#tear-stained

I feel like I talked a bit about this before but I can't find the post now, BUT ANYWAYS. This story was going to take place several years after BotW and basically follow the structure of the Riddle-Master trilogy. Link and Zelda are married, rebuilding Hyrule, and he still struggles with his memory loss.

He starts having these visions of a Sheikah Monk calling to him from a shrine hidden in the giant pit in the Yiga Hideout. They go on an excursion to find it, and when Link finally meets him, the Monk says he has ancient knowledge buried in his memories and he summoned him there to uncover it. Turns out the monk is actually a Yiga who infiltrated the monks' ranks, and lured Link there to pull information about the Triforce out of his subconscious.

(This was all before the DLC; when I was beating it with a friend I started telling him my ideas for an evil monk story literally as we're watching the post-Divine Beast cutscene and Maz Koshia's fingers move he pointed at the screen like 😱)

Anyways the pit implodes over the shrine entrance once the Yiga has him, and though Zelda and the Gerudo spend weeks digging through the rubble they don't ever find it again.

A year or so later Link finally busts out. The whole time the Yiga (named Qos) was torturing him with mind probes (a la Tear-stained), Link was also absorbing knowledge from him, and becoming incredibly powerful. He figures out how to tap into the Triforce of Courage and use its powers but is understandably Messed Up and consumed with ideas of revenge.

Meanwhile, the Gerudo tell Zelda about the explosion in the Karusa Valley and the reports that Link was seen there. She teams up with Riju and they go looking for him, and eventually meet up with him in Hebra. He basically says, "I'm gonna go kill this guy for everything he's done, stay out of the way," and Zelda doesn't really like the sound of that, and ends up getting herself into some trouble while trying to save him from himself.

The third act is a little hazy, I think I wanted Qos to do some serious damage to Zelda's mind and Link has to back off from his quest for revenge to help heal the damage, and it's pretty awful for him because the only way he can undo it is to go into her mind the way Qos went into his and it's just a lot of trauma? Anyways IT WAS GONNA BE GREAT GUYS. But the Dreaded Harddrive Failure of October 2018 pretty much killed it. I still have some snippets that were saved in my email. Here's one of Zelda Being Not Smart! :D

“So. You are the Zelda of this era,” he mused, watching her with calculating eyes. “You look a lot like mine. But you lack a certain air of confidence that she had.”

“I’m sure she was a formidable woman,” she deflected. She was not about to be baited into defending herself against 10,000 year old notions of who she ought to be. Not after everything she had done. Certainly not after everything he had done to Link. “I understand you’re after something that doesn’t belong to you.”

Qos laughed once derisively. “Who is to say who the power of the gods belongs to?”

“It doesn’t belong to anyone,” she countered, her pulse quickening at his brazenness. “But my family is tasked with protecting it from those who would use it for their own ends.”

“I see.” He folded his hands, as though to placate her. “And you mean to stop me.”

She pursed her lips. “If I must.”

“You may try,” he allowed, giving her a small smile. “But there is no need. I desire the power itself. I have no desire to wield it over others.”

“You tortured an innocent man until he lost his mind in an attempt to get at it,” she said icily, unable to entirely disguise her hate. “You’ll forgive me if I take little comfort in your alleged lack of ambitions.”

“His suffering was unfortunate,” Qos agreed mildly, “but necessary. I do not pretend to apologize for it.”

“I do not pretend that I would forgive you even if you did.”

“There is one thing I don’t understand,” he mused, narrowing his eyes gently. “Given what he knows I’m capable of doing to your mind, I’m certain the hero would do everything in his power to keep you from me. Yet here you are, and of your own volition. Tell me, how did you convince him to let you come looking for me?”

Zelda tried to swallow the lump obstructing her throat, but suddenly her mouth was dry as sand. “I came without his consent,” she admitted.

“Even knowing the pain the consequences of our meeting might cause him?” Qos’s smile grew wider. “It seems we’re both willing to hurt him, if it serves our purposes.”

“We’re nothing alike,” she spat before she could reign in her emotions. “I’m here because I’m trying to help him.”

“And that will only hurt him all the more.”

Hot tears burned in her throat as she stared at him, at a loss for words. No matter how she rationalized her behavior to herself, the ugly truth was that he was right. If anything happened to her Link would be devastated, and worse than that he would blame himself.

But despite knowing that, and despite having been asked by him explicitly not to confront Qos, she disregarded his wishes and the suffering the consequences might cause him under a banner of noble intentions.

“I can still feel his mind,” he murmured, his eyes drifting absently to the fire. “He’s consumed by his fears, and by his hatred for me. He thinks only of revenge. It must be difficult, being married to a man so devoured by rage. Can you truly think of him as your husband? Can you even love him anymore?”

“Stop it,” she demanded, biting back her tears. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of falling to pieces, even if his words were piercing the most vulnerable, tender places in her heart. She kept her voice steady. “You don’t know a thing about him. I won’t let him lose himself.”

