Please note this story contains references to torture, unhealthy obsession, self-worth issues, and graphic content which may be triggering or upsetting. Please know your boundaries. This story is also posted on my primary ao3 account under the username C_amara_deriee.

"You're done, Peter."

Peter pants as he rises shakily to his feet. Natasha has introduced his backside to the floor for the fifth time in as many minutes. He pulls his shirt a little away from his chest to cool some of the sweat forming there.

"No, no. I'm good. Let's go again."

Natasha raises an eyebrow from her place at the edge of the communal gym's sparring mats. Peter's barely landed a punch, but his bruises span his entire back and down his arms. A particularly colorful one on his chest throbs in rhythm with his heart, but he'd begged Natasha to spar with him today and he'll be darned if he gives up after just a few hours.

"Let's—" Peter's voice cracks. He takes a deep breath and tilts his head to stretch, choosing to overlook the horrid popping sounds as kinks roll out. "I'm fine. Let's go again."

There's no way he's going to go back into his bedroom. No way he's going to just sit there and twiddle his thumbs when he could be protecting innocent civilians. Even if that only means touching up his Spidey-skills.

Natasha shoots him a look that would send any self-preserving superhero fleeing. Somehow, she looks scarier standing off to the side of blue mats, decked in black workout sweats, than she ever does on the battlefield. Peter has a firm belief that the more skin she shows, the more likely someone is to die. Clint has assured him this is a good policy to have.

But Peter isn't one to shy away from a challenge. He's a brave, confident vigilante; he strikes fear into the hearts of all his enemies! (Peter purposely ignores the little voice in his head telling him he doesn't even reach the hearts of his enemies. He is fully aware of how short he is. Doesn't mean he can't dream). But he can still face off against bad guys without the slightest waver in his voice, and he'll demand Natasha keep sparring with him.

"Natasha, please."

Okay. So maybe 'demand' is too strong a word.

Natasha deadpans, and Peter prepares himself for a tongue lashing. Before Natasha can get a word out, though, Steve pipes up from where he's been standing against the wall and watching Peter get his butt handed to him.

"Peter," he reprimands softly but firmly in that way only Captain America is ever able to. "Stop it, son. You've trained enough for today."

But Peter hasn't. He can go further.

Peter composes his features, smacks a loopy grin on his face, and turns back to the most dangerous assassin he knows.

"Tasha. Taaaashaaa." His smile falters when she doesn't so much as blink. "Come ooon. I'm fine! Look at me!" He flings his arms out in what he hopes presents as a carefree move. He can't quite hide the wince when his jolted left shoulder twinges at the action.

Steve's eyebrow matches Natasha's.

Peter hunches his shoulders slowly. Fine. If they aren't going to listen to what he says, he'll just show them.

He spreads his stance and lunges at Natasha. Only to find himself face down on the mat with said woman perched atop him, her knee digging painfully into the middle of his back.

"Peter, котенок, stop fighting." Her not-quite-bruising grip just above his spine isn't enough to stop his desperate wriggling. With little effort, she flips Peter over so his back is pressed into the floor and he has an unobstructed view of her serious expression. "Stop. The fight is over."

No. Peter can't let it be over. He needs this. He needs to be fighting. He deserves this. Each hit is a reminder of a civilian he couldn't save, each ache afterwards representing the times he's too slow. The bruises are punishment for all his mistakes—he's never going to fix himself without the reminder, he knows this, it's been drilling into him: suffer to improve.

If he stops fighting, Steve and Natasha will force him to go rest. And if he rests, he will stare at the ceiling and see them—countless faces, faces he's responsible for, faces he's failed. They cycle through on repeat on the ceiling every night as a reminder.

But he's losing strength. His struggles become more haphazard and desperation makes him sloppy. His breathing is too fast, near-hyperventilation, but Natasha's arms don't waver. He can't so much as wiggle, and he kicks and claws, but he can't get away and she isn't letting him go. He can feel his chest constrict as he continues to fight, as he fights Natasha, his friend, with an animalistic desperation.

Natasha remains steadfast above him, and the weak hits his flailing limbs land do nothing toward the way of moving her. He strains his neck away and flings his arms down instead, digging his fingers into the mat trying to drag himself away. He cries out when Natasha readjusts so that her knees trap his arms at his sides.

Eventually he wanes, his shaking subsiding with quiet, haphazard noises. Small sobs break through clenched lips.

