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The dust of the impact settles around him, and Peter is taken aback by the silence.
Even with his mask off, his senses are dull and frenzied. He feels like his head’s been submerged beneath the sand he lies sprawled on, sealing his ears shut and making his eyes water. His limbs still ache with the phantom weight of the building on top of him, arms trembling as he pulls himself up from the ground. Out of all his reckless ideas, Peter thinks, this one had to be the worst one by far.
But he made it this far. He had to keep going.
Peter lets himself cough roughly, the stolen air from his lungs replenishing itself with smoke and fire. Groaning, he makes his way slowly to his feet, stumbling slightly as his body recalibrates how to distribute his weight. He blinks slowly, trying to clear his vision as he moves towards the epicenter of the crash.
He doesn’t make it more than a few feet before a rush of movement cuts through the haze of smoke, knocking him off his feet and flipping him backwards over the sand. The whir of mechanical wings grates through the ringing in his muffled ears as he turns himself over again. Toomes.
“Hey, Pedro.” The man’s voice drips with a dark kind of malice, bright green eyes blazing with anger even through his mask. Peter’s barely on his feet again before Toomes charges at him, sparks shooting dangerously off his damaged wings.
Peter manages to dodge the oncoming attack, throwing himself back towards the ground and rolling underneath the Vulture’s claws. Before Toomes can retaliate, Peter leaps backwards, shooting a line of webbing at his assailant. Toomes is on him in a second, metal wings slicing through the thin webbing before the full force of his talons strike Peter in the chest. His back hits the sand with a thud, ribs screaming in protest under the man’s weight as the air is forcibly drawn from his lungs. Something explodes throughout his torso, a pain so sharp and sudden and strong that Peter can’t help but scream. His ears still feel like they’re filled with cotton, the sounds of destruction and his own panic-induced terror softened to a dull roar. He feels his throat strain under the pressure.
Toomes isn’t finished with him yet, though. Barely a second passes before a metal fist collides with Peter’s cheek, cutting his screams short. The man is relentless, throwing punch after punch until Peter can barely open his eyes. With each strike to his face, Peter finds it harder and harder to breathe.
The beating ceases for a moment, and Peter takes the opportunity to inhale sharply. He coughs wetly, nearly choking on the sudden intake of oxygen. The taste of iron fills the back of his throat, and its all Peter can do to not roll over and vomit into the sand (not that he could move like that in his position, anyway). His head throbs like a heartbeat, each pulse a dagger to his skull. He lets his head roll limply to the side, eyelids fluttering weakly as he struggles to clear his vision, and Toomes takes this as a sign that the kid is finally down for the count. He unfurls his wings, taking to the sky.
If the pain of the initial impact was enough to make Peter’s throat burn from screaming, then this was a level of agony previously incomprehensible to him. Each shift in the position of his body sends a bone-deep spasm of fire across his chest, tiny explosions that feel like they’re burying shrapnel into every inch of his chest cavity. His skin feels wet and sticky where the claws grip him, and Peter realizes in horror what the cause is almost as soon as Toomes goes airborne. The Vulture’s talons had pierced clean through his suit, breaking the skin almost effortlessly and burrowing their way into his chest.
A cry tears itself out of Peter as he flings an arm upwards, blindly grasping for some form of purchase on the mechanical suit above him. His fingers curl desperately around the talons digging into his skin, panic settling under his skin. He had to get loose, had to get free, had to get them out. Peter’s stomach churns nauseatingly and he squeezes his eyes shut, the formation of tears burning alongside the fire in his bones.
Toomes glances down at the kid clinging to his leg, brow furrowing in irritation. Why couldn’t this damned kid just die already? With his free leg, Toomes begins to kick at Peter, attempting to loosen his death grip on his suit. A few well-aimed strikes to Peter’s arm is enough to reward him with a terrified scream from the kid as his hands finally fall away. His body, however, doesn’t fall with him.
To hell with this, Toomes thinks. His wings howl with a mechanical whir as he reverses their direction, plummeting towards the ground.
