Doomed

Chapter Nine

Three hours into his nap, Peter snapped up in his seat.

"Peter?" Cap asked. "You alright?"

Bending down, Peter picked his mask up from the floor. "Yeah," he said. "Guess I'm just a little hyped."

Steve smiled. "If it weren't for how much time you've been spending in your lab, I'd be surprised you could sleep at all," he said. His eyes were distant as he looked into the back, at the Quinjet's empty seats. "I remember how Bucky and I used to be before missions. Sitting in the back of the plane, about to jump out and take on Hitler's forces. Bucky had so much energy before a battle I sometimes thought he would start sparking."

"Then he got that metal arm and you actually had to watch out for it," Peter said, smiling. Steve's expression darkened for a second. Peter had forgotten how much Steve blamed himself for Bucky being turned into the Winter Soldier. "Sorry, Cap," he said.

Steve flipped a few switches above his head. "Don't worry about it," he said.

Feeling a sudden need to stretch his limbs, Peter unbuckled his seat belt and walked into the back of the plane. He found his favorite seat, near the back, the one that had the window that always let him see Carol as she flew beside them. He bent down and looked out, the black expanse of the Atlantic spread out beneath them. "Cap," he said, "I know what I'm doing here. But why did you want to come?"

Steve waved for Peter to come back up to the cockpit. "Well, for one thing," he said as Peter sat back down in the right seat, "You needed somebody who could fly the damn plane."

Peter laughed. Captain America just cracked a joke? Oh, God, they were about to die. "I'm pretty sure Mephisto is experiencing his first snowfall right about now," he said. "But seriously, wouldn't Natasha or Clint have been a better choice? Again, not that I'm doubting your awesomeness, but we're both kind of dressed in bright red and blue, here."

Steve kept his eyes forward, both of his hands on the yoke. "What Doom took," he said, "Is very personal to me. People trying to recreate me have caused some of the greatest tragedies this world has ever seen."

"Thanks," Peter said.

Steve turned his head and saw that Peter was smiling. "A lot of good, too, but far more damage," he said. "In Doom's hands, that formula could finally give him the army he needs to attack any country that offends him, including the United States."

Peter looked down at his feet. "So it's just a duty thing, then?" he asked. "Gotta protect the good ol' U.S. of A.?"

"Yes, it's about duty," Steve said. "Duty to my friends: to you, and to Carol. Duty to Abraham, who believed in me all those years ago, that I would treat the power he was giving me with respect, and use it responsibly. And duty to myself, to prevent that which made me the man I am from being corrupted and used by blooded hands for bloody ends."

Silence fell between them as Peter considered Steve's words. In comparison, Peter felt like he was there for all the wrong reasons. He was angry that Doom had stolen his research, furious that Doom's actions had put Carol's life in further jeopardy. He was there to try to get her only chance for a cure back, yes, but more than anything he was hoping for the chance to smash Doom's face into the ground. Spider-Man wasn't there to bring justice; he was there to bring punishment.

Peter looked down to make sure there wasn't a skull on his chest.

"So, when you said you knew what you were doing here, what did you mean?" Steve asked.

Peter didn't want to answer that question, not now. "Well, I just kind of figured out that my reasons for being here aren't quite as noble as yours, so…"