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Peter was paying attention, honest.
But the mugger said, “Spiderman, knife to see you,” and then plunged the blade into his side while all Peter could think about was oh my god, did the mugger just make a pun? Then all he could think about was the cold sensation in his side and the way it turned a blistering hot when the knife was yanked from his skin.
Peter didn’t have a chance to swear before he leapt back, the dripping blade in the mugger’s hand.
“Peter,” Karen, his suit’s AI, said in her ever-calming voice, “it appears you’ve been stabbed.”
“I noticed that,” Peter replied.
“Would you like me to call Tony Stark?”
“No. Not yet.”
Peter jumped back into the action, despite the way his side screamed. Maybe it had caught a vital organ; maybe there was blood spraying across the alley – but Peter was focused on his task. The mugging victim had already run and now he just needed to get the knife away from the mugger-
Peter shot a series of well-timed webs, sending the knife skittering across the ground and the mugger back against the wall. He ducked beneath the mugger’s left hook, following up with a punch of his own and two webs to the guy’s wrists.
Then he stumbled back, crashing against the dumpster and letting the pain in for the first time. It was like he was burning and freezing at the same time. Like he was pouring out of himself, like there was acid on his skin or a flame against his insides.
“Shit,” Peter muttered, his hand shaking. He wanted to put pressure on the wound, but every time he got close his body twitched to avoid the pain. “I can’t believe you stabbed me.”
“Peter,” Karen said. “You need medical attention. Would you like me to call Tony Stark?”
“No, no, Karen,” Peter replied. “I’ll deal with this.”
It was the third time he’d been stabbed this month. Maybe he was getting slower, or maybe the muggers were getting better. The other two times he’d run to Mr Stark, and both times he’d seen something like disappointment on his mentor’s face – an expression that made him want to be sick. He didn’t like being a burden, and he certainly didn’t like disappointing the one person he desperately wanted to impress.
No, he’ll sort this out himself.
Peter shot a web at the wall and pulled himself up, biting his tongue to cut off his cries of pain. Once on top of the roof, he took a good look at the wound.
“Karen, notify the police that the mugger’s there, alright?”
“Of course, Peter.”
“Hey, do you have any way of knowing how bad the wound is?” Frowning, Peter felt his legs weaken and he lowered himself to the ground, leaning against the lip of the roof. He couldn’t see the wound well in the low light – just the darker shade of red rhythmically pumping out of his body. He had only been sitting a second when he noticed it already pooling on the rooftop.
“I cannot tell if it has hit any vital organs, but your blood pressure is lowering and your heartbeat slowing. It seems you are losing too much blood. I advise calling Tony Stark or an ambulance.”
Three times in a month. How could a person get stabbed three times in a month? Peter would never live it down and Mr Stark would take away the suit – and Peter didn’t need the suit, but he still, you know, needed it.
It was getting difficult to breathe and he tilted his head back, desperate to see stars in that moment, but finding none; the light pollution in New York forming a navy-blue sheet across the sky, devoid of pin prick lights.
“Fuck,” Peter breathed. “Call Mr Stark.”
“Calling Tony Stark.”
There was a beat and Peter heard the ringing, listened to each one play after each other until they timed out. He let out a choked sob – since when had he been crying?
“Call him again,” Peter said, and the ringing started over.
He slunk further down, resorting at last to pushing his hand over the hole in his side and letting out a cry when the nerve ends lit up in agony. Peter fell to the side, pressing his masked cheek into the cool concrete of the roof and holding both hands tight over the wound.
“Call him again,” Peter repeated when the phone stopped ringing. “Force it through, Karen. I’m fucking dying, force it through.”
After two rings, the phone stopped and Peter heard a grumble as a loud song got cut off.
“What the fu-”
“Mr Stark,” Peter whined, forgetting about whatever dignity he wanted to keep. Every part of him felt wet and sticky – how could there be this much blood in his body?
“Peter?” Tony replied. “What- are you okay?”
Peter choked out another sob and was thankful when that was enough.
“FRIDAY, get his location. Peter, kid, stay on the line. I’m coming for you. Can you tell me what happened?”
Peter whined, forgetting about words when all there was left was the starless sky of New York and the warm, wet blood in his hands. Maybe the knife had gone in very deep indeed. Maybe he’d die in Queens, on a random rooftop, staring at the expanse of the universe he’d never see. Maybe Mr Stark wouldn’t get to him in time.
“Karen,” Tony said. “I know you’re there. What happened?”
Over the tell-tale sounds of the Iron Man thrusters, Karen replied, “Peter was stabbed during an attempt to stop a mugging. He has lost a lot of blood and seems to be losing consciousness.”
“A stabbing? Again?” It sounded like he was trying to keep his voice light, but Peter was finding it difficult to hold onto it. He needed something tangible; something colder than the warm blood and more solid than how it ran in rivulets over his fingers. “Kid, we’re getting you some training, okay? Two stabbings in a month is an anomaly. Three stabbings in a month is a sign.”
Tony talked and Peter tried to grip onto his voice. He choked through barely-there breaths and listened to Mr Stark’s chatter as his lifeline.
Peter stared at the sky. It was so empty and Peter felt like it in that moment; felt just as drained as a sky missing its stars. And then Peter saw it; saw a golden shooting star, flying straight across the black. Could you wish on a golden shooting star?
Peter thought you could, though he wasn’t thinking much anymore.
His mouth moved to make the words but no sound came out; he didn’t have that in him anymore. But he wished anyway and kept his eyes on the golden light, as if it would save his life. I wish Mr Stark will get here in time.
Peter coughed and felt the blood coat the inside of his mouth. The star got brighter. It got closer. He couldn’t manage a smile when Iron Man set down on the roof. Still, he supposed he could wish on that kind of shooting star, after all.