Peter feels the wind whip around his body as he fumbles again for the Vulture’s talons. If he could just get them out of his chest, if he could just get himself free, then maybe, maybe—
He never gets to finish his thought before his body hits the sand with a sickening thud, the full weight of Toomes back on his chest again. Peter chokes on something warm and metallic as the talons sink even deeper beneath his skin. This time, he can’t even draw in enough air to scream. Black spots dance in the corners of his vision as tears swim beneath his eyelids, unshed.
It takes all of his effort to pry his eyes open again. He gazes up at Toomes, eyes unfocused. The man rips his mask off, a triumphant sort of anger painted across his face that’s only amplified by the glow of the flames. He kneels down beside him, shifting his weight onto his right knee, and Peter almost sighs in relief as the crushing pressure above his ribs finally seems to let up. Instead, he coughs weakly. There’s a wetness to the sound that ignites a spark of worry somewhere in his mind, but sends a smile across Toomes’ face.
“You know, Pete, I almost envy you,” Toomes’ voice is a low hum, an almost soothing sound. He extends a hand towards the kid, running his fingers roughly through his matted hair. It’s an oddly paternal gesture, one Peter leans into without even thinking as delirium and fear get the upper hand. “After tonight, you won’t have to deal with this kind of world anymore.”
That would be nice, Peter thinks, unprompted. With the weight off his chest, he finds it easier for his mind to drift elsewhere. His eyelids droop heavily as his mind finds temporary comfort with Toomes’s hand cradling the side of his head. It really would be so easy for him to just drift off right here, to let his eyes rest just for a moment.
As Toomes moves to stand, he moves his hand from Peter’s head to his shoulder. Peter lets out a small whimper as he lifts his head weakly, desperate for the contact. The pressure atop Peter’s ribs returns suddenly with full force, and his eyes shoot back open. The panic slams back into him, gripping with tight fists at his lungs as he fights to draw in weak gasps of desperate air. His gaze drifts upwards and he’s met with the menacing grin of a man who knows exactly the kind of torment he’s inflicting. “I’d tell you I’m sorry,” Toomes says with a shrug, an air of amusement to his tone, “but then I’d be lying.” With one hand holding Peter down, Toomes finally tears his claws free of the boy’s chest, but not before dragging them down across the full length of his torso for extra measure.
The black spots bleed into Peter’s vision once more as he screams in anguish, his fists balling up sand at his sides. The tiny grains bleed through his clenched fingers as he writhes on the ground, his breath coming in short, ragged spurts. He thought having the claws in him made it hard to breathe? This was on a different level. His ribs groan in protest with each trembling inhale, and the rise and fall of his chest sends new waves of pain coursing through his body. He brings a trembling hand to his stomach, his breath hitching as his fingers brush against fresh blood. He can feel more seeping out of the puncture wound in his chest, staining the shredded fabric of his hoodie.
Peter can barely move a muscle as Toomes makes his way towards the plane’s discarded cargo, his mission once again the utmost priority. He latches on to the first crate of tech he sees, the surrounding fires illuminating the blood on his claws. Peter blinks up at him, eyes widening. The mechanical wings are sparking dangerously now, clearly having overexerted themselves in the chaos.
They’re going to explode, he realizes.
Then, I have to move.
Peter tries not to waste his breath with more screaming. He steels himself, ignoring every pleading protest of his limbs as he fights to rest his weight on his elbow. He’d just walked off the impact of a freaking building, he reminds himself. He could do this. His arm trembles as he shifts himself into a sitting position, trying and failing to keep his cries of pain to a minimum. He raises his arm slowly, hoping that his aim is correct before firing a web towards Toomes' wings.
The web catches fast to the sparking metal, and Peter is dragged to his feet in an instant. The sudden movement is enough to spill precious air out of his lungs yet again, and he gasps desperately to refill them, clinging to the webbing like a lifeline as he's dragged across the sand.
Toomes turns, a satisfied look on his face. “Time to go home, Pete.”
Peter’s chest stutters in protest as he screams. “I’m trying to save you!”
