back on his nose and turns his attention back to the MRI scan.

A screen on the table near them turns on with a modest beep, and Everett Ross’ face pops up. He appears disgruntled and flustered, fiddling with papers and giving a cursory glance around the room. “Evening. Is Rogers around?”

“Not at the moment,” Natasha says, her voice once again cool and collected, even as she physically leans away from Tony.

“You three will have to brief him, then,” Ross decides, looking down at the papers in his hands. “A prisoner escaped from Bedford Hills Correctional Facility this morning.”

“Thrilling,” Tony says, not even glancing up from the MRI-scan. “What’s his name and how deadly is he?”

“Her name is May Parker. She is considered armed and dangerous, but not any more so than your average murder convict.”

“So why is this our concern?”

“Watch the surveillance footage I just sent you, and you’ll know.”

Tony finally tears his eyes away from Diane Mason’s brain scan. “I do enjoy a cliffhanger like that. FRIDAY, did you receive the footage?”

“Playing footage,” FRIDAY says, and one of the large screens against the wall jumps to life, immediately displaying grainy images of the outside of a prison: red brick walls and small windows, surrounded by a strip of grass. The security camera is aimed towards a high fence with barbed wire atop, that cuts the prison off from the rest of civilization. And behind that fence, a silhouette moves beneath the trees that surround the complex. A slender figure, dressed in black clothes and a mask, approaches the prison. He seems to take in his surroundings for a few seconds, craning his neck to survey the barbed wire at the top of the high fence, then disappears back into the shadows of the trees.

Tony opens his mouth, probably about to ask if they can get to the good part already, when the black figure suddenly reappears, sprinting straight at the fence and jumping. At least twelve feet, clear over the barbed wire, seemingly with no effort, before landing on the strip of grass.

Tony hisses between his teeth and sets his coffee cup down.

Not seeming fazed in the least, the dark figure jumps straight at the red brick wall of the prison building and starts climbing towards the roof with such ease that he seems to defy gravity.

“A wallcrawler,” Tony breathes, sounding fascinated. “Look at him go!”

The wallcrawler has reached the roof and disappears from view a moment later.

“You can guess the rest,” Ross cuts in. “This. Whatever it is. It broke out the prisoner.”

“Did he jump across the fence with her?” Tony asks, his voice full of interest. And not exactly the kind of interest of a man concerned about the safety of his fellow countrymen.

“No,” Ross says, dragging a hand across his face, “actually, he tore a hole in the fence with his bare hands and they slipped through together.”

Tony guffaws, slapping a hand down on the table.

“I’m glad you’re amused by it,” Ross says, “but I now have a murderer on the loose, assisted by some enhanced creature with unknown powers. We’ve had a man-hunt all day with no results …”

“He climbed the wall,” Tony says. “Bruce, darling – he climbed the wall!”

“… and the CIA is calling on the Avengers to work out – what? Yes, he climbed the wall, Tony, I am in fact not visually impaired. I saw the footage. That’s why I need the Avengers to act on this.”

Tony gives an annoyed frown at the screen. “All right, yes Ross, we’ll discuss strategy and get back to you. Ciao.”

“Do not hang-“

Tony turns off his screen. He turns in his chair and looks between Bruce and Natasha, a boyish enthusiasm on his face that hasn’t been there in a long time. “A wallcrawler. Alive and well! Avengers: assemble!”

When someone called a meeting, they used to always converge in the study down the hall, surrounded by books and plush armchairs. And cups of Pepper’s tea that never failed to scald your tongue, because Pepper somehow found a method to get tea to magma-level temperatures.

Since she moved out, the official meeting room in the east wing has been brought into use again. There are no books and no cups of tea. Only grey steel, smooth surfaces and large screens.

Natasha doesn’t like the change much.

At least Sam brought snacks, like he always does.

Tony passes a picture around the table for the other Avengers to study. A woman with long brown hair and a determined gaze is staring up at them. “There’s the mugshot of our lovely May Parker, murder convict, who escaped prison today with the help of a wallcrawler.”

“You mean another Spider-Mutate?” Sam asks, one arm slung over the back of his chair.

Tony waves his hand. “We’ve just passed a motion to rename them.”

“I didn’t vote!”

“That’s because you’re not important,” Tony informs him. “Now; after four damn weeks of just finding dead bodies, we finally have a mutate alive and functioning. I suggest we turn all our resources towards finding these two.”

“You mean you see a connection between this guy and the seven dead mutates we’ve been dealing with in the city?” Steve asks with a frown. “Just because they can all climb walls?”

“Not exactly a common skill, even among enhanced,” Tony points out.

“True. It still feels like it might be conjecture.”’

Natasha feels herself tense up, already expecting the usual scathing retort from Tony. The man can’t stand it when Steve disagrees with him. He can stand it even less when Steve agrees with him, though. So all in all, the atmosphere in the meeting room is generally thick with tension.

But Tony merely sighs, slips on his sunglasses and leans back in his chair to stare up at the ceiling. “We’ve had seven cases. Seven people dead. All we know is that they were bitten by an unidentified spider, had radioactive substances in their blood and were already dying of some type of terminal illness. No other link between them. All we do is wait for the next dead body to pop up, hoping that it will give us another clue. I’m tired of playing whack-a-mole. At this point, I don’t even care if the cases are connected. Let’s just pretend that they are and get some life back into this party. I want that wallcrawler in a cute little cage in my lab, a.s.a.p.”

Steve frowns at him.

“What, Rogers? What? I’ll be nice to it. Give it bathroom breaks and everything. We all know how fucking delightful I am as a person. And Bruce will be happy that I’ll have something else to poke at for a change.” He emphasizes his point by jabbing a finger into Bruce’s ribs, making the man wheeze.

“It shouldn’t matter, really,” Natasha speaks up. “Whether the cases are connected or not; we have a new enhanced on our radar with bad intentions, and we need to get him locked up. For argument’s sake, let’s call him a Spider-Mutate, too - ”

“Wallcrawler.”

“- and work on finding him, and our escaped convict,” Natasha finishes, ignoring Tony. “And if this case can somehow shed some light on where all these other dead mutates are coming from, it’ll just be a bonus.”

Steve gives her a nod. “What do we know about the mutate?”

“Nothing, apart from a rough estimate of weight and height.”

“What do we know about the prisoner?”

“May Parker. You’ve heard her name before. She’s the one who killed Norman Osborn back in January.” The story had been all over the papers for weeks. May Parker had attacked Norman Osborn at his house, killing him by bashing his head in with a still unknown murder weapon.

Her husband Ben Parker had been shot in his own home that very same day. In the courtroom, May Parker claimed that Norman Osborn had been the one who pulled the trigger. She had absolutely no proof to back that up, though. The papers declared her delusional, unhinged, and certainly dangerous, even floating the idea that she had been the one who killed her own husband.

“This May Parker wouldn’t happen to be an evil scientist?” Sam asks. “Who could be part of some evil-scientist-squad responsible for those seven mutates we found?”

Natasha shakes her head. “She was a journalist and photographer. Newspapers, magazines, etcetera.”

“What about her husband, the one who got shot? Evil scientist?”

“Cop.”

Sam slumps in his seat, clearly disappointed at the lack of evil scientists involved in this case.

Steve drums his fingers against the table. “FRIDAY, who are her closest living relatives?”

“Two results,” FRIDAY reports, displaying a picture on one of the screens of a young teenager with messy, brown hair and twinkling eyes. “The first is her nephew Peter Parker. Fourteen years old. He was living with her when she was arrested. He was moved into foster care; reported missing a few weeks later.”

“Missing, how? Kidnapped? Presumed dead?”

“Runaway.”

“And still hasn’t been found?”

“Missing for over a month, now.”

“Hm. What about the second relative?”

Another picture. “May Parker’s mother, Rosemary Reilly. She is living in a nursing home in Cleveland.”

“Former evil scientist?” Sam tries.

“Former nurse.”

“Let’s start with what we know,” Steve decides. “First thing tomorrow, Natasha and I will visit the prison Parker escaped from. Tony, Bruce; you two work on that blood-sample from our seventh victim. If that doesn’t get us anywhere, we’ll do some family visits.”

“Is that all for this agenda item?” Rhodey asks, “because I wanted to discuss a plan to build a chicken coop next to our vegetable garden.”

“Fuck’s sake…” Tony mutters and promptly exits.

As per usual, Tony isn’t much of a help. While Bruce attempts a whole array of tests on Diane Mason’s blood samples, Tony is mostly just doing whatever the hell he feels like, such as gawking at Mason’s MRI scan, replaying the footage of Parker’s prison break, or… whatever he is doing to that microscope right now.

“Are you not going to get dressed at all today?” Bruce asks, with a pointed look at Tony’s bathrobe.

“Wearing pants is for poor people.”

