Chapter Text
The words echo around in the small room, bouncing back and greeting Peter in the face. They replayed over and over again as the sound of more feet entering and leaving the room. The door opening and closing replaced any sound you were making against him and the soft hum coming from the back of your throat.
His body trembled against your touch, his hand throbbed as he brought his arm around your waist and hugged himself tightly too. His fingers wanting to close around you, grip your shirt, but they couldn’t. The pain shot through his hand and up his body faster than when the weird cheetah wearing man threw him through a building days ago.
No one said a single word.
No one answered his question.
Peter was not sure you even knew what was wrong with him.
He just needed you right now.
He needed you more than anything.
Your arms were the only thing currently keeping Peter safe.
Safe from everyone yelling outside his room.
Safe from his thoughts filtering into his mind.
Safe from the cold tile floor that greeted him with a laugh.
Peter wanted it to stay that way with your shoulder pressed against his right ear and your other hand covering his left on.
The way you moved your body enough to block out the bright lights that were flooding the room every time someone walked in and turned around left. Peter clung to you, knowing you were doing the best you could to block everything out. You were keeping him safe from everyone muttering to themselves and the questions and thoughts that were currently scratching across his mind, demanding to be let in and felt at the drop of a hat.
“Y/N,” Peter sobbed against you as his grip around your waist grew tighter. “Please."
But he was greeted with more soft hums coming from the back of your throat and your fingers gently running through his hair. The way you had to started to rock both of you back and forth so many times before when he was injured.
His lips brushed against your cheek, a mixture of slobber and tears greeted him when he went to breathe. Salt and fear rested on the tip of his tongue as he pressed his face against yours in a matter to make it all go away. To the stop, the way his body burned with every sob and breathe that escaped his lips. Allow the burning to stop at the touch of your fingers dancing through his hair and how it managed to seep through his scalp and into his brain, lighting up the inside of his eyes every time the tip of your finger touched his skin.
Your sweatshirt tearing away at his skin when you moved slightly and rested your back against the bed. Your thumb gently ran across the top of his arm, and Peter had to bite back the scream growing in the back of his throat.
All of it too much at once, allowing ringing in his ears to become louder and louder with every second that passed.
"Make it stop,” Peter pleaded as his body started to tremble more at your touch. “Please—make it stop."
"I can’t make it stop,” you whispered while you brought your arm out from around him and sat up onto your knees before you cupped Peter’s face into your hands. “I can try to make it better."
"Please.”
“Trust me?” You asked, already pressing some of the sheets that had fallen onto the floor against Peter’s forehead. “You have to trust me, Pete, like old times."
Peter leaned his hand into your palm and hardly shook his head while you tried your best to stop the bleeding that was now seeping through the sheets. Wading up more and applying more pressure as Peter rested against the bed.
"Give him a sedative and get him back in bed.” The voice was loud as Peter winced and clenched his teeth as he a tremor ran through his body and into you.
You turned your head towards the door. The head doctor, Doctor Taylor, the one you had so many run-ins with before, stood there a high school linebacker ready to throw you to the side. As if it was your fault that Peter was on the ground, bleeding and the alarms went off. You had magically just tossed Peter out of his bed when you were doing good to keep him upright at the moment.
You swallowed the lump in the back of your throat and laced your fingers with Peter’s good hand as you gaze shifted behind the doctor to Pepper and May. Both of them watched you closely and nodded their heads in a way that told you everything you needed to know.
“No,” you said in a way that made Pepper smirk at the doctor when he looked back at her. “No sedatives, nothing."
"He can’t heal properly with—”
“Without it?” You asked before turning your attention back to Peter. “He can’t do much of anything if you keep giving him enough to knock an elephant out."
"You know you are messing—”
“With what? You knock him under for days at a time, and when he wakes up he has a spell, you do it again and repeat for how many days now?” you hissed, applying too much pressure to Peter’s arm. “Are you here when he wakes up? Do you see what happens?"
Doctor Taylor’ straighten his shoulders, puffed out his chest like you had seen him do one too many times with your dad. "No, but my staff is under orders to sedate—”
“Every time he wakes up, I know I saw the records,” you said, refraining from rolling your eyes.
