A/N: Sorry about that weird thing earlier. Not the first time it's happened but I still don't know why. Thanks for letting me know you guys! I hope I got everything. The following is the original author's notes:

Whats up my dudes. I'm back finally. I haven't read through the previous chapters so it might not be incredibly consistent. I just really wanted to get this out bc of some really kind reviews I got recently. Maybe one or two chapters left? We're nearly there.

I haven't written these guys in a while, and I definitely have different views of their characters, but I hope I got the characterisations right.

It's not my favourite work, but I hope you enjoy!

"Tony!" the relief in Bruce Banner's voice felt almost like a slight. Loki never bothered much to wonder if anyone cared about him in the same way. He tried not to, at least. "We were all so worried. When Steve made the call…"

He didn't have to think much to know what Stark would have said. Despite his claim of "science bros", Loki doubted very much that Stark viewed any of his peers as actual friends. He was a shapeshifter; a performer. He knew how to fit the act, that was the least of his worries, but he'd have to worry about the Captain's return from death later. No plan survived first contact with the enemy. "I managed to get my suit on when he went past the helicarrier and chased him off—I'll explain later," –his story didn't need to last long— "he escaped though. I don't know where he is now, but I've… I've got the spiderling."

Peter Parker. Loki side-eyed the kid he'd pulled from the streets. He'd barely even put up a fight when Loki went to knock him out. Was this really the kid he'd been hunting down for so long? Maybe killing his relative had been going a bit too far… Well, it made things easier for him, either way.

"You went after Spider-Man even when you were injured? Tony, you—" Banner stopped, sighed. It was the kind of sigh Odin used to cast at him and Thor when they were kids—not that he cared about that especially much. "Actually, yes, you'd do exactly that. Just… Just wait there. We'll get to you soon. Oh, and for Pete's sake, turn on your tracker!"

.o0|O|0o.

The sigh that erupted from Steve's parted lips felt like a chorus of relief. He hung up on agent Hill and got to his feet. Tony was waiting for them. He was fine, and he couldn't just leave him waiting.

Tony was okay. He was alright.

Although they never really got along well, and Tony had never really been the best at conveying his emotions or feelings, Steve was firm in the notion that they were at least some type of friends, especially after what had happened in the fight. The image of Tony's mangled arm flickered through his mind like a mirage, but Steve was no stranger to reality, and he knew the truth of things. He was not stupid, no matter Tony's notions (a painful lilting flame lit up a memory of Bucky like a torch to a cave-painting, but he blew past it).

Tony was okay. And that was what he wanted to think about right now. He was okay, and he was here at the tower, safe and sound. He was waiting to debrief at the missions' room. It was all… Okay. Steve hoped so, at least.

Still, his mind wandered further into the niggling doubt that had been munching away at his insides. They were strong, that much was true. But… Even after all they'd been through, the reality was that last time they'd faced Loki, they'd needed the whole team to defeat him. They might be strong, but… This much was true. He wasn't called a god for nothing. He was powerful. They couldn't beat him on their own—or at least, that had been what he thought, but Tony had done it. Somehow.

He'd been assured by agent Hill that it was him. He'd been assured by Bruce that it was him. After all, illusions were only visual, right? It was impossible to fake a voice and a personality. These people were professionals. Magic had to have its limits. Thor would be back soon. They could ask him then.

Turning the corner to the next door was slow going, or at least that's how it felt to Steve. Opening the door felt even worse.

Seeing the room stark empty was worse than even that.

.o0|O|0o.

Waking, to Peter, felt less like something he had to bring his body to do, and more like something someone had done for him. On the one hand, this could be a good thing. Waking up felt like torture, like he'd somehow strapped his body into a vice and it was squeezing him to a pulp, head pounding and limbs heavy.

On the other, not having control over when his body was being woken up—and being aware that it was not either his natural waking or someone shoving him to his feet—was unnatural. It made his skin crawl, like somehow the movement didn't belong in his body. Like a foreign power hijacking his inner clock.

After waking came the blinding headache of his Spidey-sense. His vision, a white cloud of lightning interrupted itself with the thunderclap of a footstep. Becoming almost hyper aware of each step made him more or less about as cognisant as a pile of ant droppings. Come to think of it, actually, what did a pile of ant droppings look like? (He'd never seen any).

Oh. Someone was talking. Probably the person who was attached to the foot. Or the foot which was attached to the person. Hm.

"—you're just a stepping stone in my plan, anyway. I just need the information."

Wait, he had information? What information? When?

"Do you know nothing? Of course you have information," Oh. Apparently he said that out loud."You must have some knowledge on this. What other reason would you have for appearing right in front of me? What other reason would you have for even existing in the first place?" Wow, this guy was really egocentric, huh?

A snarl of frustration ripped away and echoed into the room. Come to think of it, where was he? Were those pipes? "In my culture," through gritted teeth, "Spiders are said to weave tales of the future into their webs. You," he paused. Wow, the dramatics were strong in this one. "are a spider. Tell me what you know."

"Uh," he groaned when the sound bounced around in his brain. "I'm pretty sure I'm mostly human. No all-knowing, future-seeing powers here."

"Really? Are you sure about that?"

Peter gritted his teeth and gave a sharp nod, but found that was infinitely worse than actually talking.