Bruce has a feeling that Tony’s refusal to cooperate is mainly because Steve had explicitly instructed him to help. Tony has always done whatever he could to undermine Steve’s authority. “Can you at least do the paperwork, be a little useful?”

“Excuse me,” Tony says, slumping back down in his chair. “While you’re over there finger-painting with some blood that’ll give us less than nothing to go on, I’m over here Sherlock-fucking-Holmesing this whole case out.”

“Is that so?”

Tony points at his screen where footage of the prisonbreak is no doubt playing. “Let’s look at the facts again: Ben Parker is killed. May Parker then kills Norman Osborn. She goes to jail, gets busted out by a mutate. Now – we’ve established that May and Ben Parker were not evil scientists. But Oscorp sure as hell is full of them. We all heard the rumors of the kind of experiments they like to dabble in.”

“Rumors,” Bruce emphatically repeats.

“When we’ve got seven dead mutates, one dead cop, one dead CEO and one killer on the loose, I think we’re allowed to follow up on such rumors.”

Bruce takes off his glasses, cleaning them with his shirt as he frowns thoughtfully at the floor. “Why would Oscorp create mutates and then use them to break Osborn’s killer out of prison?”

“Plenty of reasons,” Tony insists. He scratches his chin, his eyes narrowed. “What’s that guys name who has now taken over Oscorp? The guy who looks like he’s permanently on hunger-strike?”

“Charles Standish. Used to be Osborn’s right hand.”

Tony snaps his fingers. “Right. I bet Standish and Osborn had a feud. Maybe Standish was doing experiments to create mutates, but Osborn was holding him back. So Standish hires Parker to kill him. Now Standish is in charge, and he can do mutate experiments to his heart’s desires.”

“Less than an hour ago you were adamant that these couldn’t possibly be human experiments.”

“I was certainly not adamant,” Tony denies loftily. “I was simply considering all options.”

“And the murder on Ben Parker figures into this, how?”

Tony shrugs. “He was a cop. Maybe he got in her way.”

“Hm-hmmm. Look to your left.”

Tony looks to his left. “What?”

“There’s a pen right there next to the keyboard. Pick it up and do the paperwork, Sherlock Holmes.”

“Whatever you say, darling,” Tony says. And proceeds to do absolutely nothing.

 Rosa Costero

All of May Parker’s possessions fit into a single cardboard box. A plump female prison guard places it on top of the desk for Natasha to see. “That’s everything. Clothes, books, some letters and photos.”

Natasha scans the items. She spots a postcard from Costa Rica. Two picture books for children; one with a drawing of a large caterpillar, and another with a polar bear family on the front.

“Here’s something you might find interesting,” the guard says, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “At the moment of the break-in, Parker was on laundry duty. The mutate clearly knew this, because he went straight for that corner of the facility. And Parker did somehow smuggle extra clothes out of her room, that morning.”

So Parker had known that someone was coming for her. Somehow, she had been warned. “And she had no suspicious letters or calls in the weeks prior?”

“Nah. I mean – probably, yes. She must have. But we have no idea.”

“Who corresponded with her?”

“Sometimes her nephew. Sometimes a friend.”

“I was told the nephew went missing?”

The guard shrugs. “Don’t know about that. He hasn’t called in a while, I guess. He did send her letters.”

Natasha picks up the postcard from Costa Rica. It has a short, friendly message and is signed by a certain Lily. “Any idea who this Lily is?”

“I’m guessing her lawyer, Lily Lee. She came by a few times.”

Natasha arches an eyebrow. “A lawyer who sends her a holiday card?”

“I guess they were friends, too.”

“You guess a lot, don’t you?”

The guard looks annoyed. “Well, guess what,” she says, unintentionally very much proving Natasha’s point, “it’s not my job to keep track of who is friends with who.”

Natasha wants to say ‘no, it’s just your job to keep prisoners from escaping’ but it might be better to stay on this woman’s good side. So instead she uses her preferred method of seeming likeable: “I like your shoes.”

The guard glances down at her ratty sneakers, her frown disappearing. “Thanks.”

Natasha taps her fingers against the box. “So can I take this? Do I need to sign anything?”

“I don’t know,” the guard says. “Some private detective is supposed to come over any moment now to pick them up.”

“A private detective, huh?”

The guard shrugs. “Oscorp. I heard they put their best detective on this case.”

“I’m here by order of Everett Ross, CIA,” Natasha informs her. “Pretty sure we take precedence over some hired detective.”

The guard looks uncomfortable. “My superior insisted that I should-“

 “What’s your superior’s name?”

“Mrs. O’Donnell.”

“Tell O’Donnell to take it up with the CIA. Phone number is on the website. They have excellent customer service.”

Natasha dumps the box into the backseat before stepping behind the wheel.

Steve is in the passenger seat. He is dressed in a simple jeans and shirt, very un-captain-America-esque. But his shield is leaning against his legs, and he is slowly running his hands along the edges. As if the thing is a dog that needs petting. He gives her an expectant glance when she doesn’t start the car. “Not ready to leave yet?”

Natasha drums her fingers against the steering wheel, staring up at the red prison walls in front of them. “Oscorp has put their best detective on the case,” she says by way of explanation.

“Huh,” Steve says. “Guess we should have known we wouldn’t be in this manhunt alone.”

“The guard almost didn’t want to give me Parker’s stuff. Said her superior insisted she should hand the possessions over to some detective rather than the CIA. Not exactly standard procedure, wouldn’t you agree?”

“So her superior is a little dumb.”

“Or a little corrupt. When that detective gets here, I’ll distract him with my magnificent womanly charms and try to get some information out of him, you put a tracker under his car. I want to know what he’s up to.”

“Or maybe he and us could work together?” Steve suggests optimistically. Oh, that sweet summer child.

“Hard pass,” Natasha says. “I’m already working with too many assholes right now. No, I don’t mean you,” she adds when she catches Steve’s look.

“You need to cut Tony some slack,” Steve says, correctly interpreting what she did mean. “He’s just been a bit cranky because Pepper left him.”

“Or maybe Pepper left him because he’s a bit cranky?” Natasha suggests. It’s hard to feel sympathy for the man who drove Pepper out of the compound.

“He misses her.”

Natasha misses her, too. “Just because his pain is understandable, doesn’t mean his behavior is acceptable. Did you know he was drunk during our last mission?”

Steve gives a slight nod. “I told him to sit the next one out. That’s why he’s with Bruce in the lab instead of out here with us.”

Natasha snorts. That probably went over well. Tony already had deep-seated problems with authority before Pepper dumped him. He never does what he’s told, especially when Steve is the one telling him.

A small, bright green car with a rattling engine pulls into an empty parking space only a short distance away from them. Salsa music is blasting from the speakers. ‘Costero – Private investigator’ is printed in sparkling letters on the side. A giant, stuffed bunny looks out the rear window. Both Steve and Natasha sit up.

A woman steps out. She is far too tall to be driving such a tiny car; with high heels and brightly colored clothes, including a large coat that looks like it was made from a patchwork quilt.

“I thought they put their best detective on the case,” Natasha says, puzzled. “And instead we get this tree-hugger?”

“Don’t judge people based on a first impression, Nat,” Steve chides.

“I always judge people based on a first impression,” Natasha says, “and I’m always right. Now - ” she opens the glove cabinet, rummaging around. “- change of plans. I’m going to place the tracker under her car. You distract her with your magnificent manly charms to get some information out of her.”

Steve looks distinctly uncomfortable with his assigned mission. “How do I do that?”

Figures. Steve has probably never put the moves on anyone in his life. “Show her your shield.”

Steve clutches his shield protectively, as if he is afraid the woman will try to rip it from his hands, but he does nod and opens the door.

Natasha opens the door on her side, too, and slips outside. She snakes past a few more cars, creeping-tiger-mode fully engaged.

She momentarily pauses to glance across a hood. Steve has approached the woman from behind and clears his throat. “Excuse me, ma’am?”

The woman turns; coat flaring, eyes widening dramatically.

“Are you by any chance the detective hired by Oscorp to find May Parker?”

“Yes,” she exclaims. “Yes I am – oh lordy, are the Avengers on this case, too? It is you, isn’t it?”

“Steve Rogers,” Steve confirms. Natasha can’t see his face, but she imagines he is smiling amicably as he shakes her hand.

“Rosa Costero.”

Natasha ducks her head again and moves towards Costero’s… car, for lack of a better word. Having reached her bright green, four-wheeled victim, she throws a final glance at the detective.

Costero is not paying attention to her in the least. “Can I hold the shield for a moment?” she breaths, her eyes shining as she looks down at it.

“Um, sure,” Steve says, though even from a distance, Natasha can see every muscle in his back tightening. But she knows Steve would rather guzzle bleach than do anything even vaguely unkind or offensive. “Careful, though. It’s heavy.”