“She wasn’t allowed access to those, Pepper.” You cringed at the way Pepper’s name rolled off Doctor Taylor’ tongue and the way it stung more than a bee sting you got when you were six-years-old on the bottom of your foot. “She was not supposed to have access to his room, either."
"Why?” Your head whipped around, heat slowly rising up your body, allowing your breathing to become slow and unsteady through your nose. “Cause I know how to fix—"
"Better,” May corrected you as she knelt down beside Peter, taking the bloody sheet out of your hand and replacing it with the other end as she applied pressure back to his forehead. Peter swayed slightly before he leaned against her, his cheek pressed against May’s shoulder.
“Make better,” you snickered while you looked Taylor dead in the eye, “did you know that if he wakes up too fast, he’ll get sick? I’m sure if you look on the other side of the bed, you’ll find some vomit.” You shrugged your shoulders and shifted your gaze slightly to Pepper and then to Matt before returning it back to Taylor. “Or that his heart tends to racer fast when he’s in a deeper sleep? How about when he brings his shoulder to his ear that his hearing is too enhanced and needs either his mask or the echo protocol turned off?"
"Are you his—"
"Doctor? No, but right now, I feel like I have a better medical degree than you do right now."
It was becoming very obvious as to why your dad was never a fan Doctor Taylor. If it wasn’t for the way he carried himself, it was the way he tried to pretend he knew everything and never wanted anyone’s help outside of his own. You could only hear Tony’s voice in the back of your head, going off on Taylor like all the time he did before.
If you did your job correctly, then this wouldn’t be happening.
You know that medical degree of yours can be swiped from your hands at any moment.
Don’t you need an actual license in order to practice medicine?
Petter laughed, his ear pressed against it. "She hasn’t even gone to med school yet,” he raised a finger at Doctor Taylor, “and she’s smarter than you."
"Peter,” May said quietly as rolled his head towards your shoulder. “Let’s just get you clean up."
You reached out for Peter’s hand, only for him to draw it away from you and furrow his eyebrows.
"I need to see it.” Peter shook his head slowly, cradling his broken hand in the other and trying not to let his jaw tremble against your touch. “Are you sure you’re not the reason he hasn’t been healing, Doc?"
You glanced over your shoulder back at Doctor Taylor before back to Peter. The number of times your fingers running across his knuckles and Peter scooted closer to May, who now had her arms around him and stroking his hair. His body still trembling and you swore you heard a cry come from the back of his throat when he inhaled too deeply through his nose.
"Are you going to get her out of here?” Doctor Taylor asked, staring Pepper down.
“I think I’ll let her stay."
"You probably over drugged him,” you said through clenched teeth as you grabbed some of the sheets that did not have Peter’s blood all over them and started to wrap his broken hand around them as gently as you could.
“May,” Peter mumbled while he closed his eyes as the room started to spin and his head swaying slightly. Water mixed with mucus splattered onto the floor in front of Peter and all over Doctor Taylor’ shoes. You held back a snicker, not having to turn back around to know he was about to lose it while you pushed some Peter’s hair out of his face.
“Fix me,” he cried out almost smacking your forehead against his before he jerked his hand out of your grip as tears started to roll down his cheeks. “Help me."
May stood up, resting against the bed as she hooked her forearms underneath Peter’s armpits, and you followed May’s lead while you slid your arms underneath hers to try to left Peter up and stay out of the water mixture on the floor as your spread legs as far as they would go.
Pepper guided Matt towards where Peter sat before he stumbled forward and caught himself against your shoulder. His arms around Peter’s waist and you were awkwardly smashed between the two of them as May lifted Peter’s butt onto the bed and Matt being more of a support for Peter while you landed beside him with a loud oof.
Peter’s hand on the back of your head, like he had so many other times when you would collapse beside on his bed and without thinking you raised your hand on cue and cupped his cheek, trying to do your best to block out some of the light greeting him when he opened his eyes. Voices were yelling at each other, Peter winced against your palm, and it took everything inside of you to not throw Doctor Taylor out the window.