“He already has.” Qos paused, his eyes sliding away from her, away from the fire, out into the night. “You can ask him yourself.”

Fear, cold and unforgiving, coiled itself around her throat. She turned, looking at the darkness. There was nothing. And then in the next instant he was there, standing at the edge of the ring of their fire as though he had always been there. His eyes were grim, his hands fisted at his sides, watching them with such a tangled mess of raw emotion burning behind his guarded expression that Zelda could not help her sudden tears.

“Link,” she breathed. He hardly seemed to hear her.

“I would’ve let her go,” Qos told him, his voice devoid of feeling.

She saw Link flinch. The conflict in him was evident: fear for her, fear for himself, hatred for Qos, a burning desire to kill him, an equally powerful desire to keep her safe. All of it left him immobilized, any action threatening to set off a chain reaction he couldn’t hope to break.

“Leave her out of this,” he warned him darkly. “She doesn’t have what you want.”

“Maybe she does, maybe she doesn’t. That’s beside the point now. She’s much more useful to me as she is: undamaged, but vulnerable.”

“If you so much as touch her mind—”

“You’ll do what?” he interrupted. “Kill me? I think you’ve already made your intentions to do that quite clear.”

Link took his eyes off Qos in a moment of indecision to spare her a glance. Her heart broke as she met his defeated gaze, desperate and paralyzed with fear. It was her selfishness, her pride, that had gotten them into this mess, and however it played out, he was the one who was going to pay the price.

“I’m in something of a predicament now that you’ve arrived,” Qos went on dispassionately. “I can’t outrun you. I’m not willing to kill you. And I can’t trust you to simply let me into your mind without mounting some kind of reprisal, even with her here. It’s in your nature to fight for her.”

“I’ll cooperate,” he promised, and it was so quick and sincere it made Zelda’s stomach drop.

“I’m afraid that’s not good enough.”

In the next instant Qos was gone, she heard Link shout, felt the Yiga run his hand through her silken hair, just grazing the base of her skull to her scalp, and she saw the unmistakable, terrifying flash of the red, inverted eye before she lost consciousness.

———— 

Another scream tore its way out of Stephen's throat as yet another long needle pierced his head. Perhaps they were coated in some sort of irritant, perhaps it was just another type of technology or magic, but every single one of the needles burned, sending endless signals of pain to his brain that renewed themselves every time the alien tweaked or twisted one of his instruments of torture.

Beyond his bleary eyesight, however, his tormentor did not seem pleased. Stephen had lost all concept of time the moment the first needle pierced his skin, but from what he could tell, the alien seemed to be expecting something that was not happening.

Good.

A sixth needle was applied to his skull and he choked on another cry. His eyes were starting to water, but he quickly blinked the moisture away. It was terrible, excruciating, but it was not worse than anything he had suffered from Dormammu. The alien needed him alive, and that limited him in options; the Lord of the Dark Dimension had lacked that limitation.

He could endure this.

Some time later (goodness knows how long), all six needles were extracted from his face in a quick movement that ached, but it was nothing like their initial penetration. He focused his gaze upon the creature in front of him, who was looking at him as if he were something of a puzzle.

His torturer said nothing, but Stephen suddenly felt the trickle of something entering his mind, prodding at its defenses, and he immediately reinforced his wall around the most vital information he held, including all knowledge about the spell protecting the Eye of Agamotto. He did not have the strength to keep out all intrusion, however, and let the outermost wall of the defenses upon his mind be broken while all remaining strength he had kept up the walls deeper within.

However, the attack upon his mind barely tested the first of the inner walls before withdrawing, and when Stephen came to his senses again, the alien wore a strange look that he could not immediately place. He lifted two fingers and Stephen felt his body slowly tilt to a vertical position, the needles following his movement.

The creature began to circle Stephen as he repositioned him. "I admit I have had very few dealings with Terran before, but there are enough similar peoples within the universe to generate a broad understanding of your species. I know enough to see that you are a very singular person, Doctor."

He startled at the title, and then saw the alien was now in his peripheral vision. The creature moved some of the needles aside to step close to the left side of his now-vertical body, then reached over and settled his long-fingered hand upon his right shoulder. Stephen stiffened at the touch. "You have practiced your craft for so little time. If you had longer, you may even prove formidable. Your world has chosen its Stone-keeper well."

The hand slid from his shoulder to his neck and cupped his chin, then tilted his head up gently. He whispered into his left ear, "But the Ebony Maw is not known as the greatest of Thanos's interrogators for naught. And every being has a weakness." The alien— this Ebony Maw— slid his right hand down Stephen's right arm until he was stroking the scars upon his hand. "And I, Doctor, have found yours."