"Nothing… To warn you? To tell you when something is about to happen? Maybe… Something dangerous?" Wait, wait, wait—was that prediction? That sounded an awful lot like his Spidey-sense. He didn't say anything. "No? Nothing? Well, maybe this will jog your memory."

Instantly, it was like someone had rattled loose a wild boar in his skull and it was charging around with no aim. In tandem, it cracked against the inside of his head with its tusks as the prickling burn of a cold ball of something-or-other span into his side, where the pain festered and grew like cockroaches.

"Do you remember now?" a rough kick clapped into his other side. Peter whimpered. "or do you need more reminders?" he shook his head as quickly as he could without rattling the boar free again. "Tell me, then! What do you know?"

The foot raised threateningly, but Peter was already talking, excuses tumbling from his mouth at rapid speed. "I mean, it only works on me, so—"

"So, it's inferior." Even though he wasn't looking, Peter got the impression that he was being sneered at. "As expected of a Midgardian, I suppose. Fine, then. This can be taken care of."

And just like that, the pressure Peter had only been vaguely aware of dissipated as if it had never been there. He finally felt as if he could lift his head and look around. It was as if this guy had the aura of a god. Weird.

Now that he was gone, though… Where was he, exactly? It was nice to be out of that orphanage place (everything was a little less dreary, despite the situation), but what was with all of these pipes? Did this even fit the health and safety regulations? They were all tangled together like a maze.

When he reached out to touch one, his fingers immediately sprang back at the heat. No wonder this place was so warm— was this some kind of death-trap boiler room? Either way, there had to be a way out of here. Maybe a door? That dude must have gotten out somehow, but he got the feeling he wasn't the type to just take the door like a normal person. That's not hypocritical at all.

Was there another exit, then? He looked around, eyeing the ceiling where yet more pipes lined the cement entrenched to the next level. Or maybe he was deep enough under ground that there was no "next level"? Did buildings have boiler rooms anywhere other than under the ground?

Wait, there! In the corner, some sorry excuse for a vent or whatever. He doubted the guy from before could fit through there, but it was close by… Just really high up. That wasn't much of a problem, though.

Fist clenched around his side, which burned and crackled like he imagined molten metal would after being poured with cold water, he reached for the wall and limped sideways along it until he reached the vent. The slits made for good handholds and the metal gave way easily. The opening was smaller than he normally would have liked, but he could make it work. The breath of cold air that brushed his face and down his throat was worth it.

That dude had to be really arrogant not to at least tie him up or something. Seriously. Was he really that low on the danger list? It wasn't as if he'd been feeling great recently, but this new scenery was doing wonders for the fresh page in his head. He felt a bit like a new person.

Come to think of it, how was it that this dude knew who he was? It wasn't as if he was very well known in the grand scheme of things, so it wasn't really something many people wanted to find out about. Well, except for the police and probably a bunch of government agencies and some other people, whatever. He thought he'd done a pretty good job of obscuring his identity.

Fine. He'd just have to go with the assumption that this guy was smart enough to work it out, and had the resources to actually get a decent amount intelligence on him. Which was weird, now that he thought about it. If he was that smart and had that many resources (maybe he was a part of the government? But that didn't make much sense, either. Why would a government agent use a boiler room with this many risks as a holding cell?) why would he be hiding out in a dingy place like this? Most villains went for the classic warehouse.

He mulled it over as he trudged onward, keeping an eye out for any identifiable markings to tell him where he was. A thought occurred to him once he got to a vent after about two stories' worth climbing—did the occupants know that their building was being used as a jail for a kidnapped kid? A kidnapped superhero?

Probably not, was his thought. They probably did not, or they would be using a more secure room. He wasn't exactly the kind of teenager that could be held back by general means. In the least, they'd have tied him up, right? Like sensible kidnappers?

Besides all of that, what he saw through the vent… Well, they were either business people, a very rich or posh household, or a whole bunch of government officials. He was hoping that they were government officials, because the whole kidnapping thing was definitely illegal and they would hopefully not… Like, y'know, kidnap people. Do illegal stuff. Like criminals. Crookies.

Was it worth taking the leap to find out? Again, probably not. But the next vent he came across sort of changed that.

Through the filtered vision the slatted metal granted him, he could see—get this—Captain America. Hunched over. What was he even looking at? What was he doing here? Breaking in? Had he been kidnapped too, he just got a higher quality room? Really? Favouritism.

Still, somehow he couldn't picture Captain America getting kidnapped. Sounded a bit far-fetched, even for a bunch of government people and a dude with disappearing powers. And possibly some kind of fire power? What did he know. And didn't Captain America work with the government? So he probably hadn't been kidnapped. Maybe he was a kidnapper?

Either way, this guy was looking way down—like the kind of down you couldn't get out of by yourself. Was he okay? Did he need a shoulder? What did he even have to cry about, anyway?

Unbidden, a dull-coloured memory resurfaced from behind a wall that separated his brain into two pieces; before May, and after May.

A smile, not the biggest or the brightest, but probably the warmest. A comforting hand on his shoulder, lips moving as if speaking the words he only kind of remembered: "you can't spend the rest of your life thinking 'I should have done this'."

Call him a fool, but Peter hopped down into the room anyway.