Chapter Text
The turf grass flattened against Peter’s back was oddly refreshing. The thin blades pressing against exposed flesh were dotted with dewdrops that did wonders for his sweat-slick skin. Trees creaked somewhere beyond his ocular periphery, chill breeze stirring leafy branches and brushing bushy fronds. A galaxy of stars beamed down at him, clearer and brighter than he could ever hope to see in the photo polluted skies of the city.
The scene was near idyllic, if not for the singed—and still slightly aflame—ground, sporadic craters marring what was previously unblemished terrain, and heavily webbed-up weirdo completely clad in armor. Said weirdo, who had been unconscious for the past half hour, was situated far enough away to allow Peter some repose but close enough that any change in movement would quickly alert him. Whether Peter could put up much of a fight should the figure wake, was up for debate. His left leg was throbbing painfully and he could feel the telltale pressure of a cracked rib or two. For all intents and purposes, Spiderman was out of commission for the foreseeable future.
He needed to call Mr. Stark.
Problem was that Peter really, really didn’t want to. He shouldn’t have been out, May and Mr. Stark had set a strict curfew when he was finally ungrounded a few months back. Spider-Man was supposed to clock out by 10:30; and yet, the last time he checked the time it had read a little past two in the morning—it seemed Spider-Man was working overtime tonight.
Aunt May had been scheduled for an evening shift and wouldn’t be home until well after dawn. In a perfect world, Peter could lug his abnormally-attired haul to one of the more Spider-Man-friendly NYPD precincts and leave him somewhere easily found. Unfortunately this wasn’t a perfect world, and Peter was stranded in the middle of bumfuck nowhere with a suit that had stopped working nearly half an hour ago and a leg that wasn’t doing a very great job holding up his body weight. His apartment was at least six hours walking distance from his current position, and that wasn’t even accounting for the added toll of dragging 200 pounds of deadweight behind him (or the fact that his arsenal did not currently include two fully functioning legs).
The bell for his first class of the day would ring in less than six hours, and even if he could start walking right at that moment, he still wouldn’t be anywhere near close to making it on time.
He was in desperate need of some help—help which would be readily offered to him if he only asked for it. Mr. Stark would grumble and gripe to no end, but when it came down to it, Peter knew that he cared in his own shabbily-expressed way; knew that the man even felt a weird sense of misguided culpability towards him. But that knowledge inexplicably scared Peter.
Having someone to depend on, someone who understood Peter’s plights with a seasoned experience, was an irreplaceable commodity. And yet, asking for help and allowing himself to convey vulnerability had been an implausibility for too long. Just because he now had someone to offer help, didn’t mean he was ready to accept it with ease. Old habits died hard and the like. Unfortunately for him, the present situation didn’t have an abundance of space for old habits.
As such, Peter Parker found himself stuck between a Tony Stark-shaped rock and a hard place.
He sighed, deep and despondent, before digging his phone out of one of the pockets on his suit. It was looking a little worse for wear—it’d always been pretty scraped up, but now it looked as though the Hulk himself had sat on it—fortunately (and very surprisingly), it still turned on with a tap of his thumb. It would be much more convenient to have Karen make the call, but she had gone out of commission coincident with the rest of his suit’s tech.
A few taps of the screen later and Mr. Stark’s number was flashing across the screen (much too soon if you asked Peter). He felt bad calling so early in the morning, but he knew he would be in a lot more trouble if he remained a sitting duck much longer. Besides, the man was probably awake anyway. The line rang one, two, three times before connecting—just as it always did.
“Pete? What time is it? Jesus, it’s way past your bedtime. What’s up kid? You alright?”
“Hey Mr. Stark. Um, I- uh need a ride,” Peter audibly grimaced.
Mr. Stark paused, suspicion abruptly lancing throughout his tone, “a ride? Where are you? You better not be in the suit.”
“Well, I’m in what’s left of the suit.”
There was a tired sigh through the phone, “kid, you’re killing me. Alright I’ll come get you, where… Parker, are you in the middle of a golf course?”
“You know Mr. Stark, that is a really great question. I actually have no idea where I am at the moment.” Although now that he thought about it, it really did seem like he was lying in the middle of a golf course. The sprawling (and once smooth) turf surrounding him was reminiscent of one, and if he rolled his head to the side he could see a number of marked holes littered across the landscape.
“If F.R.I.D.A.Y. is to be believed—which let’s face it, she always is—your phone is currently sitting smack dab in the middle of the Pelham Bay course. Considering that’s what you’re calling me from, I’m going to take a gander and say that’s where you’ve managed to land yourself.” A humorless laugh sounded, “you’ve gotta be kidding me Pete, that’s 40 minutes away from here!”
“Well I’m sorry Mr. IronMan Sir, I don’t like asking for your help either. But unfortunately, I’m a bit stranded out here!” he bit in response.
The man scoffed, “is that sass I’m hearing?! I’m sorry, who’s asking who for help right now?”
