Chapter Text
Ned hooked Peter's arm over his own shoulders, baring some of his weight as they shuffled into the elevator. Fortunately, the people coming to this floor were too enticed by the distant music and breath of alcohol in the air to notice the scene, leaving it empty for the trio to ride down. MJ reached for her phone, "I'm finding the nearest hospital."
"No— no, no. No hospital." Peter's head swung over, "I can't go to a hospital."
"Why the fuck not?" MJ's face hid nothing, "Peter. I don't know if you know this, but you're bleeding through your fucking shirt. We are already not equipped to handle this sober, I don't know what the other option is."
"Plus, alcohol makes it harder for the bleeding to stop." Ned voiced, "You didn't tell us you were hurt."
"Wasn't bad." Peter muttered, "Just— get me home." He grasped onto Ned's shirt, feeling his grip slip, "Too many questions at the hospital." His breath came out heavy, "I trust you."
A heavy silence fell over them as the elevator made it to the ground floor, opening up. The three scuffled past the crowd wanting to ride up, Ned especially careful to protect Peter from any additional shoulder checking. Peter could only hear his pulse pounding in his head, could only see the world spinning when he closed his eyes, and feel the cold sweat break on the base of his neck.
To the average onlooker, it simply appeared like Ned and MJ were caring for a friend who drank a little too much, which had some truth behind it, sure, but they couldn't see the splash of blood staining the fabric of his shirt. It grew with each minute, traveling and causing the shirt to cling to his body. Ned took off his jacket and threw it over Peter's shoulders, ignoring his friend's look of concern of staining said jacket, and pressing on.
"I should've worn a red shirt, huh?"
The length of the walk was done in silence after.
Peter knew that they were both staring, stealing glances at the ever-growing problem on his side, but assumed it was in his best interest to keep his mouth shut. His eyes were glued to the sidewalk, watching one foot hobble in front of the next, as his head drifted to nearly sit on the crook of Ned's neck.
By now, the ache of having his arm pulled across Ned's back was worse than that of his bleeding side. That was somewhat worrying, because by the time they stopped at Ned and MJ's apartment building, he felt that familiar wetness start dripping from the bottom hem of his shirt onto the sidewalk.
"I'm going to get… stuff." MJ turned to the two of them, "You have keys?"
"Yeah. I'll get him upstairs." Ned nodded, using his freehand to scrounge around his pockets and fish out his house keys, key chains jingling and swinging about, "Be quick."
"Yeah." MJ turned to Peter, "Don't fucking die." Her stare met his as he raised his head. All he could give was a half-assed nod, but that seemed to satisfy her for the moment. She started walking down the street, risking a glance back as Ned helped Peter up the stairs.
His side burned with each step, pain shooting up and down the length of his torso, "When— when we get up, to your apartment," Peter winced, sucking in a sharp breath with a hiss, "You can't judge me."
"Judge you?" Ned looked a bit more alarmed at that than he did seeing the blood earlier, if possible, "Why would I judge you?"
If it didn't sting, Peter would've laughed, "You'll see."
"Right." Ned's stare teetered between suspiscion and concern, "I'm not sure I'd judge you for a bleeding wound— unless it was like, crazy infected or just… unbandaged. You did bandage it, didn't you?"
Peter gulped, "Yeah. It's definitely bandaged."
Once they got to their front door, Peter beelined to the kitchen and sank down to the tile floor, letting his head hit the back of the cabinet he was against as he shrugged off Ned's jacket.
Ned locked the door behind them, "You don't have to sit on the floor—"
"I don't want to get blood anywhere it'll stain." Peter heaved, pressing his palm into his side, watching as the color seeped anyways.
Ned quickly appeared on the floor beside him, opening the cabinet under the sink and scavenging about, "We should have a first aid kit in here..."
"Peter— open your eyes!"
Huh. Didn't know they were closed.
MJ was in front of him, blocking the overhead kitchen light. Her curls were a halo framing her face, backlit and all-encompassing in his skewed vision.
"'m up—" He felt his throat squeak out, hand cramped still on his side.
"Take your hand off." She instructed, already reaching for his arm to move it away.
He felt drying blood sticking his skin together, fingers glued to eachother in the grossest way imaginable. His muscles ached, and where he wasn't aching, he was freezing.
"I'm taking your shirt off."
"MJ— wait!"
But it was already too late. The shirt clung to his skin at first, but released with another tug by MJ. Her pull was only enough to pry away the fabric from his side and cover his face instead, smacking him dead-on with the heady smell of iron.
He awkwardly struggled to get the rest of the shirt off, revealing the two looks of alarm staring back at him.
"Peter— is that?
"Ned, I told you not to judge me."
"Peter. I'm judging."
MJ began wordlessly clearing the remains of bloodied webs from his wound. A certain swipe sent a shock up Peter's ribs, forcing his back into an arch and face into a tight scrunch.
"Ned, hold him." Was all MJ said, her face tight. He felt hands grab onto his, and a warmth on his good side steadying him to sit upright, "Just a little more, Peter."
A lump of nausea settled into his throat. Peter couldn't tell if it was from drinking earlier, or from getting a nose-full of his own blood. He screwed his eyes shut and pressed his forehead into the shoulder beside him, trusting its steadiness more than his neck's ability to keep him upright any longer.
Things moved quickly after that, because the next time he's prying his eyes open, he's watching MJ plaster medical tape over his abdomen, enough to move like the Tin-man. His shoes were sitting a few feet from them, and a large white convenience store bag rustled beside the three.
"You're so lucky it wasn't any worse," MJ glanced up once she noticed his open eyes, "I should've called an ambulance."
"Don't know how we would've explained the webs, but she's right." Ned's voice came from beside him, rumbling the shoulder his weight was against.
"But you didn't." His own voice crackled in his throat, "Thanks."
He felt the two pair of eyes judging him again, but tried to move past it. Peter's arms stretched to sit himself upright, feeling the tape cling awkwardly. The pulse of lost blood still thumped under his skin, but it was less blatant than before. A damp rag wiped over his face, then any over patches of blood crusting over his skin.
"You can take the couch," MJ stood up, offering her hands to aid Peter, "We'll clean up in the morning."
With a lot of patience, the two escorted Peter to their couch, hovering worriedly around as he laid back on the cushions. He felt a strong twitch behind his eye, the pain in his skull, and hid from the light with an arm over his face, "I'm never drinking again." He groaned.
"You're never webbing yourself up again, either." Ned tossed a blanket over his lower half.
"Webbing isn't a word." MJ crossed her arms.
"Well— Webbing also isn't a bandage," Ned stammered, "We can all agree on that."
A quiet settled over the room, different from the tension earlier. He felt the blanket be tugged up to his shoulders, cracking an eye open and being met with MJ's face. She placed a warm hand on his arm, "I'll check on those bandages in the morning. If you're still bleeding, I'm sending you to the emergency room." She stated with unmoving certainty before leaving to her room.
Ned watched her pass him, standing awkwardly as an obvious question bubbled in his head.
"So… were those webs from the web-shooter, or…?"