Whether Toomes hears him or not doesn’t matter. He slices through the webbing without another word, the release of tension sending Peter sprawling back onto the sand. He tries in vain to shoot another web, his heart plummeting when his web shooter jams, empty. Peter watches helplessly as Toomes takes to the sky again, fighting against the panic in his veins in a desperate attempt to keep hold of what little air he has left in his lungs.
Toomes makes it about fifteen feet before his wings give out and he drops to the ground, metal erupting in a fiery explosion.
Peter stares at the flames, eyes wide and lips trembling. Every nerve in his body screams in protest as he pushes himself into a sitting position, his chest constricting tightly as he draws in a deep breath. Grunting, he pushes his weight onto one arm and hoists himself to his feet, his lungs fighting to keep pace with the rest of his body. He pushes the pain to the back of his mind, filing it away for later assessment, for when he was out of this mess and Toomes was in the hands of the authorities. Not dead on a beach, buried under charred metal and surrounded by iron and flames and blood.
Peter breaks into a run, fighting down a whimper with every step. The proximity of the flames make it even harder for him to catch his breath, and Peter can barely stay moving in a straight line. His eyelids flutter and he sways dangerously, catching himself only seconds before his knees can hit the earth. He shakes his head gently, trying to clear his mind, wincing at the way his brain feels like it’s being tossed around his skull like a football.
In a brief moment of clarity, he blinks. Toomes. Find Toomes.
It doesn’t take him very long to find the man buried under the wreckage of his own creation. The mangled metal of the wings is hot to the touch, and Peter hisses sharply as the heat sears into his fingertips. He grits his teeth against the sting and yells, hoisting the battered metal off of Toomes and throwing it aside. He takes advantage of the fact that Toomes is barely conscious, webbing his hands up tightly behind his back before dragging him slowly away from the flames.
Time blurs together for Peter after that. He doesn’t know how long he stays up on his feet, stacking up crates and webbing them together. By the time his other web shooter runs empty, Toomes is awake and alert again. That’s good, Peter reminds himself. That means he’s alive.
Peter knows that people will be here soon. Damage control, curious passersby. Happy. Tony.
Oh, yeah.
Mr. Stark is definitely going to kill me this time.
Despite the connotations of it, Peter clings to this thought like a lifeline, grounding himself in his own head as the flames dance dizzyingly around him. With web swinging no longer a viable option of escape, he sets off across the beach, each step heavier than the last.
The further he walks, the faster his adrenaline seems to deplete. Slowly, Peter feels the haze begin to creep back into his brain. The world swims around him, his vision blurring as he sways shakily on his feet. He draws in a shuddering breath, shallow and smoke filled, and abruptly erupts into a coughing fit. In a second, he’s on the ground, fingers digging deep into the sand as he hacks uncontrollably. Through watery eyes, he sees flecks of blood dot the ground beneath him, the taste of iron back on his tongue.
That can’t be good.
Eventually, the coughing subsides, Peter’s chest aching as he gasps furiously to refill his deflated lungs. Much to his dismay, they refuse to cooperate, oxygen lodging itself in his throat and sending another spasm of coughs through his frame. “P-Please,” he rasps out, tears pricking the corners of his eyes as he fights to breathe again. “Help.”
There’s no one around to hear him. Peter is alone.
He can only keep himself balanced for a few more seconds before his quivering arms give out beneath him and he collapses into the sand. Blood dribbles slowly down the side of his chin, congealing onto the grains of sand beneath his cheek. Peter lays on his side, wheezing quietly, unable to do anything besides let the pain wash over him like the low tide of the ocean.
Toomes was probably right, he thinks dazedly. This world probably would have its fill of him after tonight.
Peter squeezes his eyes shut, trying and failing to blink away the tears welling up. He almost wishes that Tony would send another suit in his stead to come retrieve him like that night in the river, plucking him from the jaws of death before they could sink their teeth into him. But that would require Tony to actually know where he was, and this suit was distinctly not equipped with Stark tech. Peter feels the weight of this realization hit him like a truck.