He notices an unfamiliar weight on his legs and sees Steve holding his legs. Natasha had moved higher sometime during his episode to force her weight through hands she's placed at his collarbone. Had they not been there, Peter had a feeling his slamming against the floor would have done a lot more damage than just the bruises he can feel coloring his shoulder blades.

Natasha's mouth is moving, and Peter thinks there are probably supposed to be words, but he can't hear a thing past the ringing in his ears.

Why won't they let him go? Why won't they let him spar? Do they not think him capable? He needs these sparring sessions, to train, get better, and if he's thrown around in the process, then great! He can always use the reminder.

He rarely gets hurt fighting in the streets; he needs this.

Why do his lungs hurt so badly?

Peter watches Natasha's head whip around frantically to Steve, and Peter can almost just barely make out the echoing syllables of her voice before Natasha whips back around. It takes Peter a second after it lands for the sharp sting to set in for him to realize he's been slapped.

Peter sucks a stuttering breath in surprise, and the pain in his lungs subsides some. Oh, Breathing. She'd been telling Steve he wasn't breathing.

Natasha blinks at him slowly before climbing off. Never straying her gaze from Peter's, she takes a step towards Steve and touches his shoulder, silently telling him he can release the vice grip he has on Peter's legs.

Steve detangles himself careful, cautious, and ready to re-restrain if need be. Peter rolls away as soon as Steve's fingers leave his skin and positions himself in a crouch on the other side of the mats.

He gulps down frantic breaths and squints at the two of them with watery eyes. For many awkward seconds, the only sound in the gym is Peter's ragged breathing.

He winces when his vision is no longer eclipsed by spots of black and he can fully see the other two. He can see now how coiled they are. He can see the tension in Natasha's body in her fingers which twitch occasionally and the worry in the hunch of Steve's shoulders—not nearly as painful as the pity radiating from him.

Worse of all, he can see the red marks splattered across Steve's arms and the bruises forming on Natasha's chin.

Figures he'd only been able to hit Natasha when he isn't trying.

"Ha—" Peter chokes out a sound close to a laugh. "Finally hit you, Tash!" He twists the corners of his mouth, trying to lighten the mood, but he's pretty sure it comes out a grimace.

Natasha and Steve stay exactly where they are.

For some reason, his self-depreciating joke doesn't ease tensions in the slightest. Which sucks, because that's pretty much Peter's only move. But he's just attacked two Avengers. He's attacked his teammates. Jokes aren't going to fix this.

He watches Steve raise a hand towards him, fingers splayed, and Steve's mouth opens—to reassure or reprimand, Peter doesn't know. He stumbles back a step.

Steve freezes, seemingly reconsidering what he was going to say.

"Peter, you don't need to—"

"I need this, Steve," Peter interrupts abruptly. His voice rings hollower than he'd like, but he's not sure he knows how to fix that. "Steve, I need this. I'm out there all the time and I'm never-" Peter raises shaking hands and buries them in his hair. "I'm never good enough!

"People get hurt out there all the time. On my watch!" he continues, panic rising in his throat again. "Sometimes I'm too slow, sometimes I'm too cocky and I miss something important, sometimes I just don't, I don't know what I do wrong! But I can do better!" He mentally pleads for Steve to understand.

It's Natasha, though, who finds her words first.

"Peter, you have nothing to prove to us."

Steve nods. "Nothing," he affirms. "We know how capable you are already." Steve looks more determined this time when he steps towards Peter. "We know how many people you've saved. How many people you save every day."

But Peter's shaking his head, and his limp, sweaty hair flicks into his eyes as he staggers back another step away from an advancing Steve. "You guys don't see it all." He bites his lip, contemplating if he should even tell them about his screw-ups. If they don't already know. But no, they're Avengers for gosh sake; they know.

"We see enough, Peter," Natasha soothes.

"I punch the bad guys too hard sometimes," Peter blurts, ashamed, and all he can think is don't make him say all his faults out loud.

Steve tilts his head and frowns. "So do I, sometimes. Does that make me a bad person?"

Peter chews the inside of his cheek. He sees Steve's point, but he's unwilling to concede to it. Steve does so, so very much good, it must equal out for someone like him. It has to. Steve does enough good it will always equal out. But Peter…he only does little things. He stops petty crime; he doesn't save the world. The tri-state area, maybe. The city, even, but never the world. Mistakes matter so much more when the good you do is so inconsequential and forgettable.