He hardly had time to process his words before needles, multiple needles were entering his hands, and the pain completely overwhelmed the rest of his senses. While the sensation of the needles upon his head were bad, this was on a whole new level of suffering that utterly consumed his body, mind, and soul. Sound was muffled and ringing, sight was impossible, blood filled his mouth and overtook all scents, and on top of it all was the knowledge that the only true feeling within his world was an utter, all-encompassing agony.

Stephen could not say how long he was in this state of being. When he began to regain his lost senses as the shock of pain began to wear into a constant, he first found that his inner throat was sore and felt used, as if he had been speaking for a long length of time— screaming. The ringing noise was from the screaming.

Despite the soreness, he heard a strangled sob make its way out of him, which is when he realized that he was crying and, somewhat alarmingly, could not stop; the pain was too great.

He dared not look down at his hands; while he had recovered some sense of presence, he could still feel the intrusive instruments sticking within him. They were stagnant now, simply releasing steady waves of pain that travelled through his hands, up his arms and to his very core, but he was certain that if any of them were touched, or any further needles placed, he would lose focus on the rest of the world again.

With one arm still over his shoulder, Ebony Maw's left hand travelled upward, past his chin, to carefully wipe away one of his tear tracks with his thumb. Stephen shuddered. "Consider your position carefully, Doctor. This need not go further."

Stray tears brushed down his cheeks as he closed his eyes and remained quiet. The silence sat for a moment further, and then his world was a whitewash of nothing but suffering.

Unable to account for his environment during such a hasty transformation, Mystery finds himself wedged between falling walls, tails and torso constricted. Dust obscures his vision, raining down around him, clogging up nose.

Vivi, Lewis, Arthur! He must find his humans.

The basement! If they had followed along with their plan than they should have gone down to check the basement. Mystery had been tasked with entering in the back door to prevent their target from escaping. Mentally, he curses. He should have never agreed to this. He should have stayed with them.

Something long and heavy comes crashing down onto his back and he staggers, legs buckling. The dust is making it hard to orient himself. It is a good thing he does not require oxygen because he would have surely choked by now. Growling, he struggles under the weight, drawing on his connection to ancient powers for strength. He can’t say here. Sure, he’s strong, but he doesn’t want to test it against the weight of an entire building.

/Vivi! Where are you!/

He throws his mental yell out in all directions, not caring that any human in range would hear him. Chest tight, he awaits a response. As much as would love to smash his way through the building, he doesn’t want to do so recklessly. Not with it being so structurally unsound.

In desperation, he calls again, /Vivi!/  

“Mystery.”

The response is weak, but with his enhanced hearing, he knows it is coming from beyond the building. Outside. She’s outside! They’d made it out!

Mystery crashes through the nearest wall in Vivi’s direction and is partly buried when the roof above him completely collapses. Wood and brick box him in on all sides. He collects himself, gathering his strength, pushing against the heavy beams and wiggling free. In an explosion of supernatural energy, Mystery forces his way through to the external wall, bursting out in a shower of debris and ash.

Free from the building, Mystery scans the backyard. The sky is filled with ash, blotting out the afternoon sun, creating an ominous red haze. Vivi is kneeling in the long, unkempt grass, facing away. All around her are small patches of fire and burning rubble. She is bent over like she is in pain, holding something to her chest. There is no sign of Arthur or Lewis.

In one elongated jump, Mystery is at her side, tails curling around the two of them.

/Vivi. I am here. / He shoves his nose into her face sniffing urgently, scanning for injuries. There are scrapes, some blood, and a few burns. Like himself, Vivi is covered in dust so her tears have left long tracts down her cheeks.

/Where are you hurt?/

Vivi stares at him and her eyes water.

/Tell me where it hurts. Where are Arthur and Lewis?/

She sniffs loudly, her hands are trembling, and Mystery notes how the skin is reddened with blisters. Slowly, she opens her cupped hands so Mystery can see what she’s holding. First, he sees Lewis’s ghostly anchor, it pulses, weak but steady. It is not Lewis’s anchor that catches his attention. Next to it, is a second anchor, familiar but not.

“You can fix this? Right? Please fix this.”

He has no time to wonder why Vivi whispering because he is frozen. Carefully, he bends his neck, bushing his nose against the foreign, star-shaped object.

/Oh no./

The new anchor pulses, mirroring Lewis, automatically drawing in energy. Mystery can feel it tugging at his own aura. When he concentrates, he can feel Arthur’s echo rippling in the air, creating tiny waves. Both ghosts are weak, Lewis from energy depletion and Arthur because his anchor isn’t even a minute old.

/I’m sorry Vivi./ He says, curling tighter, blocking her view of the house and the plumes of smoke drifting into the sky. There is no way for him to fix this. Vivi brings both anchors up to her chest, hugging them close. At a loss, Mystery rests his head on her shoulder, pulling her to his side.

.

If you want to know more about this challenge I have an intro here

The memories are still a little bit too fresh from last summer when Beck revealed his identity to the world. It’s only been about six months and his face is still constantly plastered all over the news.