"I don’t think your services will be needed anymore, Doctor Taylor.” You head whipped mouth agape as you saw Pepper sidestep and move her hand towards the door. “I think Y/N and Bruce can handle it from here, there’s no reason for you to still be on his case.” Pepper raised an eyebrow at you before she turned her attention back to the Doctor. “And since Y/N brought up the subject, I will be looking into all of Peter’s record since the incident almost three weeks ago. I agree with her, there is something not right here."
You smirked and pressed a soft kiss onto Peter’s temple while you heard the scuffs of Doctor Taylor coming from behind the close door.
"I was thinking that maybe Peter would like to be back in his room,” Pepper spoke softly, “instead of constantly being in here."
"What?"
"I have a room—"
"Yeah, your room from before, the one that you know—that room.” You turned your head to look at Peter as he had a small smile on his face. “That room."
"That room,” Peter laughed and pushed himself away from you.
He was ready for a bed that didn’t scratch across his skin and machines beeping at him every time he moved. Pillows that were softer and cradled his head better, giving him more support when he felt like looking at the ceiling.
That’s what Peter wanted in his room.
It’s what he needed.
A room that was not so loud with rude people in it.
“Yeah, that one,” you replied, shaking your head at him with your arm still around his shoulder.
Peter’s feet dangled off the side of the bed, but he tried to push his foot flat against the tile floor for nothing to happen. It didn’t that the tips of his toes were touching the cold floor, or at least he thought it was cold from the way you shivered every time you moved across it. It had to be cold, but he couldn’t feel it. He couldn’t feel for the life of him anything from his waist down.
"Lets go then, I’m tired,“ he said as he scooted himself towards the end of the bed.
He ignored the way you and May exchanged a look with each other and forced himself to stand the best he could. His grip on the mattress and your shoulder as his nails dug into the cotton material of your sweatshirt. His legs shaky, breath uneven and the events of earlier replayed in his head afraid he would tumbled onto the floor and embarrassment settled back into his bones.
You moved faster than May did as you hopped off the bed, hooking your arms underneath his and hoisting him back up before he fell onto the ground for a second time.
You held him up as Peter buried his face into the crook of your neck, hot tears staining against your skin and your hand running up and down his back.
A dream.
A terrible dream that Peter needed to wake up from.
A nightmare.
One he would forget about in the morning.
"I’m fine,” he croaked out, his lips brushing against your neck, “I’m fine, just–just drugged, that’s all."
You were forced to walk awkwardly back to the bed in order to not drop both of you on to the ground. Peter’s legs were dragging underneath him, and your feet were trying not to step on him. The last thing you need was to send both of you crashing into the bed.
Peter did the best he could to help you slid him up back up on the bed, but it stop the sharp cry for leaving his lips and the way he pressed his face into your neck harder than before.
"Pete, honey,” May stroked the side of his cheek while he lifted his head. Tears were falling onto her the side of her fingers, and she tried to force a smile on her face. “You can’t walk–not yet anyways."
"No, I’m fine,” he shook his head, leaned away from May. “I’m fine, it’s always like this after, I’ll be—"
"Peter,” you said with a shrug of your shoulders as you sat down beside him, “May’s right, you can’t walk."
"No, you’re lyin’—” Peter pointed at you with a shaky finger and closed his eyes. “Lying, cause I’m always fine, it’s how my body works. It’s always worked this way."
He had to be fine.
Peter knew somewhere deep down it was all dream, nothing was wrong, and all he had to do was wake up, and everything would be back to how it was.
He counted to ten, and you would be back at UCLA studying. May would be helping out with the new shelter opening soon, and he would be in class with Ned and MJ talking about the new article The Bugle had posted about Wilson Fisk from the day before.
Peter opened them slowly, not focusing on the way everything smacked him at once until he was forced to blink and close his right eye. But he felt you sitting beside him, and May’s hands still cupping his cheek. "May, what happened?"
