Chapter Text
“Radial and ulnar fractures detected.” The scan the suit pulls up makes his stomach roil: his arm isn't just broken, it’s in pieces.
Wincing, Peter curls the fingers of his injured arm toward his palm experimentally.
“I think your arm is broken, Peter,” Karen states, matter of fact.
Peter gasps out a pained laugh; he can’t quite close his hand into a fist. “Yeah, I think so too, Karen. Shit.”
“Shall I alert Mr Stark?”
“No! No. I don’t know…” Peter cradles his arm to his side, shoulders hunched against the rain and the pain. “It’ll heal on its own… won’t it?” he says, eyeing the scan doubtfully.
“I would advise medical attention, Peter. The fractures need to be reduced. This may require surgery.”
Peter swears again under his breath, blinking to clear the raindrops from his eyelashes as he looks around the deserted industrial park with his bottom lip between his teeth. “Do you really think he won’t mind?”
“I believe he may be upset at your injury. But not at you requesting assistance.”
Nauseated as sharp pain shoots up his arm, he concedes: “OK.”
“Should I put you through?”
“Just… ask if he could send a car, maybe? I don’t want to bother him too much. It’s not that bad.”
In the near distance, Peter can hear the police rounding up the criminals webbed up inside the warehouse. A violent shiver—and the subsequent rush of pain—break his focus.
“Remember you have the heater installed, Peter. Should I activate it?”
“Oh yeah!” Heat floods the suit immediately. “Thanks, Karen. That’s better.”
Feeling a little lightheaded, Peter slides down the wall to sit down, his legs stretched out in front of him to ease the pain in his knee. The short projecting roof of the building doesn’t do much to protect him from the rain, but he can’t bring himself to move.
It feels like an age, although it can’t be more than half an hour, before a car comes into view.
“Tony Stark has arrived,” Karen informs him.
“Pretty sure it’s just Happy,” Peter replies with a breath of laughter as he struggles to his feet. When the car stops in front of him and the driver’s window rolls down, he pulls off his mask. “Hey, Happy.”
“I was in the middle of dinner,” Happy says for a greeting.
Peter grimaces. “Sorry.”
Happy looks him over, scowl still in place. “At least you’re in one piece. Come on, get in.”
As Peter is going to open the door with his left hand, it opens from the inside. Mr Stark is in the back seat, in his usual impeccable suit and tinted glasses, body angled toward the door, with one arm thrown over the back rest in a picture of nonchalance.
“Mr Stark!”
“In the flesh.” He waves a hand at Peter in a beckoning motion. “Go on then, before the rain washes you away, itsy bitsy spider.”
Eyes round, Peter climbs inside, breathing through clenched teeth at the pain the movement brings with it, then freezes. “Maybe you should lay a towel on the seat or something, Mr Stark. I’m all—”
“Kid, I don’t think you know how many cars I’ve thrown up in. What’s a little water?” Mr Stark replies. “Sit down before you fall over.” He waits until Peter is settled before turning to address Happy: “Warp speed, Mr Sulu.”
Peter’s grin at the Star Trek reference dies out almost immediately at the wave of nausea that hits him when the car starts moving. He makes an effort to straighten in his seat when Tony turns all his attention on him, even pulling off his glasses to look him over. “You didn’t have to come all the way, Mr Stark. I’m fine,” he says quickly.
“Define fine.” Tony reaches into a bag between his legs and pulls out a towel. “Did you hit your head?”
“Are those two questions related?” Peter asks in confusion.
Tony gives a little shake of his head. “OK, now I’m concerned.”
“I’m really fine, Mr Stark, honestly. It’s just my arm,” he explains, hesitantly reaching for the towel with his good one. “It might be a bit… broken.”
Rather than handing over the towel, Tony pulls Peter closer and starts towel drying his hair. “What happened, spiderling?”
Although Mr Stark is being surprisingly gentle, the movement still jars his arm, and a small sound of pain escapes Peter with every other breath. “One of them caught me up in the chain of one of those hoisting thingies in the warehouse.”
“You look like a puppy someone trod on,” Tony says, tone mild but sporting a small, concerned frown as he arranges the towel over Peter’s shoulders, tucking it in absently. “What were you even doing on patrol tonight, weren’t you going to see that movie with Ted?”
“Ned had to cancel; we’re going on Sunday instead.” Peter falters. “Did you have plans, Mr Stark? I’m so sorry—” He instinctively raises his arms to gesticulate, and has to clap a hand over his mouth to smother a whimper at the stab of pain.
“Settle down, pipsqueak, before you hurt yourself even more.” Tony gives his uninjured elbow a squeeze, and pulls a couple of ice packs out of a backpack. “Here, this might help until we get to the compound,” he says, handing him an ice pack after cracking it open.
Peter sinks back into the car seat, holding the ice pack over his arm carefully. “Thanks, Mr Stark,” he breathes, his sigh followed by a yawn.
“Medical’s going to have to take a look at that arm before you can sleep, Underoos,” he warns, but his voice is soft.
“Mm. Can I have some hot chocolate before bed?”
Tony chuckles. “We’ll see,” he replies, obviously teasing.
Peter rests with his eyes closed for a long moment before he musters the courage to whisper: “Thank you for coming to get me, Mr Stark.” He’s still in pain, and still a little cold and damp—but he feels safe now, with Mr Stark. He sneaks a look at Tony, who only smiles and gives his knee a careful squeeze.
“Of course, kid, I’ve always got you.”