Steve reaches out and Peter jolts when a warm hand clasps his shoulder. "Look, you can't place all this pressure on yourself," Steve admonishments. "You're trying your best, and you're in here with us all the time trying to improve."

Natasha glides over to his other side and places her much more delicate, but no less firm, hand on Peter's other shoulder.

"You're a good person, Peter. No one expects you to be perfect." Peter lets his eyes close for just a second and lets himself revel in the feeling of a touch that's not laden with the intent to hurt. It feels so safe. It makes him feel worthy of their concern if only for the moment…

No.

Peter steps out from under Steve and Natasha's generous—too generous, too reassuring—hands. That's exactly the problem! He doesn't deserve this! He hasn't done anything to deserve their compassion. They aren't seeing him clearly, and they don't understand, but Peter doesn't have it in him to tell them why they're wrong.

"I, umm," Peter stutters eloquently as he walks backwards towards the gym doors. "I'm going to go shower." Peter can't care less about sparring anymore. Escape is the only thing on his mind.

He accidentally smashes into the frame of the exit door, hitting his back hard enough that he wobbles and half rotates. Now facing away from the two avengers still standing by the edge of the mat, he pauses to catch his bearings.

He hears Cap sigh loudly. "Okay," Steve grants. The disappointment is almost tangible, and Peter wonders how Steve doesn't choke on it like Peter seems to. "Okay. Go shower."

Thank you. Oh, thank you god heaven above and hell, thank you.

Cap continues, "We'll meet you in the kitchen in an hour." His tone of voice, although gentle, leaves no room for argument.

Peter can't quite keep in the low whine from the back of his throat, but he nods jerkily, pushes open the doors, and bolts down the hall towards the elevator.

Peter is shivering slightly from a cold shower (the tower never runs out of hot water, not with an ARC reactor as its power source, but Peter feels guilty using energy unnecessarily and always turns the water cold after 5 minutes) when he creeps into the living room exactly 59 minutes later.

Steve and Natasha are waiting for him in the middle of the room with matching totem expressions. Peter's relieved to note he can't spot a single mark left on Steve's arms, but he can't help the grimace at the position they're in. Steve and Natasha are reminiscent of toy soldiers, standing there spread-legged and arms crossed. Positioned for war.

An elephant could come through right now and they wouldn't so much as blink an eye.

"So," Peter drawls, "what's up guys?" His attempt at conversation is met with stagnant silence.

Alright, new plan. Casual conversation isn't working—onto distraction.

"…nice weather we're having, huh?" Steve and Natasha glace to the left, towards the floor to ceiling windows, where the snow and hail pelts the glass relentlessly, then back at Peter. Peter gives them a straight, closed-lipped smile.

Finally, Steve sighs. "Look, Peter, we have to talk about what happened in there."

"No, we don't. Steve, we definitely do not, no." He lifts his hands protectively in front of him and cocks his head.

Natasha rolls her eyes to the ceiling like she'll find the strength to deal with the both of them there. Peter winces when the action puts her bruised chin on unobstructed display. She must catch him looking because her glower comes at him from steeper than usual when she looks back at him, effect puts an extra oomph in her words. "Peter," she snaps. "We can't just let this go. Clearly you have a problem."

Peter bobbles his head back and forth. "Nah," he says, nonchalant.

"You can't just ask us to spar with you to punish yourself!" Steve blurts. His words are rushed, like he was originally going to say something else but reached the cusp of his patience. Steve halfway throws his arms in the air in exasperation before he catches himself, instead pinching the bridge of his nose and remaining silent for Peter to explain.

Peter tucks his head and digs his teeth into his cheek. Okay, it sounds bad when Steve phrases it like that. But it wasn't his intention to…to use them or anything. "I know, I just—"

"What?"

Peter's whole body stiffens as he recognizes the voice behind him.

"What did you just say?" Tony repeats, darting around Peter to stand beside Natasha. "Did Steve just say you're using us to punish yourself?"

"That's not, umm, that's not exactly what he meant by—"

"Are you—" Tony enunciates each individual word "—using us to punish yourself."

Peter's eyes flicker around the living room, taking in the doorways and windows automatically. He's trained as Spider-Man for long enough now and been kidnapped enough that it's reflexive to look for an escape. It happens before he can tell his brain he's not really under attack.