“Oh, yeah, it is!” she agrees as she carefully takes it from him. “Wow – I don’t know why, I thought it would be light! I guess it’s light for you, with all those muscles. You’ve got a sweet smile, too, hon.”

Natasha sincerely doubts Steve is smiling right now. He is probably far too busy being awkward and bewildered.

She places the tracker in one fluid movement. Job done. Time to extract Steve from his hostage situation.

“Oh, goodness, there’s another one!” Costero exclaims when she spots Natasha stepping out from between two cars. “Is this a team mission? Is Iron Man hiding in a tree?” She clutches the shield tighter.

Steve’s right hand twitches, as he restrains himself from snatching his dearest possession back. His voice remains perfectly polite, though. “It’s just the two of us. We’re here by CIA orders. We’ve picked up May Parker’s possessions.”

“Oh,” she says, her face falling. “That is unfortunate. But understandable – yes, I wouldn’t want to get in the Avengers’ way. My client told me that they were promised to me, but…”

“Your client being Oscorp, correct?” Natasha verifies.

“Yes. Well, the CEO Charles Standish, to be exact. Hired me three months ago to track down Norman Osborn’s secret girlfriend. And then the whole thing turned into a murder case.”

Natasha frowns. “May Parker was involved with Osborn?”

“Lordy, no. Not at all. It was someone else, some red-head named Mindy. Standish thought she was a corporate spy or something. I’ve handled cases like that a million times; cheating husbands, fraudulent employees... Then the guy gets himself killed and now here I am, investigating a darned murder.” She runs her fingers along the edge of the shield. “I guess I’ll have to rethink strategy. Thwarted by the Avengers,” she chuckles, the sound reminding Natasha of a clucking chicken. “Another story to share by the water cooler!”

Steve nods. “Could I have my shield back, then?”

“Oh lordy,” she giggles. “Look at me, clinging to it. There you go.” She hands it back.

The muscles in Steve’s back relax. “It was nice meeting you,” he says. Steve could bump into a parking meter, and still tell it ‘it was nice meeting you’.

“You too,” Costero says, before glancing at Natasha. “And you. Although you scared me a bit, popping out of nowhere like that! Where’d you come from?”

“I like your shoes,” Natasha says.

Tony doesn’t immediately pick up when Steve calls him.

Natasha imagines Stark sitting in the compound in his bathrobe, slurping his coffee and stubbornly ignoring Steve’s call.

True to form, Bruce is the one answering the phone, his voice crackling over the car speakers. “Hang on, Steve,” he says in a tired voice. “Tony is right here – yes, take the damn phone, Tony!”

“Sorry, I didn’t see it was you,” Tony says as he comes to the phone.

Steve doesn’t raise to the bait. “Heard anything from Ross while we were gone?”

“No. And Bruce has nothing exciting to tell us, either. I Sherlock-Holmesed out what’s going on, by the by,” Tony says. “You’re welcome. Charles Standish was doing illegal experiments with Spider-Mutates. Norman Osborn found out and tried to shut it down. Standish had him killed by a hitman and made himself the new CEO of Oscorp, then sent one of his mutates out to free the hitman from prison. Whoohoo!”

“Odd thing to cheer,” Steve says. “Explain to me how you Sherlock-Holmesed this out?”

“In my brains, Rogers. You know, the one thing that the super-serum didn’t manage to fix for you?”

“And May Parker, photographer and journalist, is the ‘hitman’ in this story, is she?” Steve asks, voice calm as ever.

“Hey, from shooting pictures to shooting people. It’s just about pressing a different button. Oh, and here’s something interesting I found out about May Parker. In her early days of journalism, she was a war correspondent. Which means she has probably had crash courses in battlefield medical response,  surviving a kidnapping, arm wrestling warlords… And in recent years she did a lot of digging into US privacy laws; no doubt she knows a fair deal about police tactics in hunting down criminals, too.”

“Hm,” Steve says, pursing his lips as he considers this new information.

“There’s something here,” Natasha admits. “I mean; don’t get me wrong, Tony’s theory is based on nonsense. But I do get the feeling that Oscorp is more involved than they want to admit. If Parker is somehow in cahoots with them and they orchestrated this whole prisonbreak, it would also explain why Charles Standish hired such an incompetent detective. He doesn’t want Parker to be found.”

“You don’t know if she’s incom-“ Steve starts.

Natasha talks right over him. “Tony – can you get all available data on a Mrs O’Donnell, superintendent at the prison, and see if you can find any ties between her and Charles Standish? Any signs of a bribery?”

“I’ll see if I get around to it.”

“He’ll do it!” Bruce speaks up, from somewhere in the background.

“I think it’s time to give Parker’s family a few visits,” Steve decides. “Natasha and I are already on the road; we’ll drive on to Parker’s mother in Cleveland. You go visit her nephew Peter Parker’s last known address in New York.”

“Does that mean I have your royal permission to leave the compound?” Tony asks, his voice dripping with contempt. “You don’t think I’ll kill myself crossing the streets?”

“Take Bruce with you,” Steve instructs.

Tony hangs up without another word.

 The Fultons

Freaking hell, Tony hates birds. They’re fine when they’re way up in the sky, where they belong. But there’s always a few of those little bastards who sneak up on you from behind, and then stare at you with their soulless eyes.

Here he is, perched on the corner of a couch, a prickly plant tickling his cheek. Trapped in a room with Bruce, Mr. and Mrs. Fulton and their evil parakeet whose screeches sound like it is past time for an exorcism. Tony is half-hoping that Bruce will hulk out and throw it out a window. He is always half-hoping that Bruce will hulk out, anyways. It makes for some really stellar entertainment.

“…and do you have any idea why Peter ran away?” Bruce asks as he diligently scribbles out the answers in his illegible handwriting. Tony has no idea why; FRIDAY is recording and transcribing the whole conversation. But Bruce insisted that writing things down helps him see the connections better.

“Of course we have an idea,” Mr. Fulton replies, voice resigned. “His uncle had just died, his aunt was arrested for murder. He was hardly in the best frame of mind. He didn’t take any of his belongings. Not even his coat.”

“Was there any contact between him and his aunt while he still lived here?”

 “He called her on the phone. They wrote each other letters. My impression was that they were close.”

“Did he ever talk about her motive? Did he believe the story about Norman Osborn killing Ben Parker?”

“He didn’t talk about it. He didn’t talk about anything.”

“We had to arrange his uncle’s funeral for him,” Mrs. Fulton adds. “He was too upset to think about it, and there was no one else to do it. Chichi – no! No biting my ear!” She pushes the parakeet away with one hand. It flutters and then lands on the arm rest right next to Bruce. Looking all innocent, as if he is just a sweet little bird, and not the spawn of Satan.

“Did he ever mention any family friends?”

“He really only had one friend. His classmate, Ned Leeds.”

“What about Rosemary Reilly, did you ever meet her?”

Mr. Fulton nods. “May’s mother? Yes, we visited her once. All three of us together, in our RV. Which was stolen last week, by the way,” he adds, lifting a finger. “Right out of our driveway.”

“I don’t think the Avengers handle car theft, dear,” Mrs. Fulton points out.

Tony’s mind drifts away from the conversation. He suddenly remembers he was supposed to order new square head bolts. He’s almost out. He had planned on doing it this morning. He didn’t get around to it. What did he do this morning?

Oh – right. He fashioned himself an improvised bed in the corner of his workshop. It has become increasingly difficult for him to step into the bedroom he shared with Pepper for so many years. Now, he can sleep down in the workshop, with the comforting knowledge that Dum-E might decide to spray him with a hose at any point during the night.

“Tony,” Bruce says, and Tony turns his swimming attention to the man sitting next to him. He notices Bruce giving a pointed look at his left hand, and only then realizes that he had been absentmindedly tearing the potted plant next to him to shreds.

“Apologies,” he gruffly says, releasing the poor plant from his grip. A few decapitated leaves flutter to the floor. “I’ll send you a new one.”

“That’s… quite all right,” Mrs. Fulton says, glancing at the remains of her plant. “I’m just glad I didn’t seat you next to our Tom Dixon vase.”

Bruce gives a polite chuckle.

“I’d run away too, if those were my foster parents,” Tony mutters when he and Bruce make their way back to the car.

“I thought they were nice people,” Bruce says mildly.

“How about that little feathery devil nipping at your ears?”

“I like little birdies.”

Tony’s quest to find the best method to make Bruce turn all jolly and green: still no promising results.

 Rosemary Reilly

May Parker’s mother lives in a modest care home in Cleveland.

Steve has spent the whole drive meticulously sorting through May Parker’s possessions. “You go inside,” he says as he frowns down at the postcard from Costa Rica. “I’ll see what I can dig up here.”

And so Natasha goes in alone, shuffling through the revolving doors and into an entrance hall where soft music plays and the heat has been turned up to tropical temperatures. There is a fire exit in a far corner. The windows in here don’t open, but they all have single glass so she can easily shatter them if she needs to make a quick escape.

