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The night had been a success, but it wasn’t without its cost.
Peter was beat, both physically and mentally. He rode the elevator to his sixth floor apartment, leaning against hand rail and using the corner to keep himself upright. He was sopping wet, a disturbing mix of rain and sweat that beaded on his Spiderman suit. He’d pulled the mask off his face once the doors shut and the box began to ascend. Peter ran a hand through his hair, pushing his sweat laden locks off his face and misting the wall behind him.
The bank robber had been apprehended. In the end that was what had mattered. It had taken more co-ordination with the police than Peter had anticipated. Bad communication and failed plans led to the loss of two more people. A bank teller and police officer.
That was what hurt Peter the most. He couldn’t save everyone, no matter how hard he tried. No matter what he did. It just wasn’t possible.
He had a hard time accepting that.
The elevator arrived at the sixth floor and the doors dinged open.
Peter pushed himself forward, using his shoulder to lever himself. He stumbled, still sore and broken from the battle. He grazed the wall of the corridor with his shoulder, trying to keep the balance and tearing the small hole in his suit into a large one. Peter found his footing and made a slow progress to his front door fifteen feet from the elevator.
Peter turned the handle, hoping his roommate was home or at least had left without locking the door, but he was disappointed. Peter stretched, raising his right arm up over his head, pulling all the muscles on the right side of his body more than they could handle. His eyes welled with the pain, his hand searching frantically for the key they’d agreed to leave atop the ledge above the door. He found it, grasping it between two of his fingers in the most awkward way possible. Peter unlocked the door and nudged it open, the hinges creaking as it swung. He staggered through the doorframe, dropping the key on the floor and kicking the door shut before collapsing.
Peter awoke on his own a short time later, though he wasn’t sure how short a time. There were still no other signs of life in the apartment. He was still laying face down on the floor by the front door.
He rolled onto his back, which proved more painful than he’d anticipated. Peter sat up slowly, resting his head in his hands for a moment before trying to get up.
The young man rolled onto his hands and knees, using a nearby table as a crutch to help him to his feet.
He made his way to the bathroom, not bothering with closing the door. Peter removed his torn super suit, ripping holes bigger where he maneuvers it off his skin. He didn’t care how much more he damaged it. There was no repairing this one.
Peter assessed the damages as he turned the shower taps on, preparing the water to attack his flesh. His shoulder was red and burning, scuffed from the fight. He recalled being dragged by a police car the thieves had stolen. He couldn’t remember how man blocks he was towed, he just knew it was way too many. His back felt the same as his shoulder, the mirror showing him how much worse it was. Patches of skin had worn right off, leaving blood spattered new skin exposed in its place. The skin on both his elbows had suffered abrasions, but they weren’t bad enough for Peter to concern himself with them. They would probably be the first things to heal.
He stepped into the shower, the water piping hot and rolling over him in waves. It washed the grim and soot off his body, leaving only the cuts, gashes and bruises. Peter got his first proper look at what the night had done to his body.
His entire right side was purple. From his armpit to his thigh. Peter pushed gingerly on the bones in his torso, checking for a break. One rib for certain, maybe two, for which he felt lucky. His left ankle was swollen, along with his foot. The first two toes on that foot were purple, the big one bent funny. Peter brought his foot to the edge of the tub and yelped with pain as he bent to straighten it, tears mixing with the water that ran over his head and neck, pulling on it until he heard it pop.
His body shook, wracked with pain that overtook him. He gripped the side of the tub, letting his foot slip and guiding his body down before he fell. He curled up into a ball and let the pain wash over him in the same way the water did. The light in the room fading as his mind closed with his eyes, leaving him with just enough consciousness to recognize the sound of the window in the living room opening and the glass lamp on the table breaking on the floor before he blacked out for a second time.
Peter awoke again, this time taking much longer to recuperate. His eyes fluttered open, the copious amount of sterile white light trying to blind him. Every which way he tried to turn his head, he was surrounded.
“Hold on.”
