Chapter Text
Cold.
Peter can’t tell if the goosebumps along his arms and spine are from the concerningly low temperature or if his spideysense is stuck on high alert. But he can’t see anything.
He can’t tell if his eyes are open or not, the blackness around him seems to stretch on, even when he looks up. Or what he assums is up. Peter strains to rub his eyes, fights the sheer pain of lifting his arms to get his palms to the sockets to press down nd rub.
Blinking is.. It’s different. He hears his eyelids clicking, as if he’s been awake for too long, but he can’t feel them opening and closing.
Then he gets a shock, almost as if a tiny taser was pressed up against the very kiddle of his spine. Jolts of adrenaline and the bodily address of ‘WARNING! DANGER!’ but he can’t see anything. There’s no sound.
Yelling doesn’t seem to do anything. He can’t hear himself. He can’t see his hands in front of him, or his own voice in his head and the panic starts kicking in.
He wants to run.
To hide.
He wants to be back in his bedroom where he can curl up underneeth the clothes hanging in his closet and sit in the corner.
He’s stuck in this black, never ending abyss of nothingness with only his silent conscious to keep him company.
——
“Cho.”
“Banner.”
The two doctors exchange looks. The female sliding her fingers around the presspad of a holographic tablet at the end of Peter’s bed, her eyes darting around the screen, scanning quickly through all the information she already knows, all the symptoms he has, the injuries he’s recieved. The damage to his organs he’s done to himself.
Bruce isn’t really in the room to help out in means of physical well being, more so he’s there for if Peter were to suddenly wake up and he were to regain his abilities. He’s in the room only to help aide in if the sixteen year old were to put up a fight against the woman, he was to help keep him down, keep him weighted. But looking at him, Bruce knew there was no imminent threat that seemed plausible. Not when the teen looked as if he hasn’t eaten in months.
Tony’s situated himself in the comfiest armchair, tucked in the corner with a mountain of biodegradable cups surrounding him on the side table and the floor. Though Bruce can tell the man is in deep sleep, the pure amount of exhaustion that the past few months have put him through are truly showcased.
“Staring isn’t going to speed anything up.”
Bucky looks over to Steve, who’s got an ugly creme sweater on, the sleeves rolled up to his forearms are he sends a meter behind him. The reflection from the glass is enough to make him not want to turn around and look at the stupid thing. He exhales through his nose and remains standing, watching the way Peter’s hand moves up and down with his lungs.
“You did what you had to. Leave it to Cho to figure out the rest,” Steve places a hand on Bucky’s shoulder, the tightness making him cringe at how painful it’s going to be when he drops his shoulders. Even with the shorter distance between them, Steve can tell the closeness won’t help calm him down. “You need sleep, Bucky. Remember what she told you.” Bucky spares a glance between Peter and then Steve.
Steve who is no longer stick thin and fragile. Steve who no longer has to fight back an asthma attack every five minutes. Steve who doesn’t have the risk of pneumonia.
He looks at Steve, over his eyes, his red tipped ears, his pink nose and cheeks, his neck flushed down to underneath the collar of his horrendous sweater. His body still shos the signs of being cold, as if he stood outside while wet for half an hour. Bucky removes his jacket and hands it to Steve, who looks at him with his brows furrowed.
“Hide that disgusting sweater,” Bucky huffs, taking one last look at Peter, pale as can be, thin as a stick. His eyes drift back to Stark, who’s knocked out in the far chair in the room, empty coffee cup in hand. “I’ll be taking a nap in the common room.”