She belatedly remembers that she is here to talk to one elderly lady, not to take down a gang of criminals.

“Natasha Romanoff, on behalf of the CIA. Here to see Rosemary Reilly about her daughter,” she tells the man behind reception.

“Uh, oh right,” he says, looking flustered. “Wow. I mean, you’re welcome to try and talk to her. She’s pretty deaf. And pretty uncooperative.”

Sounds like Natasha is in for a treat. “I’ll give it a try,” she says, indicating for the man to lead the way.

‘Deaf’ and ‘uncooperative’ are indubitably Rosemary Reilly’s two main traits.

“How should I know where my daughter is!” she snipes. “Hasn’t visited me in months. Leave me alone, I’m watching bake off!”

“Has she called you or sent you any letters?”

“What?”

“HAS SHE CALLED YOU OR SENT YOU ANY LETTERS?”

“I just told you she didn’t! Do I look senile to you?”

On second thought, Natasha is glad she knows her escape routes.

Blissfully unaware of exactly how much Natasha got the short end of the stick in this deal, Steve carefully sorts through all of May Parker’s possessions. There’s a few letters from her nephew Peter, a postcard from her friend Lily Lee, two picture books: The hungry caterpillar about.. well.. a hungry caterpillar. And Life as a coconut, that seems to be about a family of polar bears. There’s also a tattered old version of Tolstoy’s Anna Karenina, and Steve feels strangely nostalgic. He carried the same exact book with him in his backpack when he went to war in Europe.

He glances through the letters May Parker received from her nephew. Some of them are dated after Peter Parker went missing, so he apparently still corresponded with her even after running away from the Fultons.

The most recent one is less than a week old and opens with Dear May.

I’m still okay, I hope you are too. The fact that you can’t send me a letter back is driving me coconuts. But I’m not telling anyone where I am because I’m NOT going back to those damn Fultons and their seven cats.

I got a job at this place where they don’t ask a lot of questions, so I can make a little money, get a place to stay. Not staying at the Four Seasons or anything, haha, but I’m all good. Watching ‘Twelve Angry Men’ right now. You’d like it. Let’s watch it together when we can.

Love you, May.

X-Peter

Steve shakes his head and puts the letter back on the pile. He hopes the kid is all right. From what he understood, the boy lost his parents at an early age. Then his uncle was shot and his aunt sent to prison. And now he’s missing, homeless. ’Rough’ doesn’t even begin to cover it.

He wants to reach for a newspaper clipping, but is distracted by the buzzing sound of Natasha’s phone on the driver’s seat. Steve glances at it, expecting to see Tony or Bruce’s name. Instead, the name ‘Pepper Potts’ is lighting up on the display.

Steve blinks. He can’t imagine why Pepper would call Natasha unless it’s an emergency, so he reaches out and picks up the phone. It’s one of those modern touchscreens where you have to swipe the icon to answer it – Steve knows all about it, he’s very up to date about these things. “Hi, this is Steve.”

“Oh – hey, Steve.”

He can tell Pepper is caught off guard. “Natasha isn’t here right now, she left her phone,” he explains. “Do you need me to find her?”

“Oh, no. It’s not an emergency. Are you on a mission?”

“Yes, but it’s not one of those high stakes ones. In fact, Natasha is currently interrogating an elderly woman.”

“Must be a dangerous woman,” Pepper teases. “How are you? How is Tony?”

Steve pauses for a moment. What is the proper etiquette for talking to someone’s ex? He cannot, in good conscience, tell Pepper that Tony is all right, because he decidedly is not. “He’s, uh. He’s Tony.”

He hadn’t meant to sound antagonistic in the slightest, but Pepper has always been able to pick up on the smallest hint of emotions. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to put you on the spot,” she says. “I’ll call back later. Please tell Nat. I’ll call back later.”

Steve feels bad, now. Pepper is one of the kindest people he knows, and she would certainly not call to get the latest gossip or compare notes on who is dealing with the break-up worse. “Take care of yourself,” he says, making sure his voice is warm, that time.

“Thank you, Steve. Good luck interrogating the elderly.”

Natasha returns to the car only a few minutes later.

“Heard anything of value?”

“They fired the presenter from bake-off and it’s a scandal.”

Steve hums as he considers their options. “What do you suggest?”

“I’d like to drive on to talk to Lily Lee in Chicago. She was Parker’s lawyer, apparently a good friend, too. She has been sending Parker postcards in prison.”

Steve nods, glancing at the postcard from Costa Rica again. “You drive, I’ll call Tony; see what he’s up to and have him book us a hotel for the night.”

Natasha starts the engine as Steve dials, connecting the phone to the car speakers so Natasha can follow along.

Tony doesn’t answer the first time. Steve ignores Natasha’s impatient huff and dials again. He knows this is part of Tony’s not too subtle powerplay, but honestly, it doesn’t ruffle his feathers that much. It feels a bit like he’s dealing with a disobedient teenager whose parents recently divorced, and who is pushing his boundaries to see if they won’t leave him, too.

Tony picks up the second time. “Can you two ever get through a day without needing my help?”

“I guess not,” Steve says lightly. “Because we’re driving on to Chicago to talk to Parker’s lawyer. We won’t make it back to New York today, so we need you to book us a hotel there. How were the Fultons?”

“Mind-numbingly boring. What about the mother?”

“Uneventful, too. No further leads on your end?”

“They mentioned a friend of Peter Parker’s. Ted Dweeb, or something. Bruce said we should visit. It seems redundant if you ask me.”

“Let Bruce visit him,” Steve decides. “We haven’t got anything else to go on right now.”

It stays silent for a few seconds. “I found a nice youth hostel in Chicago,” Tony then says, malice in every word. “You can share a room with six sweaty students who want to see the world. Sound good?”

“Just book us a hotel, Tony,” Steve says. “And see what intel you can get on Lily Lee. Is Bruce nearby?”

Tony voice is turning from mere scorn into clear frustration. “I don’t need a fucking babysitter all the time, Rogers.”

“Is Bruce nearby?”

Tony hangs up.

Steve sighs, his finger hovering over Bruce’s contact in his phone. In the end, he doesn’t call. Bruce knows to keep an eye on Tony without Steve reminding him, and Tony is sure to pitch a fit if he happens to be in the same room right now when Bruce gets the call.

“You realize no one would blame you if you kicked him off the team, right?” Natasha asks.

“You know, Pepper called you on the phone while you were inside,” Steve says, instead of answering.

“Oh,” she says, not seeming surprised at all. “Did she say what about?”

“To catch up,” Steve says. “She asked you to call her back.”

“Okay.”

“You’ve been catching up a lot, then?”

Natasha gives him a glance. “Is that a problem? We always got along fine, why shouldn’t she call me?”

“Is that why you’ve been badmouthing Tony so much lately?”

“Believe it or not, Pepper never says a single bad word about Tony. If I’m badmouthing him, it’s simply because he’s decided to be an asshole.”

“He’s going through something.”

“Yeah. A second puberty. And a midlife crisis. All wrapped together in a lovely little bundle of megalomania.”

Steve can’t really disagree.

 Ted Dweeb

Tony wouldn’t usually volunteer for a job like this. It is most definitely beneath him. But he is sick and tired of being stuck at home like a pensioner in a wheelchair, so he convinced Bruce to let him deal with this. A decision he is now regretting, because Peter’s friend Ted Dweeb is a glaring reminder of why Tony hates teenagers, and his stained couch is an insult to Tony’s linen trousers.

“It’s Ned Leeds, actually,” the boy says, a little breathless, as he stares at Tony.

Whatever. Tony perches on the edge of the couch.

“Can I – um – offer you a drink?”

“Vodka martini. Dry. With some olives. A lot of olives.”

It stays silent for a few seconds. “I can make tea?” Ted suggests.

“Forget it. Okay, Ted –“

“Ned.”

“- I’ve been informed that you are close friends with Peter Parker, correct?”

“Yeah.”

“When did you last see him?”

Ted scrunches up his nose. “Are the Avengers looking for Peter?”

“Technically, we’re looking for his aunt. But if we find Peter, we might find her.”

“Oh,” Ted says. “Because of that guy in the black mask who broke into her prison? I saw it on the news. It was really weird.”

“When did you last see Peter?” Tony repeats, somehow managing to sound only slightly impatient.

Ted sighs, sitting down in a chair and leaning his head in his hand, looking for all the world like a depressed dog. “The day he ran away. He dropped by and said he had to borrow some stuff. I gave him clothes and some candy bars. I thought he just had – like – a weird emergency. The next day he was gone.”

“Any idea where he went?”

“If I did, I’d go find him,” Ted says, biting his bottom lip for a moment. “I’m really worried. It’s not like him to disappear. I know a lot of terrible stuff happened to him, but still. And he’s not answering his texts or anything. What if he was abducted or he’s dead?”