Sadly, he finds nothing that will get him out of this conversation.

So, instead, he slowly lifts his gaze to the three Avengers staring down at him. He opens his mouth to stutter some kind of excuse, some kind of lie, but an ear-piercing alarm rings through the air instead.

The white florescent lights above them flicker to red, and shutters slam down over the windows in the room. A projection appears on the wall closest to them showing a live video feed of what Peter determines to be the roof of the Tower—a roof currently swarming with figures dropping out of helicopters.

"Sorry for the interruption, but it appears we have company, sir," JARVIS cuts in.

None of the occupants in the room utter a sound as the sirens blare, and dozens of figures clad in black force their way through a sliced hole in the roof on the screen. They could almost be mistaken as SWAT, if not for the HYDRA insignia plastered on the back of their uniforms.

"Thank you, JARVIS," Steve says out of habit.

Tony rubs a hand down his face and points to Peter. "This is not over," he threatens before turning on his heel. Peter can hear him call for JARVIS to assemble the newest version of the armor as he strides away.

Natasha doesn't waste any time on formalities, disappearing behind Tony in a flash of fiery red hair. Steve pauses longer, momentarily torn between gearing up and concern for Peter, but duty to the rest of the Avengers prevails. He shoots Peter a face Peter pretends not to understand and rushes out of the room in the direction of the armory.

The breath Peter lets out almost knocks him over. Somehow, he's avoided the conversation that will undoubtedly end with the revoking of Spider-Man's Avenger status. His eyelids flutter shut in relief only to fly back open when another shriek of the alarm assaults his sensitive ear drums.

Right, he needs to go suit up. The Tower is under attack.

Peter swings into Tony's workshop, Spider-Man suit presently adding a layer between him and the world, less than five minutes later and lands soundlessly beside Bruce. Web-slinging to the workshop may possibly have been overkill, but the windows are all sealed with metal shutters and time is of the essence.

He'll apologize to Tony for the leftover web fluid stuck to the ceiling later.

Peter's the last to arrive. The rest of the Avengers scattered around the workshop. Clint and Natasha are in full battle mode, facing the main door and perched on the balls of their feet, weapons gripped tightly in hand. Thor's in the middle of the room, very consciously not touching anything that looks like it could detonate after their discovery the god of electricity and modern technology don't mix well on his first visit to the workshop. To Peter's left, Bruce and Tony are typing away with uninterrupted focus on several blueprints and video feeds. Steve stands just behind them, searching the same screens with scrunched eyes, ready to catch anything the two scientists may miss.

Tony's workshop resides within the second subfloor of the Avengers Tower and with the many safety hazards it houses and the multiple explosions it faces on the daily, is the most secure place in the tower. It was established ages ago as the meeting place in the unlikely event the Tower was ever compromised. Like it is right now.

"JARVIS," Tony barks, right on key. "What's the update? Why do these goons think it's okay to touch my Tower?"

"The HYDRA agents," JARVIS emphasizes the title, ever willing to correct Tony, "appear to be en route to Room 9095."

Tony freezes. He stops typing, and his eyes are blown wide. "Room 9095. Are you sure, J?"

"Affirmative, sir. Their current trajectory shows them headed in a direct route to the sublevels of the Tower."

Tony chews his check and turns back to the screen he was working on before. Peter can hear him mumble curses under his breath.

Steve takes a step closer to Tony and touches his shoulder before asking, "JARVIS, what's in Room 9095?"

"That where you stash your childhood Cap memorabilia, Stark?" Clint pipes from the other side of the workshop. His tone is joking, but his gaze never strays from the entry door.

Tony ignores them both in favor of frantic typing. Peter has enough understanding of Stark programming from helping Bruce and Tony in the lab to understand the coding on screen is activating further security measures along the hallways under the Tower.

"Ah," Natasha replies to Steve when it becomes apparent Tony isn't going to answer. The sarcasm laced in her voice is at complete contrast with her tense vigil of the door. "Very little. It only holds the central access to JARVIS' mainframe, control to this entire Tower, and access to the full, unredacted files on each of us."

"But they won't reach it. There's no way. I have so many security systems in place, it's buried underneath the tower for fuck's sake!" Peter wishes Tony sounded even just slightly more confident.