Peter grumbled, “… I’m sorry. Will you please come and pick me up?”
“Better,” Mr. Stark sniffed. “I’ll be there in five minutes.”
Peter rolled his eyes, “oh also, I’ve got an, uh, additional carry-on.”
“I almost don’t want to know.”
Peter had learned from the best and ignored him with ease. “I’ve got some dude in kooky bug armor all webbed up.”
“Pretty sure you just described yourself,” Mr. Stark said.
“Yeah well this guy looks more like a moth than a spider, he’s got wings and everything.”
“Well kid, sounds like you’ve confirmed the existence of the mothman. Congratulations, your first success as a paranormal investigator.” If Peter didn’t know the man better he might’ve had a harder time picking up on his sarcasm.
“Mr. Stark, can you just come pick me up? I have an English test in a few hours.”
“Fine, I’ll see you and your new friend Killer Moth soon.” There was a quietly muttered “teenagers,” before the line went dead.
Peter let his arm flop back to the side, allowing his phone to fall from his hand carelessly; it’d probably need to be replaced anyway, the shattered screen and tiny glass shards were definitely a safety hazard. He didn’t mind, but Aunt May most certainly would. He was not looking forward to explaining this entire situation to her later.
He leaned his head back to stare up at the overhanging stars. He’d never spent much time looking at the night sky; Queens was too urbanized to allow for much natural clarity, and being a student and Spiderman was like working two full time jobs—he just didn’t have the time. But now, lying down in the middle of an expansive swathe of green, in one of the only exurban spaces in the state of New York, Peter finally saw just how beautiful the starry sky could be. He quickly found himself lost in it—completely and utterly immersed; any lingering fear and apprehension easily spilling from his mind like droplets from a duck’s plume.
Unfortunately he could only disassociate emptily into the sky for so long before the telltale whir of repulsors sounded from above. Iron Man himself soon swam into view, dropping down gracefully a foot or two away from Peter’s prone form. The man was tailed by two additional suits, these ones lacking the signature red and gold sheen and most likely operating through an automated system.
His faceplate flicked up, and Peter saw him take in the surrounding scene with comically raised brows. “It is truly incredible that this is not the most compromising situation I’ve found you in.” He bent down over Peter to peer at his disarrayed state, despondent resignation clear on his face. One of his accompanying suits began to douse the smoldering grass with a raised gauntlet while the other marched up to the still-restrained mothman. Mr. Stark frowned, “you okay kid? What on Earth happened?”
Peter kept his eyes on the darkened sky as he sighed. “I didn’t mean to get caught up out here, and I wasn’t trying to stay out this late. I was on my way back when I found this guy,” he jerked a thumb towards said guy, who was currently being poked and prodded by one of the Iron Man suits, “messing around in some Oscorp R&D labs. I interrupted him and it must’ve pissed him off because he tried to literally blast me out of the sky. It was crazy Mr. Stark, the dude’s got some seriously souped-up tech.”
The frown playing on Mr. Stark's lips pulled deeper in response, and he glanced at the circumambient space. “I’m guessing he’s to thank for the impromptu relandscaping?”
Peter blushed, “yeah well, I was trying to get him away from the city—stop him from blowing up the entirety of New York y’know?—when he somehow managed to drag me all the way out here. I think he wanted to ground me; which, in retrospect, actually worked out pretty well for him,” he said, dejectedly gesturing to the ruined tatters of his suit and the ravaged terrain. “I was only able to get the jump on him with my taser-webs, and after everything he threw at me, using those was the straw that broke the camel’s back. My suit’s tech sort of just threw in the towel.”
“We’ll have to work on beefing up your Spider-suit the next time we’re in the lab. Other than that, I’d say you were mildly successful in the property damage department. You managed to isolate the fight and reduce the field of destruction; superficial damage like this is a much easier fix than big city structural damage. Although next time, for both our sakes, please try and minimize any damage done to our friendly neighborhood Spiderling.” Mr. Stark gingerly hovered an open palm over Peter’s form. “How’re we lookin? Any broken bones? Third-degree burns? FRI scan him,” he said, eyes trained on the holographic scan projecting from his raised hand.
“I don’t even know why you ask me at this point,” Peter muttered with a roll of his eyes.
Mr. Stark smirked smugly down at him, “just keeping you honest.” There was a soft concern veiled beneath his countenance that Peter couldn’t help but notice.
F.R.I.D.A.Y. cut in with a no-nonsense cadence, “Mr. Parker has sustained a comminuted fracture on his left tibia, as well as several cracked ribs. He has numerous first and second degree burns on his abdomen and lower back, and his left ankle is moderately sprained.” And much to Peter’s chagrin, she continued. “Would you like me to also itemize and identify any of his superficial injuries—including 31 skin abrasions, 19 cuts, and 14 bruises?”
Mr. Stark let out a long and very, very resigned sigh. “That’s alright FRI, we’ll take a look at those later.”
