Chapter Text
And there stood Stark tower, second-tallest building in Manhattan in all its splendor. Peter Parker sat on its roof, drenched from the rain currently pouring down from an almost never-ending storm.
Peter had been out patrolling, caught wind of something he shouldn’t have, and turned in that direction. The people that had been picked up by his senses were wild, rough, and open to murder if need be. And they tried to do just that. The moment they realized that Spiderman had been eavesdropping in on their conversation, they reacted in unison- pulling out weapons and aiming to kill.
But now he was sitting on the roof of Stark tower, crawling his way over to the glass door and praying beyond hope that no one was around to see him. He really, really didn’t want to go in. He didn’t want to be seen, but he didn’t know where else to go.
His body wasn’t able to hold himself up any longer than it had already done.
Peter made it to the door, thanking anyone that could hear him when he found that it was unlocked. To his shock and surprise, a massive living room/ bar was the first thing that greeted him. The space was warm and welcoming, but this wasn’t what he was hoping to find.
His side burned with pain and he forced himself to limp over to the bar area, snagging a bottle of Vodka that was a quarter of the way full.
No such luck for any bandages or warm clothes, though.
It was 5 pm. High school had just ended for the day and by the looks and sounds within the building, it seemed that everyone had stepped out for the night. Whoever had been here at least. Peter really doubted anything the news said about all the Avengers living here. Tony Stark would most likely have a fit.
At least, from what he knew about the billionaire, which wasn't much.
He glanced around quickly, taking note that, like an idiot, he'd left water all over the floor from the outside.
Not that he didn't want to make a mess, more so that he didn't want any evidence of his presence in the building at all.
He needed to find a bathroom, patch himself up, and head right back out. Even though nobody was really looking for him. Or waiting for him.
With a defeated sigh, he stored the Vodka bottle in the crook of his arm and unsteadily made his way through another door, using the walls as support. The halls were wide and swerving in every direction he could make out. There were doors in almost every corner and each one of them was closed.
Great. Great. More of a chance of losing consciousness out in the open before I even find a bathroom in the first place.
He needed somewhere to hide and clean his wounds. He would've loved to do it outside under whatever shelter he could find and not get caught, but he couldn't force himself to step out. Not anymore. Not now that his brain was fighting his body just to stay awake long enough not to die of infection.
If only he had his backpack. His charger and his dead phone were in there, so were his clothes, but he'd left that somewhere behind a garbage can in an alleyway.
He could've charged his phone and quickly texted Ned over Facebook to let him know he was doing alright. Except he wasn't. Not now and not ever.
The poor sap had basically drained his battery texting him and attempting to call him over 25 times. He was forced to turn it off. Not that it helped. His phone still died anyway.
He patted his way down the hall, listening into the clothes doors to make sure he truly was alone and to not accidentally barge into someone's bedroom without realizing it. If the Avengers really did happen to be living here.
But everything was dead silent. It was kind of unnerving if Peter wasn't trying to keep as quiet as possible himself.
He'd gone through a number of doors at this point, his feet shuffling and struggling to keep him upright. He was just about to lose hope until a door revealed a tiled room with a massive sized shower at one wall and a sink with a full view mirror on the other side.
Thank God.
With a great sigh, he pushed himself fully into the room, closed the door, and felt around for a light switch before he was finally able to see.
He dropped to the pristine toilet seat and edged himself close enough to the sink to grab handfuls of clean water to splash on his face.
He was already wet from the rain, but this water was much cleaner compared to the sludge he had to get through in order to get out of the alley in the first place.
The Vodka bottle sat ominously on the floor beside his feet. That was only precaution in case he really needed it.
And looking through the cabinet, yeah, it would appear that there was nothing else to disinfect a wound in the room.
Fantastic.
He did find a roll of gauze however. Thankfully.
Without a second's thought, he pulled off his mask and the top half of his suit, letting it pool at his hips.
Just that act strained him to heavy pants, sweat beading down his neck and on his forehead. He was in worse shape than she thought.
His chest was covered in bludgeons from metal pipes, arms left bruised with hand prints, a slowly forming black eye, and the worst- three long gashes from a switchblade running down his ribs to his hip.
In short, he was pretty messed up and so was his suit. One of his web shooters had run out completely of web fluid on top of that. So, he would have to deal with that and an escape plan later.
Oh man, what did i just get himself into?
Bracing himself, he took a cloth from the hook beside him and poured water and an ample amount of Vodka onto it.
God, this was gonna hurt. A lot. He ran a hand through his hair and took one last final calming breath.
And just like that, he pushed the towel against his wound and instantly regretted it.
The pain was excruciating. If he had to guess, Vodka was a lot worse than he thought. Actually, he knew it was a lot worse from experience.
But he kept pushing on the wound, trying his best not to scream out. It needed to be disinfected before… before the next thing he knew he had to do. One of the gashes had been so large that it merged with the second and left a gaping slice.
Oh, God.
He hoped no one was in the building. He was completely vulnerable at the moment and there was no way he'd be able to come up with a plausible excuse in his condition.
I am so screwed.
Finally, he removed the towel, too afraid to even look at the wound at this point. The next thing to come would be one of the hardest. And Peter was in no way looking forward to that.
He placed the now empty Vodka bottle on top of the sink, his mask right beside it, and searched the bottom cabinet in hopes of what he needed.
And there they were. Needles nestled into a plastic box with an array of differently colored and strengthened spools of thread. Now he really had no choice but to do what he had to.
Can't use the excuse that the things aren't there. Too bad.
He wasn't exactly an expert at sewing, but he'd patched up a few holes in his suit before. Shouldn't be any different. Except this time it was skin. On his own body.
Good job, Spiderman.
“Alright, let's make this quick.” he mumbled to himself, gritting his teeth and preparing himself for what would be next.
He quickly chose a thread, looped it through the needle and braced himself as he made the first stitch.
“God!”
A sound outside was made, footsteps, a door opening, and then a surprised shout.
“Oh shit, shit.”
Blood was pouring through his fingers, thread cutting through his skin, and he was too shocked to move. He didn't know what to do.
His breathing got ragged and he forced himself to let go of the needle and let it dangle at his side with three stitches still tight on his wound.
The footsteps were getting closer and helped there was no way he'd be able to run from the room and… and go where? He hadn't even bothered to scout the area, find a window, nothing. He was much too weak to even get up as a matter of fact.
The footsteps stopped beside the bathroom door.
As a split second decision, he grasped his mask and yanked it from the sink.
The bottle of Vodka came crashing down with it, smashing the moment it touched the tile.
And then a series of things happened. The bottle shattered, his mask fell from his grip, and the door flew open.