Chapter Text
Peter wasn’t used to having to fight to survive. He still fondly remembered breakfast with Uncle Ben and Aunt May. Listening to them fake argue over something stupid, Uncle Ben shooting him winks whenever he thought he was winning or said something particularly clever. He remembered the struggles, too. The overdue bills he wasn’t supposed to see, the quick fixes Uncle Ben made whenever something broke and they couldn’t afford to really fix it. But struggling wasn’t the same as fighting. He'd been lucky that way, he supposed.
He had to fight now. Somewhere between the death of his aunt and uncle, and his untimely but ultimately necessary disappearance from foster care, Peter had started to really fight.
He fought for food now. He pushed and shoved. He walked through busy crowds, sticking his hands in other people’s pockets and hoping they were stupid enough to carry cash these days. Cards were too traceable, and he wasn’t going to risk it. He’d let the stupid criminals deal with that. He would steal like he wasn't a hypocrite, and lie like it didn't tear his heart in half. Peter Parker, a liar and thief. What would Aunt May and Uncle Ben think now?
And when he wasn’t fighting as Peter, he was fighting as Spider-Man. He was fighting the stupid criminals he really wasn’t much better than in the first place. He would swing through the city on shitty, homemade web shooters that broke more than he’d ever like to admit. He’d punch bad guys and get punched, too. It was therapeutic. Probably in all the wrong ways, but it made him feel just a little better. Those kinds of fights were the ones he lived for. They mattered. He was fighting for other people—the ones who couldn’t really fight for themselves. It made him feel important. Like he mattered. Because he had superpowers. Those weren’t exactly common (even if they seemed to appear more and more as the years dragged on). Peter has superpowers, and he could help others.
Yet he still couldn’t seem to help himself.
Peter stumbled out of the soup kitchen, his jacket pulled tightly around him (ever since the spider bite, he felt like he got much colder much easier). It shouldn't have been this chilly in fucking June anyway. The soup kitchen was a quick and easy hot meal, but it wasn’t always the safest place. He looked young—too young to be on his own. A few close calls and near misses with CPS made him realize he had to be more careful. He never went to the same one multiple times in a month, and sometimes, he didn't go back to them at all. The food wasn't always great, and while he couldn't afford to be picky, he still found that he was. Selfish, maybe. Peter Parker had become selfish somehow, even though Spider-Man never was.
It wasn’t that Peter wanted to be on the streets. It was the complete opposite, but he didn’t want to get thrown back into foster care. The months he had spent there were worse than fighting to survive on the streets. He would instead be fighting for space in places packed with up to seven or eight other foster kids. He’d been with foster parents that locked the fridge and pantry, ones that insisted they be called ‘mom’ and ‘dad’, and ones who had their own children that were monsters (but if you said a word about them being anything other than perfect, you were the problem and had to go). He'd been with fosters that were perfect on paper. That everyone loved. That his social worker told him would get him into college. Save his future, even if the Fortunato’s and the Whelan's said he was bad news.
(but it wasn't perfect. In the daylight, Peter could pretend it was everything he ever wanted. That he belonged there. That he could survive three more years under that roof. But at night, God, at night, Peter would feel his hands on his shoulders and know that in three years, he might be dead)
So being on the streets was better than being in a foster home. Sure, there were probably good ones, but he’d yet to see one and didn’t want to wait for one to just appear. Plus, this way he didn’t have to really sneak around as Spider-Man. He didn’t need to worry about foster parents catching him sneaking in or out and punishing him for it. He could swing around (well, when his web shooters worked) and save people like he wasn't drowning under the mask.
Peter, unfortunately, could not go out as Spider-Man tonight. His web shooters had shorted (again) and he was going to have to dumpster dive for parts and attempt to fix them (also, again). Plus, he’d gotten his ass kicked by some thugs and he wasn’t exactly looking to repeat that tonight. His spider-sense could only do so much when you were fighting five guys at once. But hey, he’d managed and they’d all been arrested. He had the bruises to prove it. The ached every time he turned, and even sometimes if he took a breath too fast.