“I’m Spider-Man, Tony. Why do I need a whole group of bodyguards following me around if I’m stronger than all of them combined? I don’t need my hand held when I cross the street.”

Tony’s jaw clenches. “It doesn’t matter how strong you are. You’re a child, Peter, you hear me? You’re a child and your face is still on billboards. Do you understand why that’s a problem for me? I let you go out every goddamn night as Spider-Man. I let you go out with friends. I let you do the things you ask to do. All I need is a little bit more cooperation on your end.”

“I’m supposed to thank you for letting me live my life?” Peter exclaims, nails biting into his palms. He hates this. He hates fighting. He hates feeling like he’s a little kid. “I’m eighteen, Tony! I’m not about to go out drinking. I just wanted to get a coffee with MJ. I’d be fine if you had Happy waiting in the car outside. I can get that. But you had six guards follow me into the fucking building!”

The billionaire runs a hand through his messy hair, sighing loudly. Peter hates how it makes him feel like he’s a burden. He hates the anxiety that crawls up his throat. He hates the insecurity that settles in the pit of his stomach.

“I know it’s been hard, kid, but-”

Peter knows it’s a bad idea, but the words are falling out of his mouth before he can think them through. “You have no fucking idea what this has been like, okay? You chose to tell everyone you were Iron Man. You didn’t lose five fucking years of your life. You didn’t have to find out where you belonged after everyone moved on without you. You have no idea what it’s like to feel like you’re losing your mind!”

Tony sighs again, drawn-out and pained. They’ve talked about a lot of it before, but not enough to make the worries disappear entirely. They still peek around the corner every now and again.

“Peter-”

“I want to go home,” he says instead. He hates the way Tony’s face falls, the way his whole body sort of slumps, the way he sighs. He hates the guilt that follows.

“Kid-”

“Please. Take me home.”

He doesn’t really want to. They’re all lies. His home is the cabin despite what he’s implying. He doesn’t really want to go back to May’s house where Happy’s probably gone after dropping Peter off. He doesn’t want to see May and Happy, wedding bands shining on their fingers. He doesn’t want to see the nursery with the bright yellow walls and the empty crib. He doesn’t want to sleep in his bedroom that may as well be a guest bedroom. He doesn’t want to see May’s baby bump and ultrasound pictures pinned to the walls.

He doesn’t want it but he needs to leave before he says anything he’ll regret.

“Alright, kid,” Tony murmurs. His eyes are sad and his mouth is downturned, shoulders slumped. Peter hates that he’s the cause of that. “Alright. I’ll take you home.”

Peter keeps his head down, hands stuffed into his pockets, mouth shut, as they walk out to the car. He doesn’t want to make things worse.

The car ride is silent until Peter can’t take it anymore. It’s a long drive from the cabin back to Queens.

“I just don’t understand why going to get a coffee with MJ in the middle of the day, in public, was such an issue,” he says. “I was just going to be gone for a few hours max and I told you where I was going. I had my watch and my phone and my keys and I even wore my shoes with the trackers in them. Why did you have to send six guards with me?”

Tony sighs. He does that a lot now a days. “I know it’s hard to comprehend, but there are a lot of people who don’t like you because of me or because of the Daily Bugle. But there are a lot of people who would go a long way to hurt you.”

“Stop talking to me like I’m a child!” His voice cracks pathetically and he wants to cry. He wants to stop the car and shout at Tony and make him understand. “I fought Beck. I fought Thanos. I fight petty criminals every single fucking day. Why don’t you trust me to protect myself?”

“You’re my kid, Peter. It’s my job to keep you safe and I will do anything to keep you safe.”

*

Peter knocks on the door, uncomfortable and angry and guilty, hating that he has to knock on the door while Tony sits in the car a few feet behind him, watching him.

He hates that he knows the expression Tony has on his face without looking. Struggling to keep his face neutral, but obvious pain seeping through the cracks in his armor. Mouth turned down and eyes sad and forehead crinkled.

The door opens and Happy is standing there in casual attire, mirroring Tony’s expression. He opens his mouth to say something, but Peter doesn’t give him the chance, pushing into the house and making a beeline for his bedroom.

He slams the door a little too loud, wincing at the creaking of his doorframe, and he falls into bed, finally letting the tears fall.

*

He hates fighting with Tony. He hates the disappointment on his face. He hates the sadness and the pain, hates the way he called this his home and not the cabin. Hates how he left without saying goodbye. Hates the lack of closure. Hates himself more than he normally does.

He hates the insecurities that crawl through his head like vines, entangling him in the thoughts of alienation. Of Unbelonging. Hates the anxiety like acid, like a rope around his neck cutting off his breathing. Hates the desperation to call Tony, to ask him to come back, to ask him to wrap in a hug and take care of him and the thoughts in his head, to convince his head that it’s wrong.

Everything. He hates everything.

But he doesn’t bother trying to fix it. He simply pulls the blanket over his head and wishes the world away.