“I’m sure he’s doing spectacular.”

“I’m glad you guys are going to look for him, now.” Ted says, looking up at Tony with wide eyes, and the clear adoration is somehow too much for Tony to bear; like a weight pressing down on his chest.

“Let me make something clear,” he says. “The wellbeing of Peter Parker is not my concern. I just need him because he could lead us to his aunt. Other than that, I don’t give a shit. Do you think he might try to contact you in some way?”

 “I don’t know,” Ted says. “I mean – he forgot some of his homework the last time he was here. I thought he’d come pick that up. Then I figured; he’s not going to school anymore, I guess he doesn’t do homework.”

“Get me that homework,” Tony orders.

Ted disappears upstairs for a moment. Tony may or may not make use of those moments alone to tape a miniscule microphone against the back of a side table. If Rogers asks, he definitely did not.

Ned returns with a geography book and a large, purple notebook.

“That’s his sketchbook,” Ted says when Tony picks it up.

Tony lets the purple sketchbook fall open on his lap. To his surprise, he is met with a not too terrible drawing of Iron Man fighting a giant snake-like creature. The sketch is rough, and there are some calculations in the margins, as if the kid made the drawing during an uneventful math class. “Huh. Look at that: an Iron Man fan.”

“He is,” Ted confirms. “He won’t be when he actually meets you, though.”

“Excuse me?”

Ted looks entirely non-apologetic. “I just. I thought you’d be nicer.”

Tony sniffs. “What gave you that idea?”

“Superheroes are supposed to be nice.”

“No, they’re not,” Tony loftily informs him. “They’re supposed to keep you from dying, which I did when I flew a nuke into space. You’re welcome.”

“I guess that’s true,” Ted allows. “I bet Captain America is really nice in real life, though. Is he?”

“Nope. He is in fact a giant asshole.”

“You shouldn’t say ‘asshole’,” Ted says with a frown. “That’s a bad word.”

Tony skips a page and his stomach plummets to his feet when he sees the next drawing. A cartoonish version of himself at a press conference, with Pepper Potts standing right next to him, with a frustrated expression. An unpleasant reminder, not only of what he lost, but also why he lost it.

Tony snaps the sketchbook shut. ”That’s all for today. I’ll be taking these with me.”

“Can you keep me up to date?” Ted asks with a hopeful face.

“Yeah, that’s not gonna happen.”

 Lily Lee

For all of Tony’s taunting, in the end he had booked them a perfectly fine room in a low-key hotel, only two blocks away from Lily Lee’s office. When they arrived last night, it was far too late to visit her at work.

While Steve went out to get them some food, Natasha had called Pepper back. As she suspected, Pepper just wanted to wish her a happy birthday. Natasha had never put any values in the concept of ‘birthdays’ until Pepper had come into her life. No one else on the team ever remembered anyone else’s birthday.

Which didn’t matter. Not to Natasha. It never had mattered, she didn’t need any of that mushy family-stuff.

She missed Pepper, though.

Natasha had been amused to see Steve sliding his shield under the covers before getting in bed. “You sleep with that thing?”

“I just don’t want to give anyone a chance to steal it!” Steve had argued.

Natasha hadn’t teased him about it. Just like she never teases him about his annoying habit to get up in the middle of the night and walk up and down the hallways to ‘inspect the premises’. She loves Steve for what he is.

And what he is, is a paranoid veteran.

This morning, Steve again keeps his shield close as they exit the car and step up to the front door of Lily Lee’s office. It is a stately house, with a large door at the top of two stone steps. According to the row of doorbells, Lily Lee shares the building with a dog therapist and someone calling himself a ‘dream alchemist’.

Lily Lee herself has smooth, black hair and bright red spectacles. She doesn’t seem surprised to see them, opening the door wide to let them in.

She leads them both straight to her office. There are no fire exits, but her window is ajar, and old buildings like these often have enough ledges that they can be scaled on the outside. So that covers escape routes.

Natasha scans the office for anything that stands out. There is a tiny Lego figurine, sitting on her desk: a purple haired woman in a bright red airplane. It looks distinctly out of place amongst the office supplies. There is a small statue of a bear in the window sill. A crack shows that he head has broken off at some point, but has been glued back on. Sentimental, then. There is a Costa Rica magnet on the tiny fridge in the corner. A confirmation that the postcard to May was just a postcard, or too coincidental?

“Tea, coffee?”

“No, thank you,” Steve says, carefully leaning his shield against her desk as they sit down. “Do you know why we’re here?”

She sits, folding her hands on top of her desk, a picture of professionalism. “I assume it’s because one of my clients recently escaped from prison under quite remarkable circumstances.”

Natasha takes out the Costa Rica postcard. “She is more than just your client, is she not?”

“We were close,” she concedes. “Friends from college. We went on holidays together. I babysat her nephew.”

“Does that mean she trusted you enough to tell you why she bludgeoned a guy to death?”

“She said it would be dangerous for me to know the specifics.”

“Lame excuse,” Natasha judges.

The comment doesn’t faze Lee at all. Like all lawyers Natasha has dealt with in her life, she has mastered the art of stoicism. “If you ask me, she got mixed up in something big. Something involving Oscorp.”

“You don’t think she simply became unhinged after her husband’s death?”

She shakes her head. “We had many conversations while preparing for the court case. I can promise you, she wasn’t unhinged. If she were, I obviously would have filed for insanity.” She flicks an imaginary speck of dust off her jacket. “I’m not used to losing cases.”

“How would you describe May Parker?”

Lily Lee considers the question for a moment. Her eyes wander to the Lego figurine on her desk. “She was intelligent and didn’t easily trust. She liked her independence.”

“You speak about her in past tense,” Natasha observes.

“Our friendship is effectively over.”

“You sent her a postcard in prison.”

She makes a vague gesture. “Misplaced feelings of obligation.”

“So you don’t think she might get in touch with you?”

“If she does, she’s dumber than I gave her credit for. She knows very well I wouldn’t go against the law. That would be terribly unsound practice. She killed someone; she belongs in prison where she can rehabilitate. I’m a lawyer, miss Romanoff. And a successful one. I uphold our justice system. If you are trying to find her, I support your cause. She hasn’t been in touch. I can’t tell you where she is.”

“What can you tell me?”

“Just this: I don’t know why May killed Norman Osborn. But I know she would only ever harm a person for one reason. To protect her family.”

“Meaning, what?”

She sniffs. “I’ve been trying to figure that out, myself.”

“What about the nephew, then, do you know anything about his whereabouts?”

Lee shakes her head.

“Do you think May Parker knows where Peter is?”

“If she does, I suspect she will not seek him out, but stay away from him to protect him from getting involved.”

“Is there anything else you think might be important for us to know? Anything at all?”

She pushes her chair back. “Nothing. Now, if you don’t mind? I have an appointment with the mayor in about half an hour. He got himself caught on tape messing around with his book keeper.”

 Charles Standish

Tony isn’t used to Bruce turning up in his workshop in the middle of the night. “You’re up late.”

“It’s seven a.m., Tony.”

“Is it morning already?” Tony blearily stares towards the window, at the feeble rays of sunshine hitting the pink clouds. “Well, shit.”

Bruce lets his eyes drift around the workshop. “What on earth happened in here?”

Tony lifts his chin. “It was like this when I got here.”

“Are you drunk?” Bruce’s expression is resigned as he steps closer.

“No. I’ve tried. It didn’t work for me.”

Bruce doesn’t take his word for it. “FRIDAY?”

“Boss hasn’t consumed any alcohol in 24 hours,” FRIDAY confirms.

“Then why is he like this?” Bruce asks.

“Boss hasn’t slept in 48 hours.”

Tony slams a fist down on the desk. “Boss can speak for himself perfectly fine, thank you!”

“Tony,” Bruce says, tutting. “48 hours? That’s extremely unhealthy. Get some sleep.”

“Sleeping is for poor people. I had a little party last night. I’ll invite you next time. Dum-E and I had a blast smashing apart one of my old suits. And then I watched Twilight. Did you know vampires sparkle now? Apropos of nothing: we are out of toilet paper.”

“You’re rambling,” Bruce says, scrutinizing him with a concerned frown. “You might as well be drunk.”

“I’m fine. Just need my coffee to reboot the caboose. And don’t presume to judge me, because I did do something actually useful.” Tony points at his screen. “Mrs. O’Donnell.”

Bruce pulls up a chair and peers at the screen. “Our possibly bribed prison superintendent?”

“Make that definitely bribed superintendent. Standish was sent copies of all of Parker’s letters and phone calls. It seems she has some information he wants. I saw no evidence that he was the one who broke her out, though.”

“It’s still enough reason to bring Standish in for interrogation,” Bruce judges. “Let me call Everett.” He moves towards the hallway, digging his phone out of his pocket as he goes.