So tonight, he didn’t really have many plans. He could wander around and try to find somewhere to bunk for the night (the last place he stayed regularly had been bought after being abandoned for several years. He, unfortunately, found out when police showed up because the new owner called them. He barely got out of that one). He often found tall rooftops, ones with no access from the building. If someone spotted him up there it would be hard to explain, but no one ever seemed to notice him for that to be a problem.
And if he couldn’t find somewhere to crash, well, he’d just have to risk a homeless shelter. He’d already had too many sleepless nights this week to risk another.
…
Sometimes Peter Parker really wished he could stop fighting for a little while. He wished he could have his family back. Any member, he wasn't picky. He wished he could be back at Midtown with Ned (he missed Ned. He was pulled out of Midtown before his freshman year, right after May died. He and Ned had been looking forward to it for years. And yet, Peter Parker never got what he wanted. He could dream and dream, but never, ever, did Peter Parker get what he wants).
Spider-Man was for fighting. That's how he wanted to fight.
But yet, Peter Parker never seemed to get what he wanted.
----
Wanda Maximoff barely remembered anything before she and Pietro started fighting to survive. She could vaguely recall the memories of happy family dinners, watching movies on the TV and joking like families did. Those memories were hard to reach now. Ever since Stark’s bomb taunted menacingly as she and her brother hid under their bed for two days. She wasn’t a fan of Tony Stark, or America, then, and she sure as hell wasn’t now.
Sokovia was gone. The capital was reduced to rubble as Ultron, Stark’s own creation, attempted to use it to destroy all of humanity. Wanda couldn’t help but blame herself for it—she’d looked into Ultron’s mind and still, she’d decided to work with him. Because her hatred of Stark drove her to agree with something he created out of fear—fear that she put in his head.
Sokovia was gone, and with it, Pietro went, too. Was she supposed to feel better knowing that he died to protect others? Did knowing he sacrificed himself somehow absolve all the guilt and grief? No. No, but Tony Stark seemed to think it should. His lack of patience—of empathy—infuriated Wanda. She didn’t understand how someone could be so cruel.
Well, she could. It was the same man who had created weapons for years. It took him some life-threatening situation to change his mind. What a joke.
The worst part of it all was that she now lived under his care. Lived in his facilities, took his money like that very money hadn’t killed her family, her country, her dreams . She took his money like it wasn’t soaked in the blood of everything she’d even known.
It had been three weeks since she’d ‘moved in’ to the Avengers Compound. Moved in was putting it nicely—it’s not exactly like she had anywhere else to go. Again, Sokovia was gone. Her family was gone. Pietro was gone. She’d rather be living somewhere at least close to Sokovia, but the Avengers didn’t give her any options—well, Stark didn’t give her any options.
Her room wasn’t as prison-like as Hydra had been, but she didn’t find it much better. It had a bed, a bathroom, and a nearly empty closet. She hadn’t brought anything with her except the clothes on her back. In fact, she didn’t have anything else to even think about bringing. Hydra had stripped her and Pietro of their possessions. She had nothing.
The Avengers had bought her things, sure—a phone, some clothes, etc.—but they all felt dirty. All soaked in Stark’s blood money. She would refuse to use them if she had anything else to use. But she didn’t—so again, she took Stark’s things like it wasn’t soaked in the blood of everything she’d ever loved.
The worst part—undoubtedly the worst part—was that they would not leave her alone . If she left her room, she was being followed the entire time. She could not leave the compound because FRIDAY would know and alert Stark, or whatever other Avenger was nearby. It was a glorified prison—again, not as bad at Hydra, but still enough to piss her off and make her feel crazy.
She had not intentionally been preparing a jailbreak, per se. Wanda had been hoping for some peace and quiet for a little while. Maybe have the chance to really grieve on her own. But with an AI monitoring her every move, it felt like she was suffocating.
