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Peter should be angry with Mr. Stark for distracting him.
The shout of, “Go for it, kid, you’re doing great,” was definitely meant to be encouraging. But it wasn’t. It was stupid. Peter had turned his head the wrong direction at the wrong time, and now he’s sprawled out on the sidewalk for his efforts.
He should be angry with Tony. But as the masked villain he’d been fighting leaps over his body only to find his path blocked by Ironman, all he can drudge up is gratitude.
“Thanks, Mr. Stark…” Peter murmurs. His breath is all but gone, and his lungs feel shallow after the abrupt impact of his back hitting the pavement. Sucking in air is a struggle, and coughing is easier than speaking.
He hacks a couple times, and the sound reverberates in his eardrums like the echo of an avalanche. Vibrations bounce through his head, bringing on a crushing ache that reaches forehead to jaw. Peter claws at his throat to release the edge of his mask, which suddenly feels like it’s exerting too much force on his face.
The frigid winter air doesn’t feel a whole lot better. The air pressure seems like it’s a thousand times more than it usually is. Peter’s next cough expels a cloud of vapor, immediately crystalizing in the December chill. The fog of breath moves in slow motion against the dreary grey sky. He squints, and a geometric matrix of ice forming in midair stands out while everything else blurs.
“No, no,” Peter murmurs as quietly as he can. He shouldn’t have taken off the mask. Shouldn’t have let himself get hit. He shouldn’t have come today. Should never have let Mr. Stark convince him to work with the Avengers…
He rolls to his side and draws his knees up toward his chest. The roughness of his suit dragging across the sidewalk makes his teeth hurt. “No…”
Mr. Stark deploys a pulsar beam with a crackling zap. It hits something, which in turn hits something else. The resultant waves of yelling and thudding swim through the air and reach Peter’s ears in amplified slow-motion.
Even the groan that tears from his own throat is deeper, rawer, more drawn out. Peter pulls his arms protectively around his head, but even that doesn’t help. His suit’s slick fabric is cold, and it conducts electric prickles into the tender skin of his exposed cheek.
And he still can’t breathe. His ribcage seems to get tighter each time Peter wills it to relax and let in air. He clenches his jaws, grinding his teeth together with the horrible scraping sound of frustration.
It’s too much. He’s going to die. Peter’s heart hammers as if he’s running a sprint. Which he is, through miles and miles of errant sensation, even though all he’s really doing is laying on the ground. His mind spins at the same pace, cataloging every bit of sensory input. Cold and pain and bright and grey and sharp and ice and loud…
The ringing clatter of metal hitting metal is like a sledge hammer to Peter’s skull. It barely registers that whatever just happened probably involved Ironman and probably wasn’t good. Peter feels the crash with all of his senses even though he’s a good few feet away. It looks loud and tastes angry and smells red…
There’s a scramble and a sizzle, and everything shifts sickeningly from slow motion to fast-forward. Someone’s patting his shoulder, trying to tear his hands from his face. “Hey, kid. What happened?”
Peter doesn’t know. He wasn’t involved in…whatever just happened. He’s preoccupied with staying alive. He’s dying. The layer of cold air pressing down on him is going to crush his chest. To consume him.
Mr. Stark’s face, red and sweaty, appears in the space between Peter’s splayed fingers. He’s saying something, maybe a word of concern or comfort, but the sounds don’t line up with the movement of his mouth.
Excruciating pain splits Peter’s forehead down the middle. The warmth streaming from his eyes has to be liquefied brain matter. He’s melting. He can’t breathe.
“Don’t cry. You’re gonna be ok.” Cold hands drag him up from the sidewalk, but Peter’s bones are dissolving into his bloodstream and he can’t hold his posture.
“Calm down. Breathe.” Mr. Stark slaps him on the back a couple times. Peter assumes it’s to get his lungs to respond. But he’s not sure he has lungs anymore. Maybe the burning acid coursing through his body has consumed them too.
“Come on, kid.”
Peter tries to force down a gulp of air, but it gets stuck. A lump rises in his throat. Perhaps tears. But he’s already crying.
He lurches forward and throws up all over his lap.
“Whoa. Geez.”
A war is raging in his sinuses. Peter fights dizziness as he retches again. He can’t stay balanced on his sit bones, and he tips sideways into Mr. Stark’s armor.
“You’re scaring me a little bit here,” Tony says. “I need you to breathe.” He keeps murmuring, but the sound melds with the pounding in Peter’s ears.
Peter does his best to draw in air. His chest expands shallowly, then he coughs.
“Good, that’s it.” Mr. Stark’s metal-gloved hand rests gently against Peter’s neck. “Let’s take your pulse, just for kicks.”
Right. His heart is hammering, bouncing through his chest cavity, bruising his ribs as it slams around. That’s not good. That’s bad. He’s still dying.
“Yeah, that’s…” Tony shakes his head, apparently unimpressed with whatever number FRIDAY’s reported. “Deep breaths, remember? Just…chill out.”
Peter nods, and the world tips in response. His head rests against Mr. Stark’s chest.
“It’s ok. I got you.”
Peter tries to narrow down the buzz of perceptions filling his head. He lets his eyes drift closed as he focuses on a single sensation, doing his best to drown out all the rest. The Ironman chest plate is cold. It feels dented under the side of his face. “Are…are you ok?” Peter can still hear the echo of clashing metal.
“I’m good, kid. How are you?”
“Ugh.”
Tony sniffs out the beginning of a laugh. “Yeah. But, with everything you’re dealing with… You’re still doing great.”