JARVIS' next words are reluctant. "Aided by Doctor Otto Octavius—" the screen above Bruce's switches to a different live feed and zooms on the supervillain in question—"AKA: Doctor Octopus, I believe they have a reasonably good chance of reaching it."

Peter's chest, unnoticed by the rest of the Avengers, begins an arrhythmic hitching at the image onscreen.

Thor frowns and shifts on his feet. He's bored rather than concerned. "Have we faced this Octopus Doctor before? I do not recall engaging in battle with him. What reason does he hold to invade us?"

"Who doesn't hate us at this point?" Bruce retorts.

Oh, this is Peter's cue. Peter can finally chime in something helpful; he knows this one!

"Ah, uh," Peter chokes out. The sound is startlingly close to a cat heaving a hairball. He clears his throat. "Umm, that's probably my fault."

Natasha finally tears her focus away from the door, probing for answers, and Peter tries his best to push the flashes of Doctor Octavius' curious face looming over his own, devoid of any compassion as he brings the scalpel down against Peter's collarbone, out of his head. This isn't the time for memory lane.

"Doc Oc and I have a kind of Tom and Jerry thing going on…except, you know, more lab rat and evil mad scientist hellbent on dissec-experimenting," Peter corrects himself, and his hands are only slightly shaking when he throws them into a 'whatcha gonna do' shrug.

"That's right," Bruce realizes suddenly. "You fought him a year ago." Bruce hesitates. "You disappeared off the map for weeks after. Everybody had a theory about what happened."

Peter can see Clint's eyes flicker to him briefly before flashing away.

Peter bites his lip underneath the security of his mask. He'd hoped maybe they wouldn't know about his past with Doc Oc. Most people weren't paying attention to him back then. Another factor for why he managed to get himself caught that day, and why he stayed so long with Oc.

"Sir," JARVIS warns, "the intruders have reached level 30."

The same screen JARVIS used to previously show them footage transitions to reveal HYDRA agents using a laser to cut through the floor with soldier-like efficiency. It explains why they approached from the roof: the only way to reach another level of the Tower is vertically as the glass windows of each floor are reinforced four times over the typical strength and the ground floor entrance is more heavily armed than the White House.

The Avengers watch intently as the agents completely bypass their surroundings in favor of cutting through to the next level. Otto Octavius doesn't aid the effort at all, instead roaming through each floor and disabling any tech that could potentially pose danger.

There seems to be more than just disabling the security measures to his actions, though. Peter could swear Octavius was checking each room he passed for something—even if only peripherally. Relief floods through Peter that the working occupants of the Tower practice immediate evacuation every few months; the floors are devoid of any and all civilians.

"Is he…looking for something?" Clint speculates aloud. Peter's not the only one who's noticed, then.

"If he is, he'll never get the chance to find it," Steve insists. Thor grins and picks his abandoned hammer off the ground as Steve goes on. "We need to get up there before they pierce through to the subfloors."

Oh. Peter digs his fingers into a bruise left on his thigh from sparring. Steve's right, what is Peter doing here? He doesn't know enough to help with Tower security systems, and he can't give strategic input like Thor, Clint, or Natasha or delegate like Cap. There is no reason for him to be standing around doing nothing while the Tower, the Avengers' home, is getting destroyed!

"I'm no good here," Peter reasons suddenly with Steve. "Send me. I can distract them, slow them down a little, while you guys come up with a plan." Peter's not sure if he's pleading with Steve to let him go fight or to tell him that's foolish with so many enemies up there. Peter's in no rush to come face to face with Octavius again, and his palms grow sweaty just with the thought. But the last thing he wants is to be useless.

Steve contemplates it with steepled fingers. "Okay," he decides, probably coming to the same conclusion as Peter—that Peter is as good as useless here. He turns and gives Peter's hunched form a quick once over before asking cautiously, "Do you think you're up to holding them off? We drilled you pretty hard." Peter sees Natasha turn to give him the same inspection.

Okay, ouch. Their lack of faith stings. Peter thought they'd all been training. Then again, Natasha and Steve left the training room with only a couple bruises to show, and Peter with a whole gallery.

Peter swallows his shame and nods in what he hopes reads through the mask as confidence.

"Alright," Steve relents. "Go. We'll be there to back you up as soon as—"

Peter's launched from the workshop before Steve can finish, streaking through the tower towards the fray despite the spider-sense rattling through his skull.