*

“We have our trip today… Are you going to be okay here?” May asks gently. Her hand rests on his back over the blankets that are pulled tight around his shoulders. Her baby bump is bigger than he remembers.

“I’ll be fine,” he says, voice rough from all the crying he’d done the previous night.

She smiles sadly, brushing his hair out of his face. “I’ve never seen you two like this before. You wanna talk about it?”

“It’s stupid.” He hides his face in his pillow, words muffled. “Just wanna s’eep.”

Tucking the blankets under his chin, she presses a kiss to his temple. “Call him. You can fix this, I know you can. Text me or Happy if you need anything, okay?”

He nods, knowing he won’t. He should but he won’t.

She leaves, shutting his door quietly behind her on her way out. He lets out a breath of relief, not wanting to socialize anymore. It’s been a long year and some days are harder than others.

He was the only one snapped. Tony, Pepper, Happy, Rhodey, May, everyone. They were all fine. They all moved on without him.

Tony and Pepper got married and had Morgan. Happy and May got married and she’s pregnant. They all moved. They got rid of all his old things. Peter’s rooms at both houses are just guest bedrooms he’s claimed. He wasn’t there for any of this. He missed everything. And now, it’s like he never existed in the first place.

He doesn’t know why he expected there to be a Peter-shaped hole carved out of everyone’s lives for him to fill. He doesn’t know why he thought he was important.

Five years. Nothing’s the same.

There hadn’t been time to process it. He was given a few months and then he was off on a Summer European Vacation with his classmates and Beck happened. And then he had to deal with his identity being outed and had to deal with the press finding out about Tony and May splitting custody of Peter.

Only now has he finally been given a chance to think. And he hates it. He wishes he never had to think again.

Especially since all the thoughts are bad.

He wishes he could just disappear into the mattress and never be seen again.

*

He bolts awake, spider senses tingling at the back of his neck. The front door opens.

May and Happy aren’t supposed to be back for another three days. They’re driving to May’s old friend’s house for the long weekend. It’s been a long plan, but Peter was supposed to be staying at the cabin, not at the townhouse.  

As quietly as he can, he slips out of bed and tries to find his webshooters. He left them at the cabin. He had left in such a hurry, he must’ve left them behind.

He grabs his phone off the nightstand, hurrying to find Tony’s contact. He doesn’t care that they were fighting, there are people in May’s house, and he’s scared.

But just as the call starts ringing, his phone dies.

With an inaudible curse, he plugs it in, but he’s running out of time. He can hear people, multiple people, talking in the kitchen, none of the voices recognizable. His heart’s racing and he needs to hide. He doesn’t know what he’s up against.

So, he abandons his phone on the nightstand and slips into the closet, sliding the door shut as quietly as he can manage.

The people are moving around now. Something shatters. A door is slammed open. A gun is cocked.

Through the slits in the closet door, he can see his phone light up, slowly turning on. He’s contemplating ducking out of the closet to grab it, when his bedroom door opens violently.

He freezes, trying his best to not even breathe. A group of people walk into his room, carelessly knocking things over and kicking things out of the way as they walk in.

“Looks like he’s still here,” A woman says, picking up his phone. “I know this generation, wouldn’t have left without his phone.”

One man grunts in response, lifting his blankets. “Looks like he was just here, too.”

“Come out, come out wherever you are, little spider!” the second man calls out, whistling lowly. “You can’t hide forever.”

He recognizes the voice as one of the men who worked for Toomes all those years ago. Otherwise, they’re strangers.

“I’ll check the other rooms,” the woman says. “Check the bathroom. Weber, you stay here. Make sure he isn’t hiding out.”

Weber, Toomes’s ex-employee, huffs in annoyance, but sits down on Peter’s bed. The other two nod and head out of the room.

Alone, he might be able to take Weber, but when he peeks a little bit closer to the slats in the door, he sees the huge gun Weber has slung across his chest.

He steps back, worried Weber will see him looking, but his foot lands on a baby toy. One he bought when he found out May was pregnant. It rattles, a fairly quiet noise, but echoingly loud in the small room.

Weber laughs, genuinely laughs and stands from the bed. There’s nowhere for Peter to go. He’s trapped himself in the small closet. The door flies open and Peter immediately swings his fist, hoping to gain the upperhand, but his fist is caught.

He gapes in surprise, taken aback by how easily his strength was stopped. These people must be enhanced if they could do this so easily.

“Nice try, Spider,” Weber says, grinning madly. “You’re going to regret that.”

He can’t stop the fist that swings at his face. There’s a split second of white-hot pain and then nothing.

*

“-home for three days at the minimum,” Weber’s saying near Peter’s head. “No point in taking him anywhere.”

“What about Stark?” the woman says.

A harsh laugh. “They fought last night. He won’t be stopping by anytime soon. Stupid kid’s phone password is one, two, three, four. Stark’s been texting and I sent him a text saying-” The man lifts his voice obnoxiously high. “-I hate you. Don’t bother texting again, I won’t answer. Just leave me alone.”