“FRIDAY,” Tony says as soon as the door closes. “Pull up protocol ‘Schmaptain Schmerica’.”

“Protocol ‘Schmaptain Schmerica. Any information on your personal wellbeing, including eating and sleeping patterns is strictly off limits to Mr. Rogers.”

“Expand protocol. From now on, it applies to everyone else on the team, too.”

“Understood.”

Bruce returns in under a minute, reporting that Ross is sending a few teams over to Oscorp immediately, and expecting the two of them to be there. “I told him you were a bit under the weather, so-”

Tony is not about to get sidelined again. “I’m coming. Let me just get a coffee IV going.”

Bruce heaves a sigh, then nods. “Meet you by the car in twenty minutes.”

“You’d better not believe that you’re driving anywhere in your condition,” Bruce says, laying his arms on Tony’s shoulder and virtually forcing him into the passenger seat. Tony only grumbles a little as he steps inside. Almost stepping behind the wheel had been force of habit, more than anything. He’d much rather be driven right now. But he wouldn’t be Tony Stark if he admitted that much. He stretches his legs and only now realizes that he didn’t change into his normal shoes. He frowns down at the fluffy grey slippers donning his feet. Maybe he is a little off today.

Tony waits for Bruce to step around the car and into the driver’s seat before asking: “Bruce, darling, when was the last time you hulked out behind the wheel?”

“Never,” Bruce says, starting the engine and pulling out of the parking space.

“Shame. Any tips on what I can do to change that?”

“What do you think would happen to you if I turned, somewhere in the middle of the interstate?”

“Occupational hazard.”

Bruce shakes his head, drums his fingers against the steering wheel. “I asked FRIDAY how much sleep you’ve been getting in the last few weeks.”

“Hm. Where did that get you?”

“Nowhere, because she said that just half an hour ago you specifically forbade her to divulge that information to anyone.”

“Interesting, interesting,” Tony says. “Any theories on what that might mean?”

“It means you at least have the common sense to know you haven’t been sleeping enough. But not enough common sense to deal with it any better than the average teenager throwing a tantrum.”

Tony rubs his eyes until his vision is dotted with white spots. “I tried moving my bed into the workshop, so at least I don’t have to be in our bedroom. It doesn’t help much. Every time I lie down, I just think about her.”

It stays quiet for a few seconds. And a few more seconds. After a while, Tony begins to think that Bruce hasn’t even heard him or is simply deciding not to answer. Most likely, it’s the latter.

Eventually, Bruce does speak up: “You realize there is no possible scenario where you will feel better by not sleeping at all, right?”

“I might not feel better, but at least I don’t feel worse.”

“Oh, so you’re feeling good right now?”

“I didn’t claim I felt good. Just, you know, a few steps up from clinically depressed. Which is a real sweet spot.”

It stays quiet for a few minutes longer, while trees whizz past and downtown New York grows ever closer.

“I know it sucks, Tony, but this will pass,” Bruce says. His voice is suddenly full of compassion. Or pity. It’s probably pity. “Until then, please at least try to take care of the basics. Eating, sleeping, a shower every now and then.”

“I’m simply enjoying the bachelor lifestyle.”

“Your lifestyle is self-destructive.”

Tony’s stomach clenches. That is exactly what Pepper told him the day she left. It wasn’t the first time she had said it, but that time, her voice had been hard, completely devoid of the usual concern. And then she had proceeded to inform him that she would be moving out. She wanted to resign from Stark Industries, too. He convinced her to stay on, at least until the board found a proper replacement.

Which, of course, weeks later, they still haven’t. So Tony simply steers clear of any business relating to Stark Industries. He frankly wouldn’t even know it if his company had gone belly up in the last week.

Bruce is still talking, he realizes. Something about undoing his command to FRIDAY. “We’re family. No point trying to hide things from us.”

Family. What a joke. “I don’t want Wilson or Romanoff or, god forbid, Rogers to regulate my bedtimes as if I were a toddler. They already act as if I can’t dress myself without supervision, just because I had a few drinks before our last mission. I’m not a sycophant.”

“Showing Cap a modicum of respect won’t make you a sycophant, Tony.”

“I’d rather guzzle bleach.”

“Just me, then,” Bruce negotiates. “Tell FRIDAY she can only give the information to me. Or maybe Rhodey. Is that acceptable?”

“But why?”

“I’m concerned. Why do you find that so unbearable?”

“I don’t!” Tony vehemently denies. “I don’t care who thinks what.”

“Then maybe I’ll send Pepper an email, let her know how you’re doing.”

Tony sucks in a breath. “That’s low.”

“I know,” Bruce admits, though he sounds remorseless.

“You’re an asshole.”

“Takes one to know one.”

“Fine – I’ll tell FRIDAY she can give the information to you only. Just don’t bring her up ever again, because I swear I will punch you in the face. I would do it now if we weren’t in a moving car.”

“Deal,” Bruce simply says.

The rest of the ride is quiet, until Bruce turns on his indicator and steers the car into Oscorp’s parking lot. There are bulky guards with stern faces waving them through, blue lights flashing, confused employees hanging out the windows, and a few journalists have already gathered around the edges of the premise.

“Stay in the car,” Bruce instructs, and Tony is suddenly too tired to argue.

They end up with two of Oscorp’s employees handcuffed in separate interrogation rooms. Charles Standish is the first, which is no surprise. A bio-engineer named Tania Hartnett is the second.

Ross has brought Bruce and Tony into Standish’ interrogation room with him. To listen only, he had said, his heavy gaze singling out Tony as he said it. Which might have had any effect if he had even an ounce of the commanding presence of the annoying Ross.

Ross is lucky Tony doesn’t particularly feel like talking, anyways.

Charles Standish is a tall and unusually thin man with a dark beard and sunken eyes. He is oozing a sense of superiority as he gushes about his human experiments as if he is on a job interview rather than a police interrogation. “I discovered Norman had been trying to create cross-species mutations. His results looked promising. Some data was missing, though. And in particular, one specimen was missing from the spiders in the lab. Osborn erased all security footage from the day it had disappeared. I recruited Tania, our best bio-engineer. We both agreed the research was too valuable to let go to waste. We did everything we could to replicate it. If successful, this technology can be used to save a lot of lives.” He puffs his chest out with self-importance, appearing absolutely convinced that he ought to be hailed as a hero.

Ross looks utterly unimpressed. “Yet instead we have seven people dead.”

“All people who agreed to the experiments!” Standish emphasizes, waving a finger around. “We paid them a handsome sum to ensure that their families would be alright after they were gone. They were grateful!”

“Yes, and we’re the ones who were scooping their dead bodies off the pavement,” Ross bites out. “Look at my face; do I look grateful? Why on earth would you let these people wander around the city?”

“We didn’t have the resources to monitor them. It was just me and Tania. We couldn’t do the experiments at Oscorp. So we let them go home and waited to see if they would survive the night. We didn’t tell them to go gallivanting about, but I suppose in certain cases the brain was affected, too. Which is actually quite an interesting process, you must admit, and if you’d give me access to their dead bodies and allow me to dissect the brains-”

“What about May Parker?” Ross cuts in, his voice the very definition of restrained fury.

“Damned if I know,” Standish sneers. “I just know what everyone else knows: she killed Osborn. I had never heard of her, but I assume she was somehow involved in his work. And then Parker was broken out of prison by a mutate that certainly didn’t come from our lab.” He draws his shoulders back. “I’ve continued Osborn’s research for one reason only; to make a better world for all of us. May Parker is the one you should be after. She clearly got her paws on Osborn’s research. I suggest you and I help each other out. Together, we can achieve a breakthrough in science that will revolutionize the medical world. The CIA can focus on bringing her in and retrieving the data she stole. Leave the research to me. That part is too complicated for your people, no offense.”

Ross, Tony notes, looks very much offended.

Arrogant villains are always the best villains. They can never just shut the hell up about the details of their plans.

It’s a good thing you never became a villain, then, a little voice in his head says. A Pepper-like voice.

“Shut up,” Tony mutters at himself.

Bruce shoots him a surreptitious glance and Tony clamps his mouth shut.

The door to the interrogation room opens and another agent leans in. “Everett? You’re gonna wanna see this.”

Ross is gone for less than a minute, which is apparently enough to have him move from restrained fury to the full-blown version of it. His jaw is set and anger is blazing in his eyes. He slaps a piece of paper down on the table in front of Standish. “My people just dug up another email, sent by you, to Tania Hartnett. “Getting the boy today; Angela Drive.” Angela Drive happens to be the former address of Peter Parker, May Parker’s nephew, who happens to have gone missing the day you sent this email.”

Standish goes slightly pale, his demeaner losing some of its panache. “So, what?”

“You tell me.” Ross hisses. “I have a missing fourteen-year-old boy, and enough evidence right here to prove in a courtroom that you had him kidnapped and possibly killed. It sounds to me like you should start explaining really fast.”