No one knew he was here. Sure, damage control would probably be on the scene within the hour, but how long would it be until someone found him lying among the shadows of the wreckage?
Peter pries his eyes open with more effort than he wishes to admit. He digs his fingers into the sand, letting the grains slide across his skin and honing his focus on the places they made contact. His chest shakes and stutters with every weak breath his lungs inhale, and he tries not to think about the taste of the blood clinging to his teeth. He just needed to pull it together for a little while longer. He could do this.
Gotta stay awake, gotta stay awake, gotta…stay…awake…
The plane had gone down.
Of course it did. Just when things looked like they were going smoothly, everything had to come crashing down, both physically and metaphorically. Tony was less than thrilled with the prospect of reconnaissance on their damaged goods, but if this was going to set the move even further behind schedule, the least he could do is be there to see it run smoothly. Happy’s already on the ground by the time he departs from the Compound, relaying updates to Tony as he receives them.
For the most part, the tech was untouched. Some crates had been damaged in the crash, but it seemed as though this team had gotten to it before anyone else could scavenge the scene for their own benefit. Tony’s glad to hear that much, at least. He could do without his tech falling into the wrong hands for the rest of his lifetime, thank you very much.
The Quinjet touches down on the outskirts of the carnage, and Tony disembarks. Most of the fires are smoldering now, and darkness is beginning to settle over the beach once again. It’s eerie, Tony thinks. An unsettling feeling lingers in the air around him, personified by the remnants of smoke and ash. He tries not to acknowledge it. The sight of Happy making his way over to the jet pulls him away from his nervous thinking, and Tony moves to meet him in the middle.
“Give me some good news, Hap,” Tony clasps his hands together as he talks. “Do we know anything about how this happened?”
Happy looks like he wants to say something, but the words are caught in his throat. Tony fixes him with a pointed look, and he heaves a sigh. “It was the kid.”
A pause. “I’m sorry, run that by me again? Because I could have sworn you said, ‘the kid.’ As in Peter Parker kid, friendly neighborhood spiderling who’s supposed to be at homecoming tonight, and whose suit I took away so that he didn’t continue to go chasing down arms dealers who dress like birds? That kid?”
“Yeah, that kid,” Happy retorts, a slightly apprehensive edge to his tone. He hands something small and dark to Tony, who instantly recognizes it as Peter’s self made mask. “He got your arms dealing birdman, as well.”
“Of course he did.” Tony’s tone is an odd mixture of pride and annoyance, like he hasn’t quite made up his mind on how to feel about the kid’s latest feat in disobeying the people trying to keep him safe. “So then where is he?”
Happy hesitates. “I don’t know,” he says after a moment. The unsettling feeling creeps its way back under Tony’s skin. He pushes back against it. The kid’s fine. “Right. Okay. He… he doesn’t have his mask on him. Webbing himself back home isn’t gonna work for him. Neither will walking.” A high school student casually strolling the New York streets undoubtedly looking like he just went toe to toe with an oncoming train was bound to draw a few eyes that Tony didn’t think Peter would be too keen on.
“You think he’s still around here somewhere?” Happy presses.
“Most likely.” Tony glances over his shoulder, weighing his options. “We could split up. Cover more ground, get less eyes on the kid once we find him.”
Happy nods, making his way back towards where the authorities were gathered, no doubt going to make sure their resident criminal phoenix was no longer a threat. Tony sets off in the opposite direction, clutching Peter’s mask tightly in his hands and trying to keep his anxious thoughts at bay.
God, what was the kid thinking? Birdman gave him enough trouble with the suit on, but without it? Tony didn’t want to imagine the state Peter could be in right now.
As he moves further away from the light of the dying flames, he comes upon an odd impression in the sand. It looks almost like a trail of heavy footprints, leading away from the epicenter of the crash and into the darkness of the beach, illuminated by more moonlight than firelight. Tony notices the weight of the tracks, like whatever—or whoever—made them was barely able to drag their own weight along. Anxiety sends his beating heart into his throat, and he continues searching.