“Smart idea. He won’t be bothering us anytime soon,” the second man replies. “Let’s wake the spider up and get the show on the road.”

Cold.

Water pours over him, drenching him head to toe in ice cold water. He splutters, eyes shooting open, well they try to open. His right eye doesn’t cooperate, probably swollen shut after the serious hit he took when he was found. He kind of hates that his top priority in his muddled mind is that the water is going to ruin the hardwood flooring of May’s beautiful house.

He’s tied to one of the dining room chairs, a pair of thick cuffs around his wrists and ankles, pinning him to the chair. There’s more of the material around his middle, keeping him totally still. And a gag is pulled tight in his mouth.

“Good afternoon, Spider,” the woman begins, offering a tight-lipped smile. She almost looks bored.

They all look like they’re in their mid to late thirties, all of them looking like regular people you see every day. Other than they’re buff arms and muscles and angry eyes. Even that’s not too abnormal for New York.

He wants to ask questions, wants to demand what they want from him, what he can give to get them out of May’s house. He doesn’t want them getting into this mess if they get home early. But the gag stops all attempts.

They don’t bother with explaining either, a scary thing to Peter who’s become all too used to listening to villains monologuing and making demands. They don’t answer any of the big questions like why.

Weber just takes a swing with his brass knuckles.

*

Peter slowly blinks his swollen eyes open, face aching. He tastes blood, can barely breathe. All he can think is pain.

It’s been a while. He’s passed out at least three times, only to be woken up with their method of ice water. They’ve finally left him alone.

His phone sits at the edge of the table. Only feet away. Taunting him.

The screen lights up with yet another notification.

He can barely read it through his black eyes, but he forces himself to try anyway.

Tony: I’m sorry kid

Tears slide down his face, mixing with the blood and making his wounds sting with the salty water. He had taken his watch off, no vitals for Tony to track. He didn’t want Tony to know he was crying last night. His phone is nearly dead, and he can barely feel his fingers let alone try to get out of these restraints to grab it.

He wants Tony. He wants him to somehow know what’s going on and to come rescue him. He wants to go home to the cabin. He wants Tony.

Face aching, pain making his black spots dance across his vision, hopeless, he cries.

And the only thing he can think is you were right. I’m so sorry.

*

Time passes in a blur of pain and ice water.

They don’t talk to him much. They just hit him. Over and over again, laughing amongst themselves. He doesn’t know why. He doesn’t even know who they are except for Weber. He doesn’t know anything other than they don’t like him for whatever reason.

All he really knows is that nobody’s coming for him. Tony thinks he hates him. May and Happy are away.

I don’t hate you, he thinks desperately. Maybe if he thinks it hard enough, Tony will hear it. I don’t hate you. Please. I need you.

There is no dramatic door busting down. There are no more texts lighting up his phone. There’s nothing, nobody.

He’s alone.

“He’s crying,” Weber laughs. Another hit. “How pathetic.”

“You think we’ll kill him like this?” the second man asks hesitantly. He’s sitting across from them, feet up on the dining room table, watching them nonchalantly.

The woman ponders this as Weber lands another punch to Peter’s face. “Probably not. His healing is doing too good of a job. You boys can have one more night to do whatever you please and then we’ll kill him before getting out of here. The last thing we need is for Stark to find out and get here before we’re out of here.”

“You want to join the fun, Fischer?” Weber asks. Warm blood races down Peter’s cheek as his skin splits for the thousandth time under the cruelty of Weber’s brass knuckles.

“Do you even have to ask?” Fischer chuckles, swinging his heavy boots to the floor with a loud thud. He walks around the table dramatically slowly and then he’s right there, in front of Peter.

Peter’s cries of pain are muffled by the bloodstained gag in his mouth.

I need you. I’m sorry.

It doesn’t matter how loud he thinks, the words will never make it to Tony.

*

He’s going to die at their hands.

Probably only a few more hours until they put a bullet between his eyes and hightail it out of Queens.

Not unless Peter can stop it.

Tony isn’t coming. May and Happy are still gone. It’s up to Peter, as it always is, to get himself out of this.

Beaten, bruised, bleeding. He has to get to his phone.

Weber and Fischer are passed out on the couches, apparently tired out from three long days beating the shit out of Peter. The lady is gone. She left right before Peter passed out. Probably to sort out their escape.

Slowly, carefully, Peter scooches his chair forward. The legs scrape against the ground, but the blood and water on the ground help to slide a little bit smoother. He pushes forward bit by bit, using every inch of strength he can conjure up.

He can’t die with Tony thinking he hates him. He can’t. He has to apologize if it’s the last thing he does.

The chair leg hits the table leg with a little thud, and Peter freezes, body keyed up in anticipation. But neither of the men wake. Fischer snores and turns over, but his eyes stay shut.