And then Stark took it offline for a day. She hadn’t been told (of course, he hadn’t said much of anything to her since she’d moved in), but she figured it out soon enough. Wanda had attempted to call out to see who was in the building—nothing responded. She tried for a few more minutes before realizing FRIDAY wasn’t there.
That meant a few things.
- Wanda did not know who was around.
- Stark was definitely around and in his workshop if his AI was off.
- The most important thing of all—she could leave the Compound and no one would know.
Well, if she could effectively sneak out, no one would know. Wanda wasn’t exactly super confident she could sneak out with a superspy always hanging around.
She didn’t dislike Romanoff, but she was confident Romanoff did not like her. The spy was always looking over Wanda’s shoulder. Always around, making sure Wanda was alive and still in the building. Again, the Avengers would not leave her alone.
Wanda wasn’t supposed to use her powers. It wasn’t a rule they’d set out clearly, but it had been implied heavily. The Avengers didn’t want her suing her powers unsupervised. They didn’t fully understand them yet (not that she did , but she understood them better), and the experience of seeing their worst fears was still fresh in their minds. She couldn’t blame them for that, as much as she’d like to—she saw all their worst fears when she gave them those visions. They weren’t exactly pleasant things to think about.
She didn’t care that she wasn’t supposed to use her powers. This was probably her only chance to actually leave the compound. Stark never took FRIDAY offline—not like this. And Wanda didn’t exactly want to stick around here much longer (Pietro had been the one excited about being an Avenger when Clint had asked. He’d been the one who wanted this—not her. She wasn’t even going to pretend that this was good for her. All living in this compound did was make her angrier).
Wanda took a moment to concentrate, sending ripples of magic through the building. She had gotten good at using her magic to identify objects—something Hydra hadn’t taught her, but something she started using in order to feel safer and more aware of everything around her.
Stark was in his lab, like she suspected. Steve and Sam were in the gym, and Vision was patrolling somewhere on the floor above her. Romanoff was… oddly not in the building or in the immediate vicinity.
Wanda didn’t exactly know where she was going to go. All she knew is that it was going to be as far as she could get. She quickly shoved everything she wanted to keep in a bag, including the cash Stark had handed her once (money she’d swore she’d never use), clothes, and the handful of things she’d actually brought from Sokovia.
She tossed her phone on the bed. She had no intention of keeping something that could be tracked so easily. Wanda wasn’t stupid—Hydra may have been one of the worst mistakes of her life, but they instilled the fear and paranoia of a spy into her. At least that might have been a plus.
Wanda was gone fifteen minutes after she realized that FRIDAY had been disabled.
It took a lot longer than fifteen minutes for someone to notice.
----
Natasha prided herself on her skills as a spy. Though they were developed through years of experiences she’d almost rather forget, she still held them in high regard. They’d gotten her this far..
So that feeling she got when she returned to the compound. The feeling that something was off—that something was wrong . She knew in her gut that something had happened.
“FRIDAY?” Natasha looked up at the ceiling.
“Welcome back, Agent Romanoff,” FRIDAY responded. “How can I assist you?”
The fact that FRIDAY was online and calm did little to ease Natasha’s gut feeling. “Who else is here?”
“Mr. Wilson and Mr. Rogers are in the gym,” FRIDAY responded. “Boss is in his lab with Vision.”
“Where’s Wanda?”
“Ms. Maximoff is not currently in the building.”
Natasha frowned, her eyebrows furrowing. “That can’t be right,” she said. “Are you sure?”
“I am sure,” FRIDAY replied.
“When was she last on the cameras?”
There was a pause. “I am not sure,” FRIDAY almost sounded hesitant. “Boss took me offline for an hour and a half for an update. It appears Ms. Maximoff disappeared in that window.”
“Damn it,” Natasha huffed, halfway storming to the elevators.
This was the exact opposite of what they needed. Wanda had been under observation because Natasha had been worried about this exact problem. She’d explicitly told Tony that she needed to be watched because the last thing they needed was a superpowered teenager wandering around New York.
…
Natasha was going to kick Stark’s ass tonight.