Eventually, Tony spots a figure in the sand a few feet away, small and motionless. Even in the growing darkness, he can spot the bright red and blue of Peter’s homemade costume. Tony swears under his breath, quickening his pace towards the crumpled figure. “Peter? Can you hear me?” Tony drops the mask in the sand and kneels down besides Peter, reaching out to grip his shoulder. Careful not to jostle him too much, Tony rolls Peter slowly onto his back.
Peter groans unconsciously at the movement, his brow furrowing in discomfort. Dark clumps of sand cling to the front of his sweatshirt, the fabric torn and bloodied beyond recognition. With his body now facing upwards, Tony can see the blood staining Peter’s lips, a stark contrast to the ashen shade of his face.
Tony feels his body go numb at the sight of him. He swallows around a lump in his throat, using the hand he’d placed on Peter’s shoulder to shake him gently. “Kid?” He chokes out, voice barely above a whisper. Another quiet groan escapes Peter’s lips, but he shows no sign of waking.
Tony inhales sharply, suddenly. He needed to get him out of here now. He throws a glance over his shoulder, eyes falling on the outline of the jet in the distance. Tony steels himself before turning back to Peter. “This is probably gonna hurt a lot, kid,” he says apologetically, hoping that somehow, Peter can still hear him. Tony grips Peter’s hand to hoist his arm around his neck and freezes when he feels his fingers curl back weakly around his own, nearly dropping his arm back onto the sand. He breathes out in relief, a sharp sound that sounds almost like the beginning of a laugh, and squeezes Peter’s hand back reassuringly. “I got you, kid. Don’t worry.”
Once Peter’s arm is draped around his neck, Tony digs his hands into the sand beneath Peter’s back, shifting him upwards into a sitting position. The bulk of his weight is propped against Tony’s chest, his head lolling forward as Tony scoops his legs up as well. The kid’s a lot lighter than Tony expected, which worries him. His head slumps against Tony’s shoulder as he retraces his steps back to the jet, keeping an even pace but taking care to not agitate Peter’s injuries any further.
As they approach the jet, Peter draws in a deep breath. He makes quiet, strangled sound, something between a cough and a cry as his body trembles with the pain of trying to take in too much air at once. His eyes flutter open weakly and he turns his head slightly to look up at Tony, eyes glassy and unfocused.
“Hey, hey, I got you.” Tony murmurs quietly. He pauses in his stride to let Peter catch his breath before continuing on, never looking away from Peter.
Peter breathes out softly around a syllable. “...’ssster St’rk?” His words slur together, lips barely parting to allow him to speak.
“Yeah, kid, it’s me.” Tony feels his heart tighten at the way Peter speaks, like the words are trapped inside his lungs and he can only whisper them out on every other breath without choking on them.
Peter almost smiles, relieved, before his face contorts into a wince and he groans painfully. A single trembling cough wracks his frame, and he draws in a sharp inhale. “H-hurts,” he mumbles quietly, the pain subsiding long enough to let him speak the word on a gentle exhale.
“I know, kiddo.” Tony responds, trying not to think about how distant Peter’s gaze is. “It’ll all be over soon. Just hold on a little while longer.”
“Mhm,” Peter murmurs quietly, a tinier cough forcing its way out of his throat. Tony feels Peter’s head shifting against his shoulder and watches as his eyelids slowly slip shut again. Fear slices itself through Tony’s ribcage like sharpened blade, lodging itself firmly in his heart.
“No, no, no, don’t go to sleep again, Pete,” Tony tries to keep his voice even, but panic creeps its way into his tone. Peter tries to nod, only managing to lift his head upwards an inch or two before his neck can no longer support its weight.
“...‘m sorry,” he mumbles as he blinks slowly. Once, twice, three times…. After the third blink, Peter’s eyes refuse to open again.
“Pete?” Tony stops walking again, only a short distance away from the jet. No response. “Peter!” Peter’s eyes remain closed, the last of his already depleted energy spent on their brief conversation. Tony’s eyes catch on a small trickle of blood making its way down Peter’s chin from the corner of his mouth.