There it was the single question that ripped through your body, allowed you to cover your mouth to stop the tears from welling up in your eyes to fall. And maybe a part of you should have answered him from the very start before everyone else came into the room. Allow Peter enough time to take in what happened to him, and then he could ask questions.
In that moment, Peter had stared at you like you were the moon and the stars, and you knew the way to fix him.
And you didn’t.
You didn’t know how to fix something that was broken beyond repair.
And it was only made worse when you saw Peter crying. His eyes glossed over and the rims so red, you could feel how sore they had become over the course of the last couple of minutes. His body trembled when May wrapped her arms around him, not caring how he pushed away from the material of her clothes, rubbing against his skin before he leaned into her and cried.
May shifted her gaze over to you, and you nodded your head as you sat down beside Peter.
And maybe it helped that Pepper and Matt were standing outside the door now, watching the way you and May tried to calm him down.
If only you had told him sooner.
"Glass basically shattered your nerves in the lower half of your back,” you spoke softly while you got up off the bed. “Whatever Fisk had injected you—"
"Fisk?” Peter asked, his eyebrows furrowed together and he swayed slightly into May. “I haven’t been around him in months—not since this happened.” Peter pointed towards his left eye where the maze of scars ran across his face. “I swear I haven’t seen him."
"Peter,” May held him upright from slumping over. Her hands cupped his cheek as her thumb ran over the scar again. “Do you remember anything that happened that night?"
"What night?” Peter turned his head in your direction, his eyes still closed, but he swore he saw the panic written all over your face. “What night?"
"The night of this accident.” You spoke softly, pushing back some of Peter’s hair. “The night I called you and asked for your help on my chemistry final."
"That night?” Peter asked as he opened his eyes too fast and closed them again. “I was supposed to call you back."
"Yeah, it was the same night as this accident."
"No, no, it wasn’t."
You moved off the bed and reached for Peter’s hand. Lacing your fingers together, palms flat against his, and tapped the top of his hand in between his knuckles.
The muted cry hummed in the back of his throat as he leaned towards you, resting his forehead on your shoulder. Your other hand came around and threaded your fingers through his hair, massaging his scalp like you had so many times before.
"You were caught in-between Wilson Fisk and two guys we don’t know,” Matt spoke up, allowing you to turn your head towards him. The door was half-open, and he and Pepper stood there with the same kind of look on their faces that you felt inside of you. “We are still trying to figure out who they are and where they came from."
"Guys? I didn’t run into anyone, I would remember that” Peter’s words slurred together.
“They’re not from around here at least,” Pepper added. Her lips drew into a hardline, and you both knew the mention of Deputy Jefferson would probably send Peter over the edge—but then again what was another moment compared to the ones that had just happened.
“That’s where thinking anyways."
"Well, you guys are wrong, very wrong,” Peter said as he pressed his ear against your shoulder to stop the constant sound of nails on a chalkboard to rattle in his brain.
“You really don’t remember anything, Pete?” May asked, pushing some of his hair out of his forehead and pieces that had been matted down with blood.
“I remember the phone call, and being on patrol and lightening—” Peter lifted his head slightly, moving it so his cheek was pressed against your shoulder now and he had a direct line to hearing your heart beating in your chest. “And people shouting, heartbeats, and—"
There it was again.
Please, no.
Not again.
Anything but this.
Far too many times, this had happened while Peter had tried to remember how he ended up here.
Vomit bubbled up in the back of his throat, burning his windpipe, allowing tears to prick the corner of his eyes. He leaned away from you and May, tried his hardest to fall back onto his back, anything to keep it from coming up. But as he rolled over, the mixture of water and mucus splattered onto the sheets and the bedrail at the foot of the bed as it landed in the floor with the rest.
The smell of rotten eggs and licorice smacked Peter across the face. He reached out for you and May, but mostly anyone who could lift him back up and hold him.
That’s what Peter really wanted right now.
To be six again and have May hold when he was scared. The way she could make him laugh at anything, and tell him he was beyond strong enough to get through whatever was playing a trick on his mind.
