Chapter Text
When Flash trips him just as he’s turning the corner, at the perfect angle to slam face-first into the dented side of the boy’s room gym lockers, Peter’s first thought is: Well, at least it’s a Friday.
With Academic Decathlon sophomore tryouts opening next week, the stakes for an Honors division placement has never felt higher. MJ has basically already claimed first seat, even before tryout results.
She’s arguably the cleverest on the team and not afraid to bite (metaphorically and physically, Peter’s pretty sure), so no one’s quite brave enough to challenge her for it. Plus, something about being Team Captain made it just… the natural expectation.
It used to be Liz at the head, in Freshman year, with MJ and Peter in close ties for the last of the three Honors seats. But ever since Coney Island and Liz’s move away from Midtown, there’s been an opening in the division.
Midtownies are competitive by nature, and AcaDec students are among the worst. Abe and Ned have been reprimanded more than once for some “unsportsman-like” debate practices while studying for tryouts. Betty has more or less moved into the student library, and refuses to share notes with Cindy (who’s taken to basically stealing her flashcards during lab). The others can smell blood in the water, and have been angling since First Week.
But Flash seems to be taking an entirely different approach.
Let the others fight for the scraps of third-seat. He’s going for Peter’s.
It’s hard to say why this has evolved as the primary objective, but it’s certainly made him more enthusiastic in his little campaign of terror. Maybe it’s a jealousy thing, or for revenge. Maybe it’s just that Flash recognizes a weaker target in Peter, rather than the uphill fight for third the others have become embroiled in.
Maybe he’s just a petty asshole. Actually — yeah. Probably that.
It doesn’t particularly matter. The point is that Flash has always had it out for Peter since losing both semester slots – a full quarter of his high school career – to the Scholastic division, by a narrow margin named Parker. It’s made him a jerk and a loudmouth plenty of times over the past year, but at least he’d never really stepped over into the physical side of harassment.
Until now, apparently.
Peter tucks his chin just enough that instead of his nose cracking against the metal, it’s his forehead that slams against the locker’s thin sidewall, the full weight of his body jostling the whole set. His armful of gym clothes tumbles to the floor.
The muffled crash-and-clatter of loose items being knocked over inside echoes back as he catches himself awkwardly against the lockers.
There’s a few chuckles and a single “Jeez” from around the room, and a boy Peter vaguely recognizes as one of Flash’s friends gives an amused “RIP, Bozo” from somewhere near the shower stalls.
When he pulls himself back up, one hand braced on the chipped-paint concrete wall, he can see the Peter-Parker-Was-Here-sized stamp of a dent that’s been added to the already beaten metal, and winces.
There’s an immediate throbbing pain that kicks up at the front of his skull, and something warm trickles between his brows. When Peter wipes at it, his sleeve comes back smeared with red.
“Damn, Parker. You good? Gotta be more careful where you’re walking.” Flash’s concerned tone is belied heavily by the crooked smirk tugging on his mouth. He hasn’t even bothered to pull back his heel yet.
Peter doesn’t reply right away as he stoops to grab his clothes, surreptitiously turning to check the rest of the mostly emptied locker room from the corner of his eye.
He doesn’t see Abe or Jason or anyone from Robotics – anyone who'd've probably helped that is. Even Ned had left just moments ago, promising to catch up after his APUSH period.
Just the distantly curious, even entertained, stares of straggling strangers. The shower-stall heckler – Peter thinks his name might be Liam – holds up his phone. The camera app goes off with an obnoxious click, and Peter looks down, feeling his face flush with embarrassment.
Damn. Flash was getting better at timing these.
It rankles Peter, not being allowed to just– cheat through this. Let the warning buzz in the base of his neck take over. But he wouldn’t have been able to avoid a move like that before the Bite-with-a-Capital-B, so he definitely shouldn’t now.
“You know, you could always just try to, like, earn an Honors seat fairly.”
Peter mumbles crossly, glaring at Flash’s foot.
“What’s your little klutzy misplay got to do with my seat?”
Flash’s grin widens when Peter raises his glare to his face. "Ohh, I get it. You’re insecure ‘cause you know you’re not making the Honors division this semester.”
He pauses, the smile sinking into something sharper.
“Especially once the Freshman Academic scholarship runs out. That’s what, this year, no? Hey, do you think they’d let you stay on as janitor to pay tuition, or will Mommy and Daddy have to pick up your slack? Oh, wait—”
Peter feels his heart thump-thump in his chest, and he just knows his ears are burning red as he ducks his head and stomps for his own locker to shove his clothes in and collect his backpack. He hates that Flash would even mention the admission-year scholarship, hates even more how right he is. May has enough to deal with, keeping both of them and an apartment in New York-fucking-City afloat. He still has to fill out the Student Work Certificate paperwork this weekend.
At least it’s Friday. He repeats to himself. He has to do so twice before he can swallow the burning coal in his throat.
The chuckles echo once more when he hears Flash snigger behind him.
“Nice tantrum, Penis. Very intimidating – like a tiny, yappy yorkie.”
Peter slams his locker door closed with a little more force than he intended, feels the steel lock crimp just a touch under his fingers. His shoulders inch closer to his ears.