Peter heard the familiar voice crack with its instruction. He kept his eyes closed tight while footsteps danced around the room, pulling strings and flicking switches.
Peter could feel the light dissipating all around him, the warmth fading from his face as it did.
“Okay.” The voice had returned, taking its place to the right of him.
Again Peter attempted to observe his surroundings. He was in a fairly uncomfortable bed, monitors and medical equipment circling him. The familiar voice in the chair, his roommate, best friend and partner Wade, smiled at him.
“Do you know where you are?” he asked very matter-of-factly.
“Hospital.”
“Do you know why you’re at hospital?”
“I’m hurt.” He managed after a moment of gathering his strength.
Wade shook his head, a sly smile on his face to cover up his true emotions. Peter was puzzled. He was fairly certain he was in a hospital and absolutely sure he was hurt. He didn’t attempt a verbal response, but looked Wade in the eye and waited for him to finish chuckling to himself and continue on with his point.
“No. I’m hurt. You took on two of the worst bank robber slash serial killers this town has seen in a hundred years with only the city police for backup. Not even FBI or SHEILD agents for screaming out loud Peter. It was a suicide mission. You did nearly die. I happened to find you three days and four surgeries ago in the bathtub drowning in your own blood. The worst part about this whole situation is that you were planning this for over a week with the police chief and never even mentioned it to me. Not once.”
Any signs of levity Wade would have normally showed during monologue like this were absent. His face conveyed a type of pain Peter hadn’t seen in him before. A heartbreaking worry that made Peter sick. He had kept this from Wade, with reason, but he was seeing that maybe it was a mistake. Had it not been for Wade finding him right away, he very well might have died.
“You should have told me what you were doing, I could have helped.”
“No.”
Peter gathered his strength and chose his words. He had kept his plans a secret for a reason.
“If you’d of known, you’d of come. I couldn’t live with myself if something had happened to you.”
Peter closed his eyes with some force, feeling a great agony course through him. Wade adjusted his morphine drip to keep the nurses at bay a few more minutes. It took a moment for the pain to wear away, the morphine kicking in and Peter’s body relaxing along with it.
“And how do you think I feel, coming home to find you dead in the bathtub.”
Wade turned his head, breaking eye contact with Peter and he felt it. Peter felt the pain of losing Wade, as he was starting to in that moment. He knew if the roles had been reversed, if he had found Wade in the state he was in, they wouldn’t be having a conversation about it. Peter didn’t have the skills to save people the way Wade did. He would have been cold before the ambulance could arrive.
Of course, Peter hadn’t counted on Wade feeling that deeply for him either. They had been friends for a long time, roommates for some years and lovers for ten months. Even Peter hadn’t considered it that serious. Wade had a tendency to play things very cool. Like nothing meant anything to him. But Peter had meant the world to him, only Wade was too afraid to really feel it, and unsure how to show it.
Peter felt his heart tear away from him, trying to leave his chest and followed where Wade turned. He moved his arm, lifting it from the bed and reaching out for Wade’s hand. He found it and grabbed hold, squeezing as tight as he could.
“I’m sorry.” He answered, his voice cracking with the pain it had caused.
Wade stood and leaned over the bed, still holding Peter’s hand and stroking his face with the free one. He dried the tears that found their way to the surface with the pad of his thumb before leaning down to kiss Peter on the forehead.
“Don’t do it again.”
“Promise.”
There was a shuffling in the corridor outside Peter’s room. He tried to regroup himself for when the inevitable happened and his room flooded with hospital staff.
“They’ll be storming in here in a minute.”
“I know.”
“I’m going to leave before they do.”
Peter cleared his throat.
“I know.”
“I’ll come by later. I love you. Get some rest.”
Wade pried himself away, heading for the window and sliding it open. He flung himself out the window and onto the ledge before reaching in to close it again.
Peter was left in a state of shock, managing only to mumble the words back to himself forty seconds after Wade had left and five seconds before the nurses had pushed in.