"Maybe we don’t talk about that night,” you said in a tone that reminded you more of your dad than yourself. And the way he used to shield you from things you did not need to know about. “You know, at least until he’s somewhat better, then ask questions, not in the middle of this."
"Isn’t their security footage you can bring up and get your questions,” May snapped at them. And you saw the way Pepper and Matt both took a step back out of the room.
For the first time in a long time, you and Peter were both glad there was at least one person in the room who did not feel like hounding Peter or you about things out of your control.
Things that had happened far too many times before when neither of you had a chance to cope before the rapid fire of questions would come your way.
Germany.
Decathlon trip to D.C.
Peter escaping from the bus when Thanos and his goons decided to raid the city.
You swearing you never took any of your dad’s suits for a joy ride before.
Peter talking himself out the reason for his random black eye.
Both of you failing a calculus exam during your senior year of high school.
Peter sneaking off to see you at UCLA on a rim and in the middle of the semester.
And each time there had been May Parker to make the blow a little softer, reminding everyone how the two of you were just kids and sometimes you had to make mistakes in order to learn.
Only this was not a mistake.
And you knew it before Peter did.
“She’s right, Matt,” Pepper finally spoke up, and Peter relaxed back against your body for what seemed like the first time. “Until Peter is well enough to remember and answer questions, I think pulling security footage will be the best option for Jefferson."
"And what if Fisk has another attack planned?"
"You’ve dealt with him more times than anyone else here,” Pepper reminded him, and her gaze landed on you. “Plus, I’m sure someone has something that can be helpful, at least."
"I’ve compiled it all into a loop, I get you the thumb drive in a couple of hours,” you said with a shrug of your shoulders. Pepper raised an eyebrow at you and scrunched your face up. “This is what happens when you leave me alone, not answering my questions."
Bruce tapped on the window gently, motioning for Pepper and Matt come out. "I think it’s best if you let them talk to Peter,” he said through the small slit between the door, “at least let him take in what’s wrong with him first, and Y/N.” You glanced over your shoulder at him. “There’s a sedative on the tray table over there, just in case."
You weren’t paying attention to how you and Peter were slowly falling off the bed from the way his body was pressed up against yours. Until May slid off the bed. Her arms around Peter’s waist to lift up a little more in the bed before of you went tumbling to the floor again. His body went limp for a quick second before Peter lifted his head in a rush, almost hitting her nose and flinging you off the bed and into the floor.
"May,” Peter cried out, holding the left side of his head.
A hand rested on his cheek, a smooth thumb running across his cheek. “Pete,” May cooed.
“May—” Peter choked out. Her name laced with confusions, hurt, and pain as if he did something to cause this to happen to him. “May."
"Don’t worry ‘bout answering those questions, okay."
"Answer my question,” Peter replied, nodding his head slowly that he was not even sure it was moving, or you were moving, or he was seeing fire with his eyes closed. Everything black with little outlines of red around them.
Your body.
May’s body.
The doors.
The bed.
His hands.
Were his eyes even still close?
What was sight?
What was the blue light he saw every time he opened his right eye?
“Answer my question,” he repeated himself while he rested his head closer to the center of your back this time. Anything to block out all the light greeting him.
Peter heard the falter in your breath.
The way it closed up at the back of your throat when you went to inhale and forced it out of your nose. Your heart speeding up in rhythm when you turned your head in what he knew was May’s direction. The way your fingernails were careful not to scrap across his scalp, and your other hand on his lower back. At least he thought it was there, he knew your arm was underneath his armpit and was wrapped around to the center of his chest like you had done so many times before.
“Why don’t you explain it to him,” May said in a tone that made Peter’s heart drop.
May was the one to always explain things to him. The person to take his hand and tell him everything was alright when, in reality, everything was falling down around him, and he couldn’t keep him. The same way it had always been May since you had left and no one was there to clean up him afterward.
“Please,” Peter whispered as his lips tickled against your neck, “tell me."