Letting out a breath of relief, Peter tips his head down until his nose can touch the edge of his screen. Thank god his password is simple.

He gets into his phone pretty quickly and it’s a miracle that Tony’s contact is still open, messages still sitting there.

Tony: I’m really sorry kid. Can we please just talk it out?

Tony: I can’t lose you again.

Tony: Please

He hits the call button using the tip of his nose, smearing blood across the screen, but if it breaks, he can replace. Right now, his phone is the least of his priorities.

It rings quietly, thankfully. If it had rung any louder, the men probably would’ve woken up and ruined this whole plan. He knows he’s running out of time. His entire plan is banking on Tony answering the call.

And he does.

Of course he does. Peter doesn’t know how he could’ve ever doubted it. Tony will always pick up his calls. No matter what.

“Peter?” Tony says. He sounds exhausted and confused and worried. But even just his voice is enough to bring the tears back and Peter sobs through his gag, desperately trying to convey how much he needs Tony right now.

“Holy shit-”

Peter turns his head, body shaking with fear. He’s going to die. Weber stares back at him, eyes wide with anger. He shoves Fischer awake and the two of them scramble for their weapons.

“Pete? Kiddo, can you talk to me? What’s going on?” Tony asks, fear colouring his voice.

The teenager sobs, pulling at his restraints as much as he can as he watches the men finally locate their guns in the kitchen.

“I’m on my way, kid. Hang in there. I’m coming, okay? I’m going to get you.”

“I’m sorry!” Peter tries to say, but his words are drowned by the gag and the thick blood in his mouth. He needs Tony to understand. He needs Tony to know how sorry he is.

Weber presses the barrel of his gun to Peter’s head, a smirk on his face. “Say bye, Spider.”

“Wait!” Fischer exclaims. “We don’t have the okay from Mom.”

Stomach flipping, Peter tries his best not to think of the implications. He doesn’t have time to think about how they’re a family.

“We can’t wait.” Weber flicks off the safety with too much nonchalance. “Stark is coming and he’ll kill us all.”

“Mom will kill us too.”

Weber opens his mouth to argue, but Peter can hear the sound of the repulsors in the distance, getting nearer and nearer by the second. He needs to time this right.

He throws all of his body weight to the right side of the chair, the side with Weber, knocking into the man as the chair falls sideways to the floor, slipping in the blood and water.

Weber, surprised by the sudden change in balance, slips and falls backwards, gun dropping from his hand. It’s pure luck that when the gun goes off, it hits Fischer in the leg, sending him to the floor as well.

Just as Weber’s about to grab his gun again, Tony bursts through the door in his armor.

Peter squeezes his eyes shut and desperate cry of pain escaping his throat as he tries to get to Tony, stuck in his stupid chair.

But before he knows it, Tony’s there, armor melting away from him. The two men are at least unconscious, maybe dead, Peter doesn’t care.

Tony’s quick to pull the gag away from Peter’s mouth, and the teenager starts rambling as fast as he can.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he says, voice thick and hoarse. “I’m sorry, I don’t hate you, I’m sorry. I need you. I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry. I should’ve- you were right. I should’ve listened to you. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry-”

“It’s okay. Calm down, kid. I’ve got you,” Tony murmurs, hands gentle and warm as they cradle Peter’s face. “It’s okay. We’ll talk soon. I just need you to take a breath. It’s all okay.”

But Peter doesn’t care because Tony doesn’t understand. “I’m sorry. Please. I’m sorry. I’m- I’m sorry. I- I’m sorry. I-”

Tony shushes him tenderly, grabbing the set of keys off Weber to unhook Peter from the chair.

As soon as they’re undone, Peter falls from the chair right into Tony’s arms, curling into his father-figure’s chest as sobs continue to wrack his body.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it. I’m sorry. Please, I-”

“No, no, no, kiddo. I promise, you’re forgiven. Everything’s alright. You don’t need to apologize. I’ve got you, okay?” Tony murmurs, pressing a long kiss to the top of Peter’s head, blinking back tears.

Peter’s shaking fingers clutch onto Tony’s t-shirt, body trembling in his grip. “I wanna go home. Please. I- I wanna go home.”

Tony’s grip tightens microscopically, swallowing thickly. “Course, Petey. Of course. I just have to take you to Bruce first, okay? Get you all checked out?”

There’s so much more Peter wants to say, needs to say, but he can’t focus enough to get his mouth to function and Tony’s arms are tightly wound around him and he’s finally safe and going home.

“I’ve got you, kiddo. You can sleep. I’ll be right here when you wake up,” Tony says.

That’s all the permission Peter needs, drifting off to sleep almost instantly.

*

Peter wakes with a jolt, expecting to be drenched in water. Expecting a hit or at least for someone to be taunting him, laughing at him.

“It’s okay, kiddo. You’re in the tower. I’m right here,” Tony’s quick to reassure.

He lets himself relax back into the pillows, feeling much better knowing he’s safe. His hands are still shaking as he reaches out to clutch Tony’s sleeve, feeling small and young.