Okay, damage control time: “hey no concussion this time! That’s progress right?”
“Yeah now I’m even more concerned. Just for that—I’m checking again. Let’s see those pupils, Spider-Boy!”
Peter swatted Mr. Stark’s hand away from his face with an annoyed groan. “Mr. Stark I know what a concussion feels like, I’m fine.”
“That’s a lot more perturbing than I think you think it is. I’m officially naming you the new Number One reason I don’t want kids,” he said in a deadpan; Peter was pretty positive the man was still subtly scanning his head for signs of concussion.
Before Peter had a chance to retort, F.R.I.D.A.Y. once again interjected. “Sir, due to Mr. Parker’s accelerated healing factor, I recommend his leg receive immediate medical attention to prevent any future misalignments or malunion fractures.”
“Good thinking hun. Can you ensure my personal wing of the medbay is stocked with supplies for a super-enhanced teenage spider? Oh and alert one of Spider-Man’s regular nurses, have her prep everything for the kid’s trauma surgeon.” The thought that Peter had his own assigned surgeon for traumatic injuries probably should’ve concerned him more than it did. Mr. Stark nonchalantly sniffed, an action starkly juxtaposed by the stiff set of his shoulders, “… maybe also shoot a quick text to May Parker. Lord knows what the woman will do to me if I wait.”
“Sure thing Boss, everything will be prepared upon your arrival. I’ll also send out a carefully-worded text to Ms. Parker.”
Mr. Stark turned his attention to Peter with a carefully-concealed apprehension. “Okay kid, this is going to be incredibly painful for a minute, but I need to pick you up.” Peter knew what the next couple of seconds would bring and preemptively grit his teeth. To his credit, he only allowed a muted whine to escape his clenched teeth when Mr. Stark lifted him into his arms bridal-style. After the initial flair of white-hot pain quickly faded, he was left with a dull ache that radiated from his bones. Peter had become intimately familiar with this brand of pain—the gnawing, broken kind—ever since that portentous spider had bitten him. It was almost a constant in his life, forever nursing torn muscles and rapidly-healing injuries. Even now he felt the maddening prickle associated with his healing factor; the incessant itch of torn skin stitching itself back together and broken bones mending regardless of their position.
The panic pervading Mr. Stark’s expression was so uncharacteristic that it was almost unnerving. “I’m sorry Pete, I promise we’ll get you the good stuff once we get to the medbay,” he said.
Peter grimaced, “don’t worry. I think my pride’s more wounded than anything else.”
In lieu of a response, the man frowned down at him before turning to the two vacant suits that Peter had, frankly, forgotten the presence of. They were standing a couple yards away, holding Peter’s catch up between them—mechanical fingers tightly gripping ironclad upper arms. The figure dangling in the middle was slumped over, head hanging toward his chest; he seemed comatose, but his heartbeat was quick and hinted at consciousness. That was slightly worrying, and yet Peter didn’t find himself panicking. He wasn’t alone anymore; if anything happened, Mr. Stark was there to take care of it.
That was more reassuring than it had any right to be.
Mr. Stark nimbly made his way towards the suits, avoiding any harsh or jostling movements and keeping Peter steady in his arms. They stopped a few feet away where Mr. Stark looked to Peter questioningly: is he awake? Peter gave a careful nod.
“So, Oscorp huh? Were you looking for something in particular or just perusing the wares? Not sure if you were aware, but they’re one of our biggest competitors. I just can’t help but wonder, what exactly does old Norman have that I don’t?” Mr. Stark asked haughtily, voice deliberately projecting towards their now-awake companion.
There was nothing but a slight quirk of the head in response.
Mr. Stark hummed, “okay, silent treatment. Bit childish, although I’m hardly one to talk. But seriously? No evil, world-domination master plans you wanna share with the class, mothman?”
That question surprisingly garnered a reaction; an armored head aggressively snapped up while a heavily-armored body thrashed in its restraints. “I am not a moth you morons—I am the Beetle!”
At that, Peter unwittingly snorted a laugh (which swiftly morphed into a pained groan).
Mr. Stark seemed to be in a similar boat as Peter and snickered, “totally had me fooled. So beetle-brain, what’s your deal with Osborn Industries? You hosting a secret invertebrates fan club over there or something?”
The Beetle said nothing in reply, but Peter could practically feel the glare he was shooting Mr. Stark.
The man himself didn’t seem to be feeling the same glaringly obvious vibe Peter was—or, frankly, didn’t care—because he blabbered on. “Fine, keep your little creepy-crawly secrets; no skin off my back. You know, I hear they sometimes have libraries in prison? Maybe you can find yourself a cute little insect encyclopedia to occupy your time there.” He smiled obnoxiously before nodding to the two unmanned Iron Man suits, “take him away FRI.”
They immediately jetted up into the sky, quickly vanishing among the twinkling stars. Mr. Stark grinned down at Peter with a much more genuine smile. “Ready to get out of here Pete?”