“Shut up, Flash.” He means to growl it, but to his utter embarrassment it comes out more petulance than menace, and Flash breaks into a cackle behind him.
He doesn’t even know why he bothers; he’s never been able to put steel in his voice before.
Never been able to imitate that same threatening rumble as Tony or sharp fury as May. His voice still squeaks even in Interrogation Mode under the Spider-Man mask, for god's sake.
Why would he think that could ever work on Flash now?
“So huffy! Hey, give us bark, huh, Parker? Woof! Woof!”
The snorting chorus of the boys’ laughter rings through his head in time with the pulsing headache long after Peter has hurried from the locker-room.
He tells himself it was a tactical retreat, not fleeing with his tail tucked, but he’s always been a pretty shit liar.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
At least it’s Friday.
Which means instead of a boring trudge through the subway slog home to their little two-bedroom apartment in Queens when school finally lets out with a shrill bell, there’s a sleek, grey-as-a-shark Rolls Royce Phantom idling just outside the typical pickup queue.
The ringing headache radiating from the center of his forehead has graduated to the first ripples of a vice around his skull since last period, and Peter knows it will probably be a full-blown migraine before the day is done.
He’s trying to think of ways he can wriggle out of lab time (the problem is that he doesn’t want to wriggle out of lab time) so he can nurse it in his room when the dark-tint passenger window scrolls down like a whisper. It’s just enough of a gap to see Happy’s perpetual frown, then his eyes, squinting through the narrow slice of outside at Peter’s face. The car doors unlock with a soft clunk, and Peter slips into the backseat instead of shotgun like he normally would.
This little maneuver buys him a solid five seconds before Happy twists around in the driver’s seat and points at the raw scrape just above his brow.
“The hell happened there?”
“Nothing— it’s— I just fell. It’s nothing.”
“Lotta ‘nothing’ for a massive bull’s eye, kid.”
“Because it is nothing. I slipped and whacked a locker, alright? Can you just— can we just go now?”
Oh yeah. This migraine’s gonna be a whopper.
Happy scrutinizes his face for a moment, and Peter focuses intently on the loose thread winding from his hoodie sleeve. The red ears are gonna make an appearance again if Happy doesn’t stop staring at him.
“Okay, sure.” Happy says, in the tone that says I don’t believe you. It’s his favorite one to use whenever Peter tries to play off the rare patrol stabbing or gunshot wound.
But he doesn’t push further and the rest of the ride to the Tower goes in blissful silence.
Peter tries to take advantage, leaning against the cool glass of the window, in the hopes it may quell some of the pain thumping through his head, but it doesn’t. At least by the last intersection, the knitted scrape has faded to a faint red mark. The skin is smooth when he runs his knuckles over where a lingering scab would have been.
When they finally pull into the Subfloor 5 garage space, Peter feels the deep ache of the migraine, like an iron spike in his neck, begin to shiver down his spine. He half-trips out the car door, ignoring Happy’s look as he shoulders his backpack and plods towards the elevator at the back of the private parking level.
The heavy metal doors slide open for him, and without a single instruction FRIDAY sets the carriage to climb.
Normally the elevator doors, and the sound of the electromagnetic tracks as the carriage rose, would be near dead-silent, even for Peter.
But even the gentle glow of the dials as the levels floated past feels piercing; the faint hum of the electricity in the crystal display panel like mosquitoes in his ear. Nausea clamps around his throat, and Peter leans more heavily in the guardrail, scrunching his eyes against the glimpses of the floors flashing through the narrow seam of the doors.
He has to all but blindly feel his way when he stumbles onto the seventy-ninth floor, stopping only when his palm jarred against the ballistic-glass wall of the robotics lab.
AC/DC’s Can't Stand Still is thumping faintly under his fingertips, and he can just make out Tony’s silhouette through the frosted glass. The vibrations shift into Hells Bells, then get broken up by the heavy clanging of a hammer.
For a long moment Peter just stands there, hand braced against the glass, and considers turning around.
Tony wouldn’t notice; probably wouldn’t until FRIDAY reminded him to take a snack break and he realized it was well-past Peter’s usual 4:30 arrival. Happy would be off doing whatever Happys do after dropping Peters off, but he could still take the subway.
He should probably text Tony though. So he doesn’t worry. Peter leans his forehead against the wall, the cold glass a balm against his warm skin. The heavy pain in his skull pulses with the rhythmic strikes of whatever tool Tony is using now.
He should definitely turn around, get back in the elevator. Like, now. He puffs a few more foggy breaths against the glass, giving himself a second to pull himself together.
Another second. Another minute.
He shivers under the agony clinging to his head, his spine. Shivers again against a stray AC current.
“Y’know, you’re surprisingly good at the whole ‘spooky spectre in the window’ role. The one hand pressed against the glass? Very creepy, Takako Fuji – truly a worthy Oscar nomination.”
Peter tilts his head so he can lay his cheek against the glass, cracking open his eyes to squint at the now open door where Tony is leaning, shirt-sleeves rolled up and a pair of welding goggles haphazardly pushed up his brow.