Standish begins to look panicked, now. Which is funny, considering a kidnapping doesn’t seem all that bad, when piled on top of the seven murder charges he is facing. “It was a failed attempt! I know the boy went missing. I probably scared him and that’s why he ran away. But I did not actually kidnap him. I don’t have him locked up in a secret underground bunker somewhere. And I didn’t kill him, either. He’s a child. I wasn’t really going to hurt him, I just needed him to put some pressure on his aunt.”

“Tell me exactly what happened,” Ross barks.

Standish swallows, lifting his cuffed hands to pick at his beard. “O’Donnell had been forwarding us copies of all correspondence May Parker sent and received. But the information was getting us nowhere closer to figuring out how to get the spider-mutations done right. Tania and I agreed to take the boy. Her nephew. We needed the leverage to get May Parker to tell us what she knew. So I found out where he lived and we observed the house for a while. That day, I rang the doorbell when I knew the foster parents weren’t there. I pretended to be some detective and told him new facts had come to light that might exonerate his aunt. He let me in. And so I, um, tried to take him. But failed.”

“Be more specific,” Ross grunted, his eyebrows drawn together in almost a straight line. “How did you try to take him?”

Standish twists his hands together, his handcuffs rattling slightly. “Chloroform. I messed it up. I don’t exactly have experience kidnapping people. He was supposed to be knocked out for a good while. I went up to his room to gather some of his stuff. When I got back downstairs, he was gone.”

Ross is silent for a long moment. “Where were you planning to take him?” He finally asks, in a level yet intense voice.

“Tania’s house. She lives quite remotely.”

“Frewen, send a team there right away,” Ross orders. “Full search of the premises.”

The tall agent by the door nods and exits.

“I didn’t actually take him!” Standish insists.

“I have absolutely no reason to believe you.”

“Should we drive out and help in the search?” Bruce suggests. “I don’t believe we’ll be of much more use, here.”

“Yes, you two should leave.” Ross glances Tony up and down. “But I’d prefer if you let us deal with it; go back to your compound and focus on finding May Parker. Let us find the boy. And maybe get some rest. You look like shit, Stark.”

“He’s been a bit under the weather,” Bruce smoothly lies. “Call us if you need anything.”

Tony calls Steve when they get home. “I Sherlock-Holmesed it out,” he announces. “For real, this time.” He recounts what he discovered about O’Donnell, how they placed Standish under arrest and traced the mutates back to the Oscorp lab. “So here’s my theory: May Parker and the Spider-Mutate volunteered for Osborn and his experiments. When the experiment was successful, they conspired and turned on him. Looks like they killed him and took off with the trade-secrets. And now Standish has been trying to recreate Osborn’s experiments, but he doesn’t have the full data. That’s why all his mutates keep choking on vomit and dying on rooftops.”

“May I remind you that the lady who recently died on a rooftop had two kids? Two kids who already lost their father a few years earlier?”

“Oh, who cares,” Tony says in his most unsympathetic voice. “Spare me you insipid ideals.”

Steve stays silent for a moment, and Tony can almost hear him holding back a reprimand. “I’ll discuss strategy with Nat,” is all he says in the end. “I’m glad we solved the mystery around our dead mutates, but we are still stuck on finding May Parker. Let me call you back later.”

Tony disconnects the call.

Finding May Parker.

Frankly, Tony would much rather find the kid, right now. He stares up at the picture of Peter Parker displayed on his screen. A bright, cheeky smile and twinkling eyes: the look of a boy who doesn’t have a care in the world. Standish word is worth less than nothing, and Tony won’t be surprised at all if they find this kid stashed away in Tania Hartnett’s basement. He can only pray that the boy is still alive.

His phone buzzes again. It’s a internal call from Sheryll, his head of communications. She knows him well enough not to bother him with bullshit, so he picks up. “What?”

“A call from a certain Ned Leeds,” she says, her tone all business. “Says he has information about Peter Parker. Seemed important.”

“Put him through.”

When the boy comes to the phone, he sounds nervous and breathy. “Mr. Stark?”

“Talk to me, Ted.”

“I just figured out a way for you to find May Parker. You see, May and Peter have a houseboat somewhere that no one knows about. It’s a secret houseboat. They got it from some guy who used to work for – uh – NASA. And that’s probably where she is hiding. It could be anywhere though, and I don’t know where it is. But Peter does. So if you find Peter, you’ll find her.”

That is… the biggest load of bullshit Tony has ever heard. “Are you being dishonest with me, Ted?”

“It’s Ned,” the kid says. For the first time, the nerves give way to a hint of impatience. “Ned. I feel like you’re doing this on purpose.”

“Ned,” Tony says, his voice pitched low. “Are you telling me the truth? I’d like to remind you that we are working on a federal case and giving false testimony is-“

“Okay, okay!” Ned yells, his voice cracking. “I made all that up. I just thought I should give you a reason to look for Peter. I’m worried. I figured this was the only way you would-“

Tony hangs up.

He’s not even sure why. He could have told the kid not to worry, that he is looking for Peter now.  When did he become an asshole just for the sake of being an asshole? “FRIDAY, remind me where I put Peter’s school supplies? The ones I took from Ned’s house?”

“On the top shelf above your bed,” she informs him.

Tony winces at how casually she refers to his makeshift cot in the corner as ‘his bed’, but then he makes his way over there, and lets his hand slide across the shelf until it hits the two books he is looking for. He sits on the edge of the bed as he first lets the geography book fall open on the mattress. He quickly leafs through it, hoping to find notes in the margins, or maybe some pieces of paper stuck inside. Anything, really.

The book doesn’t hold any clues, so he turns his attention to the purple sketchbook. Remembering the confrontational drawing of him and Pepper, he braces himself before opening it again. He quickly skips past those first few drawings this time, and studies the other ones. There is a drawing of the Hulk and one of Wanda Maximoff. But mainly a lot of drawings of both Iron Man and Tony himself. Thankfully, none of the other ones include Pepper.

He skips the page and finds another sketch. This one is clearly a wall-crawler: a slender figure with messy brown hair, in a bright red-and-blue suit, crawling up the side of an apartment building. Interesting.

Interesting…

Steve has gone out to get lunch for the two of them, leaving a lackluster Natasha to lie on her back on the couch, staring up at the ceiling, feet dangling over the armrest. After constantly feeling like they were only going down dead ends, the breakthrough in the case of their dead mutates was welcome news. But Standish apparently knew nothing about May Parker’s whereabouts, which means they still have little to go on.

She feels like somewhere deep down, she knows more than even she realizes. Like if she just went over all the facts again, something would suddenly make everything click. The prison break – Charles Standish failed experiments – O’Donnell’s bribe – the hired detective, Costero – grandma Rosemary – May’s lawyer Lily Lee…

The lawyer had said that May would only ever kill someone for one reason. Protect her family. But Parker had probably been helping that Spider-Mutate, hadn’t she?

Interesting…

Her phone rings.

“Romanoff,” Tony says as soon as she picks up. “I Sherlock-Holmesed it out.”

“Tony, for fuck’s sake…”

“At least, I think I did.”

“You think you-“

“I was going through this sketchbook. This big fat sketchbook that Parker junior left with his friend Ted. And he has about a million drawings of Avengers in there. Mostly me. Which wasn’t surprising. He’s a fan, just like everyone else.”

Natasha turns and puts her feet up on the coffee table. “Get to the point.”

“I have a lot of fans,” Tony concludes. “But also, he made some sketches of a wall-crawler. And I didn’t think anything of it, until I realized that Peter Parker disappeared long before those dead mutates and May Parker’s prison-break made the news. So he wouldn’t ever have seen or heard about one, right? And that’s when it hit me. Get ready for this, Romanoff, you’re gonna piss your-“

“Peter Parker is the Spider-Mutate.”

“-pants. What? What?”

“He could be,” Natasha agrees. “It adds up.”

“It adds up better than my calculator. I need to know for sure. Anything you can do to help me there?”

Natasha considers that question for a moment. “Give me five minutes. Four. Actually, just stay on the line. Don’t talk unless I ask you something.”

Tony huffs, sending a crackle down the line. But he doesn’t hang up. Because he’s an asshole, but not an idiot.

Natasha turns to reach for the box of May Parker’s possessions, pulling out the pile of letters from Peter Parker. She sorts through them until she finds she most recent one: sent six days before the prison break. She had skimmed it before. She finds herself looking at it with new eyes, now.

Dear May, it reads.

I’m still okay, I hope you are too. The fact that you can’t send me a letter back is driving me coconuts. But I’m not telling anyone where I am because I’m NOT going back to those damn Fultons and their seven cats.

“You went to the Fultons, right?” She asks.

“Yep.”

“How many cats did they have?”

Tony pauses for a moment at the seemingly random question. “Is this your finest detective work, right here?”

“Just answer the damn question, Stark.”