“You were right,” he says, failing not to cry. “You were right. I’m sorry. I should’ve- I’m sorry, I should’ve listened to you. You were right. I just- I didn’t-”

“Shh.” Tony gently brushes Peter’s hair out of his face, a soft look on his face. “It’s okay, kiddo. We don’t have to talk about that until you’re better. I shouldn’t have let you go so easily. I should’ve listened to you. I should’ve tried to talk to you sooner. I should’ve worried more when you didn’t answer my texts… I’m sorry too.”

Peter tugs at Tony’s sleeve, pouting childishly. “Not your fault.”

“If it’s not my fault, then it’s not yours either. Everyone has arguments sometimes. It’s okay. But… But for now, I just want you to heal, okay?”

Nodding slowly, Peter tugs a little more insistently at Tony’s sleeve. “Please.”

Somehow, Tony understands and he carefully slides into the hospital bed beside Peter who immediately curls up against his side, fingers curling into his shirt.

“I love you, kid,” he whispers. “I just hope you know that.”

“Mm. I do. I love you too.”

There’s still a lot more they have to talk about. They need to talk about Beck, about the Snap, about May and Happy and the baby on the way. They need to talk about Peter’s sense of Unbelonging. They need to talk about Peter’s anxiety and his insecurities. They need to talk about what happened over the weekend. They need to talk about their fight and about what Peter went through.

There’s a lot to say, but for now?

For now, it’s enough to hold each other close and just be grateful to have each other.

Yiga arts were more elegant than most people knew. Even without a master to serve they were dangerous, and motivated beyond reason. She wasn’t stupid enough to attempt to talk them out of it.

She whispered, “What are you doing to him?”

“Combing his memories,” the captor at her shoulder murmured, his voice shrouded by his mask. “Sifting through time. Looking for answers.”

The Yiga torturing him coiled his hand gently, little more than a turn of his fingertips, and Link lurched, more tears spilling out of his eyes with a breathless gasp.

Her face twisted into a bitter frown. “You’re tearing his mind apart.”

He tilted his head, conceding, and she wrenched free of his grip. She went to her knees, trying to reach him, whispering his name desperately. But he didn’t answer. He didn’t seem to know she was there at all.

“He can’t hear you,” the Yiga at his back murmured, sounding distant himself. “He sees what I tell him to see. He hears what I tell him to hear. He lives in the past, in the pieces of it that I force him to show me.”

“Link,” she said again, cupping his face with her bound hands, and he hissed softly, overstimulated.

She rocked back on her ankles, at a loss. His whole body shook with every breath, every gasp, the cell filling with the shuddering sound of his panting. More tears rolled down his face, leaving fresh, gaunt stains, and the fingers behind his head spread again, silently urging out more.

“What is he seeing?” she whispered, reaching again to brush at his jaw, and dispairing when her touch made his body lurch again.

“The Wilds. Loneliness. A soldier with no commander, no army. A woman with a smile like the sun.”

“Make it stop,” she begged, tears leaking out of the corners of her eyes. “Let me talk to him.”

“As you wish.”

He withdrew his hand with a flourish, and Link finally made a sound, a broken cry falling out of him as the mindprobe withdrew, and pressed his fists into his forehead. She waited, breathless, while he came out of it. And then his hands lowered, and he saw her, and his eyes went wide.

“Zelda.” She nodded once, not quite able to speak, and he reached out with a trembling hand to touch her mouth. “This isn’t real.”

“I’m real,” she promised, lips quivering. “I’m here.”

But his expression turned to flint.

“No,” he growled, gnashing his teeth, and grabbed her by the shoulders—and as he did, sobbed, feeling the reality of her between his hands, and more tears burned hot, pale trails down his face. “You can’t be here. You can’t be real. Because you would never be that—that stupid—”

His face crumpled and he bowed his head, holding her shoulders like a lifeline.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered brokenly, watching him fall to pieces and knowing there was nothing she could do to comfort him. “I’m so sorry, Link.”

Then the Yiga stroked the back of his jaw, running lithe fingertips up behind his ear, and Link reflexively lurched away, catching a cry in his throat, and pinched his eyes shut. His hand ran along the side of his skull, threading in his hair and pulling his head back to rest against his thigh, stroking him gently as though he were soothing an animal.

“Don’t touch her mind,” Link whispered, desperate, shattered, his eyes never leaving hers. “Please. Just leave her alone.”

“We can arrange that,” the Yiga promised softly, encouragingly. “If you cooperate.”

His closed his eyes, loosing a shuddering, defeated sigh, and leaned further into his leg.

“There,” he soothed. “That’s not so bad, is it?”

His captor lifted his hand from his hair and spread his fingers, and Zelda watched helplessly as Link dragged an awful breath, his eyes blowing out and turning vacant, and the Yiga slowly, deftly, tore his mind open.

---