“Sorry” Peter whispers, clears his throat, tries again a little louder, “Sorry, I just— I was gonna text you.”
Inside the lab, the excited beat of Thunderstruck has been lowered to nearly a hum, and with a gesture from Tony the music cuts entirely.
Peter’s infinitely thankful when Tony drops his voice to just under a whisper too.
“You didn’t have to come all the way here if you’re feeling bad, bud.”
“But s’Friday. It’s lab day.”
“Still.”
“Wasn’t this bad in the car.”
Tony hums noncommittally, reaches out to press his hand against Peter’s forehead.
It’s not as cold as the glass, but it’s definitely cooler than his own skin, and there’s something comforting about the familiar, calloused edges of his palm that Peter leans into even without realizing.
“Damn, kid.” Tony hisses a sound like a sizzling pan, pretending to shake out his hand. “You’re burning up.”
“‘S just a migraine.”
Tony laughs under his breath at that, reaching out to take Peter’s elbow and pulling him along.
“Oh yes, good ole Peter Tis-but-a-Scratch Parker.”
“Where are we going? ‘S lab day.”
“You are going to the penthouse so you can crash for a nap. I am going to Medbay to steal flu-treating supplies”
The elevator doors open with a quiet slide, and Peter gratefully leans back on the guardrail as the cab begins to rise. It takes a moment for Tony’s words to click.
“I don’t get flus ‘nymore, Mr. Stark.”
“Okay. To treat your cooties then.”
“I don’t think I can get cooties either.”
“That’s probably more to do with your nerdiness than your spider-ness.”
“Keep bein’ mean to me, and I’ll vomit all over your nice floor.”
“Alright, alright.” Peter feels more than hears Tony’s suppressed laugh as the man helps him through the doors into the dimly lit room.
And just as he’s crossing over the threshold, it’s like something in his head detonates.
Peter stumbles for the couch, tightens his hold on Tony in alarm.
His vision feels like it’s tunneling, the ripples of agony running along his spine trade for physical, full-bodied shivers. God, please, he suddenly wants nothing more than to just wrap up in the extra-large, extra-soft mink blanket he knows Ms. Potts keeps folded on the right seat and crash.
Peter realizes, as he sways a little too loosely for his liking, that Tony must’ve been trying to talk to him. He feels a familiar, callous-rough palm slide along his cheek, cup the back of his neck. The migraine has become an encompassing-static at some point between the journey to sitting down (falling down) on the couch, like his senses are so overloaded their circuit breakers finally cut out.
Someone hooks his shoulder and rolls him; helps him stretch out and settle on his side more comfortably. There’s a soft weight – oh, that must be the blanket – drawn over him, tucked around his neck. He feels his head, like he’s disconnected from it, lifted, a pillow sliding beneath his ear. Another weight settles on his brow, brushes the curls there back, resettles over his ear.
Another fullbody shiver wracks through his frame, and his sense of touch falters, blinking in and out.
The soft polyester fibers of the blanket.
Nothing.
The gentle dip of the cushions under his weight.
Nothing.
The faint brush of his own breath ricocheting off the back of the couch.
Nothing.
It feels like an eternity – it was probably only a couple minutes – before Peter whites out.
The last thing he feels is the soothing rasp of a calloused thumb running over his temple, again and again.
Then nothing.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Burning. Burning. God, he’s on fire. There’s flames licking up his legs, his arms—
He sees flashes of dreams, or maybe memories. He’s not sure. Did he have a picnic lunch with an honest-to-god magician, cool spell effects and all, or was that a story Tony told him—?
Heat stings his eyes, like sweat, but worse. It makes his eyes too dry for any tears.
Was his AcaDec team really on the ferry? The ferry that sank.
Because Spider-man was too little.
And Ironman was too late—
The fire gnaws his skin, clamps around his throat and shakes him like it’s a living animal, like he’s prey—
He can’t stop the plane; doesn’t have the strength to redirect it. He’s going to miss the beach. It’s going to—
The plane collides with the Tower, the screech of metal on metal deafening, and the last thing he sees before being flung over the ninety-something story edge is the great Avenger’s emblem winking out—
It’s inside him, throughout him. The fire tears at his chest, consumes the air in his lungs, boils his veins. It’s in his lungs and he can’t breathe, he can’t breathe, he can’t—
He only just catches the jet bridge before it slams into him, heaving it above his head. Captain America smirks, but it’s not like how he remembers; amused, a tad impressed. It’s hungry. A little feral.
The Captain cocks back the shield and aims for his wide-open chest—
It fractures from there. Time slips into nothingness.
Shards of memories, of dreams. Slivers of figments that leave him dizzy.
He thinks he hears voices above him, around him. Hands pass by, press against his shoulder, his head. His legs tangle in something soft.
Something cool is pressed against his lips, and he drinks instinctively, even though he can feel how the liquid evaporates the moment it reaches the furnace that’s taken over his stomach.
He wants May. He wants Ben. He begs for his parents, for his dad, for anyone.
He burns, and he burns, and he burns. The fire roars around him, within him, for years, and years, and years—
Until suddenly, it vanishes.
Leaving only ash in his mouth.