"The nerves in the lower half of your spinal cord were damaged due to the glass that was in your back,” you said yourself softly, almost directly in his ear as Peter shivered against your touch. His lips trembled against your neck, but he nodded his head. “And Wilson Fisk injected you with some messed up cocktail, and it allowed the injuries you got to your back and eye to be permanent before Bruce was able to fix somethin’”
“You can’t walk, sweetie,” May whispered, pushing more of Peter’s hair away from the side of his face. “At least not for a while."
"But I’ll heal, right?” Peter asked, bringing his arms around your waist and pulling you closer to him. “I always heal, it’s how I work, I’m fine."
"No,” your voice dropped as tears started to form in the corner of your eyes, “you’re not going to heal, you can’t bounce back from this."
"You’re lying,” Peter snapped, pushing you away and allowing you to trip over your feet.
The upper half of his body moved across the bed as he legs went limp against the mattress again. Peter forced his hands to move his legs over to the edge of the bed, to place them where his toes were touching the ground, and he could push off of them at any moment.
It was a fluke.
He always healed.
It was how his mind worked.
It was how his body worked.
You weren’t there.
You were never there anymore.
You didn’t know what happened that night.
He didn’t even remember that night.
It was a dream.
All a dream.
And he could wake himself up if he tried hard enough.
Tears rolled down Peter’s cheeks, his hands gripped the edge of the mattress until they were ghostly white, and his chest heaved with every breath he took. “You’re lying, I always heal, I’m always fine in a couple of days, it’s how I work."
It was like watching a cat fall from a tree in slow motion from so high up before it landed on the grass below.
Peter threw himself out of his bed a second time. Landing on the floor with a thud and take one of the tray and monitors with him. His body lying there flat as his cries pierced the room and down the hallway of the infirmary wing of the tower. His broken hand resting in his mouth again as the pain shot throughout his whole body. Pins and needles crawled up and down his spine, nails on chalkboard replaying over and over again. He wanted to hit his head on the floor, anything to knock him out cold and stop living in this reality that was not a reality.
Your heart broke into a million pieces while you stood there and watched the way Peter tried to curl himself up into a ball. You wanted to help him. You wanted to fix him and make him better. But you couldn’t. You couldn’t do much of anything then look at the way Peter was broken in front of you.
May glanced over you at us as you backed up against the glass windows, watching the way Peter tried to curl himself up into a ball.
His body thrashed when May went to reach for him, rolling himself halfway under the bed, and pushing away her hand with his good arm.
"Pete, honey.”
“No,” Peter yelled through his cries and scooted himself further away from May. “You’re lyin’, you have to be.” His words ran together, nothing made sense to him anymore.
He was fine.
He was always fine in a couple of days.
He regained his vision in his left eye like he had before.
He would be able to walk again.
He just needed to be left alone.
“Y/N,” May’s voice broke through your thoughts.
Your lips started to tremble, tears fogged your vision, and now it made sense as to why everyone was avoiding his question. You wanted to avoid it—at least not tell him right away.
“Do somethin’."
"I can’t—"
"Fix me,” Peter cried out. His voice hoarse, and tears staining his flushed cheeks, “fix me."
Your gaze shifted from Peter sobbing halfway underneath the bed to the sedative Bruce had mentioned on the other side.
He did not need it.
Peter had been far too drugged in the last three weeks, and adding more to his body would only make things worse.
"Fix me,” he repeated as he forced his chest to his legs to keep May from touching him.
You loved Peter.
You loved him more than you could imagine.
Right behind your dad.
You moved across the room, careful not to hit his legs as you climbed on the bed and avoided the spot of vomit sinking into the sheets and mattress.
It was easy.
You had seen it done before.
You had it done to you plenty of times.
Just like every other time you had seen Pepper give your dad one.
Just like Pepper had done to you when with your dad.
You did it for the people you love.
Hard choices came from doing things out of love.
You gripped the syringe in your hand and leaned over the side of the bed. Ignoring the way it smelled like rotten eggs and dead people as you held onto the mattress. Peter’s shirt riding up into the center of his back, and it didn’t matter where you placed it as long as you hit muscles, you were good.
“I love you, Pete,” you whispered as you plunged the needle into his upper shoulder blade and allowed the mixture to enter his body. “I love you."