“I didn’t see any damn cats, Romanoff. They had a parakeet, though.”

Huh. Natasha wishes she could have been there. She once saw Tony almost have a panic attack because a pigeon landed too close to him.

I got a job at this place where they don’t ask a lot of questions, so I can make a little money, get a place to stay. Not staying at the Four Seasons or anything, haha, but I’m all good. Watching ‘Twelve Angry Men’ right now. You’d like it. Let’s watch it together when we can.

Love you, May.

X-Peter

Natasha knows corrections officers are pretty skilled at finding encrypted messages in the mail inmates send and receive, so something as simple as putting first or last letters together isn’t going to cut it.

The only way to successfully send an encrypted message into a prison is by using a code that was agreed upon beforehand. Something like… ‘coconuts’ actually means ‘I’m gonna bust you out of jail this Saturday, knuckle up’.

Coconuts…

She turns in her seat again, rummaging through the small pile of books to pull out the ratty old version of ‘life as a coconut’.

The “seven cats” must be some sort of code, since the Fultons don’t actually own cats. Peter’s letter mentions two other numbers; in ‘Four Seasons’ and ‘Twelve Angry Men’. She tries chapter seven, the fourth line, the twelfth word. That just gives her the word before which doesn’t seem to go anywhere. Seven, four, twelve… makes twenty-three. She goes to page twenty-tree. There is a lovely drawing of a young polar bear with his polar bear parents. The young polar bear is being tucked into bed, and the story reads:

“When are we leaving for our holiday, mom?” Larry asked.

“This Saturday at noon, honey. Are you excited?”

“The prison break was on a Saturday, right?” She asked.

“Yep.”

“At what time, exactly?”

“Exactly at 11:58 in the a.m.”

“Houston, we have our Spider-Mutate.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. He used a picture book to communicate a coded message to her. Said he was going to break her out on Saturday at noon.”

“Jeez… All right,” Tony says. “So Norman Osborn develops a genetically mutated spider that gives people superpowers. May Parker’s nephew is bitten, maybe on purpose, maybe through some fluke. Either way, Parker is not happy. She kills Osborn. Goes to jail. Nephew disappears. Osborn’s successor Standish tries to copy the experiment, but fails to achieve the same results, because all his mutates just wither up and die. Standish tries to kidnap the nephew, but fails. Nephew breaks into the prison and busts his aunt out.”

“Sounds about right.”

“So maybe Parker isn’t entirely evil, she was protecting her kid. Although it still doesn’t guarantee that those two have good intentions. We don’t know how Peter Parker got himself mutated in the first place.”

“Here’s what we do know,” Natasha tells him. “He’s fourteen years old.”

“A fourteen-year-old who has been on the run, sends coded messages, and uses his superpowers to break into a prison.”

“Fourteen years old, Tony.”

“That means nothing. Do I need to paint you a picture of what I was like at fourteen? I was already a class-A little fuckwit back then.”

“I would have found you worth saving.”

It stays quiet for a few seconds. “You’re so weird, Romanoff.” Tony then says.

“You’re so average, Stark.”

“Can I hang up, yet?”

Instead of answering, Natasha just hangs up herself.

 Patricia Russo

Steve takes in Natasha’s explanation with a deep frown, clenching the paper bag with take-away sushi tighter and tighter as reality sinks in.

“Crap,” he finally mutters, feeling rattled. “A kid. What the hell was Osborn thinking?”

“He’s not exactly known for acting ethically,” Natasha points out. “And remember, we can’t be sure that he meant for Peter to get mutated. It may have been an accident. That would certainly shed new light on May Parker’s claim that Osborn turned up at their apartment and shot her husband.”

“So we’re believing that now, are we?”

“Not believing anything yet, merely connecting the dots.”

Steve nods slowly, then sets the paper bag down. “Eat something,” he advises.

Natasha takes out a sushi wrap and leans back against the headboard of her bed, opening her laptop. “For lack of anything else to do, I suppose I’ll look at that tracker I left under Costero’s car. Though I must admit I will be quite annoyed if we find Parker by following that incompetent detec– what the hell? The GPS says Costero is here in Chicago, too.”

Steve perches on the edge of Natasha’s bed to peer at her screen. He knows all about GPS trackers and digital maps, of course. He has become very tech-savvy. He even knows how to zoom in and out on these-

“Not a touch screen, Steve,” Natasha says, batting his hand away from the screen when Steve tries to move the map around. “Get those sushi-fingers away.”

Oh.

“Could the GPS be faulty?” Steve asks. “Maybe the tracker is broken so it’s simply showing our own location?”

“No,” Natasha says, squinting. “The tracker says she is several blocks away. She’s… actually, she’s parked right outside Lily Lee’s office.”

“Could be a coincidence. We cannot be the only ones who knew that Lee and Parker were friends.”

“Could be,” Natasha agrees, but Steve can see her brain working overtime. “Or maybe detective Costero knows something about our lovely lawyer that we don’t.”

“What do you suggest we do? Stake-out?”

“Hm, no,” Natasha judges. “I’d rather just go talk to her and try to get her on our side. I’m sure Lily Lee would rather trust us than an Oscorp detective. Maybe we can convince her to throw us a bone.”

Lily Lee is visibly irritated when Steve turns up on her doorstep again. “I thought we went through everything already,” she says sharply, only opening the door halfway this time. “And then some blabbering detective shows up and now you again. Surely you have other leads to follow?”

“May I come in?” Steve politely asks.

“I suppose I have little choice in the matter,” she complains, before turning around and moving away, leaving the door open for Steve to step inside.

She doesn’t offer him tea or coffee this time, gesturing irritably for Steve to take a seat. Steve carefully sets his shield down against her desk again, and sits. “Did you catch the news, yesterday? The Avengers raided Oscorp and made several arrests.”

She nods wordlessly.

“They were conducting highly illegal experiments that got seven people killed. Experiments that Norman Osborn began when he was still alive.”

Lee sighs, picking up the purple-haired Lego-pilot and fiddling with it, her face a lot less stoic now than it was before. “I did think of her when I saw the news about the arrests at Oscorp,” she admits “Maybe she was investigating Oscorp as a journalist and found out some information she shouldn’t have.”

“We think you might be right. Whatever experiments they were doing in there, it wasn’t anything pretty. So we’re willing to listen to Parker’s side of the story. And if she was acting in self-defense, we can protect her from the police and the CIA. We’re pretty much the only people who can, I promise you that. We are her best option right now, so if you have anything that can help us find her, you should tell us.”

Lee folds her hands together, staring down at them for a while. “I do not know where she is.”

“But?” Steve asks, because he senses there is one.

“She has been coming by a few times these last few days. For food, money.”

Steve sits up straighter, but careful not to appear too eager. He hadn’t expected Lily Lee to be this involved. “What happened to your unshakeable faith in the justice system? Just paying lip service?”

She smiles a little, slowly swaying back and forth in her desk chair. “Let’s call it a love-hate relationship.”

“So you believe May’s story? That Norman Osborn killed Ben Parker?”

“I couldn’t possibly tell you. I have seen no evidence for it. May told me she couldn’t tell me how she knew. But she wouldn’t accuse him without good reason. And she’s not a killer.”

“She confessed to the murder,” Steve points out.

“She wouldn’t have done it without a damn good reason.”

“Very trusting of you to think so.”

“We’ve known each other a long time.”

“And you’ve been helping her. So she might come back again?”

“I don’t think she will. I warned her that the police was getting close.”

“How?” Steve asks sharply. “Phone?”

“No. She told me to change the logo on my website to a different color if the police came knocking on my door. I changed my website right after your first visit. My guess is, once she saw it, she dropped everything and moved to a whole new location. She’s probably already in a different state by now.”

Damn, that’s a fool proof system. Untraceable. “Did you agree on another code to show that the coast is clear?”

Lee purses her lips. “Not really. I could change the logo back to the old one, but even if she saw that, I don’t think she’d come back here for at least several weeks. She is very disciplined about all this.”

“And you have no other way of communicating with her?”

She shakes her head. “Any other form of communication was traceable. Dangerous.”

True enough.

“But,” Lee says, looking incredibly hesitant.

Steve holds his breath, afraid that anything he might say could scare Lee back into silence.

“I did help her get a fake ID, with a new name. She wanted to pick up a job.”

Steve slowly exhales. This is it. This is everything they need to find May Parker, and by extension, Peter. “Will you tell me the name?”

Lee sighs, pushing a strand of hair back. She still looks torn. “If I tell you, and you just end up sending her back to prison-“

“That’s not our goal. I cannot guarantee you that she’ll get off scot-free for murder. But I can promise you that we will deal with this fairly. No bribery, no big corporations sticking their noses where they don’t belong.”

Lee slowly nods, the last traces of reluctance disappearing from her eyes.

“The name?” Steve asks again, keeping his voice soft.

“Patricia Russo.”