Shit. Was that there before?
Tony doesn’t spare a moment to try and answer himself. His grip on Peter tightens as he continues towards the jet, not stopping until he’s crossed the threshold and has laid the kid down gently on the ground, his back propped up against the wall. Peter whimpers quietly as Tony tries to shift him into a sitting position, his arm flopping weakly across the gashes over his stomach. “FRIDAY, get us out of here,” Tony rasps out, fear winding its hands around his throat and threatening to suffocate him. “Let Happy know where we’re going, and tell him Peter’s—” Okay, he almost says, but he pauses. He doesn’t know that for sure. “Tell him Peter’s with me. I got him.”
FRIDAY complies with a low hum, and Tony collapses shakily to his knees as the jet reverberates with the turbulence of liftoff. He places a firm hand on Peter’s shoulder to keep him steady, trying not to wince at the way his head rolls limply forward with the motions of the jet.
Out of the dim lights of the night, the extremities of Peter’s condition stand out even more. Blood clings desperately to his skin, as if it were trying to cannibalize the color out of his complexion. His eyes drift towards Peter’s mangled costume, the fake-cherry red of his hoodie now brutally shredded and stained with blood so dark it’s almost black under the jet’s fluorescent lights. The spider emblem has been pierced clean through, leaving a frayed hole just slightly off center that looks too much like a gunshot for Tony to feel even remotely okay. The kid looks…dead, Tony thinks, terrified. Even with the unsteady rise and fall of his chest and the occasional quiet groan, Tony struggles to remember that the Peter slumped over on the floor of a jet looking like death warmed over was the same bright and eager and alive kid that accompanied him to Germany just a few months ago.
Tony swallows thickly. “Hey FRI,” he speaks up again after a moment, pressing a hand to his lips as he hears the tremble in his voice. “How bad is he looking?”
There’s a moment of silence before FRIDAY responds, and Tony takes the opportunity to draw in a slow, deep breath. “Mr. Parker has sustained deep lacerations in the skin around his stomach and abdomen, as well as numerous bruised ribs. There is also a substantial amount of blood collecting around his left lung, most likely a result of damage to his chest wall. This accumulation of blood is putting a fair amount of pressure on his lung and appears to be making breathing difficult for him.”
Tony’s thankful that he’s already sitting on the floor, because FRIDAY’s diagnostics would have surely made him collapse otherwise. Holy shit. A beat of silence passes before Tony realizes he hasn’t responded. He exhales sharply. “Okay. Uhh…alert the on-call medics at the Compound. Tell them to be on standby, and let them know the state he’s in.”
“Will do, boss.”
Suddenly, Tony can’t stay sitting anymore. He rises to his feet, pacing nervously around the hull of the ship, the continuous movement a distraction from the anxieties burrowing their way under his skin. His eyes never leave Peter.
He isn’t sure how much time passes before FRIDAY’s sharp voice rings clear through the silence, piercing his thoughts. “Approaching the Compound, boss.”
“Great. Thanks, FRI,” he says. His voice sounds hollow in the empty space. He casts another sidelong glance at Peter, who now looks as though he’s peacefully asleep. If he tries hard enough, Tony can almost pretend that’s all this is. Like they’re still months in the past and only just now coming back home from Germany, Peter jet lagged out of his mind and passed out on the plane ride back. Like the Avengers aren’t fractured and Tony isn’t still making excuses for moving upstate and Peter’s lungs aren’t being crushed under the weight of his own blood.
The jet shakes slightly as it comes to land in front of the Compound, a soft groan escaping Peter as the movement causes his body to shift. As the doors hiss open, Tony kneels back down besides Peter. He watches as Peter reacts to the sounds, his eyes creeping open slowly, gently. His gaze is tinged with fatigue and confusion as he meets Tony’s own. Tony forces a smile that he hopes comes across as comforting. “We’re almost there, Pete,” he says, worming his hand gingerly behind Peter’s back in order to pick him back up. Out of the corner of his eye, he spots a pair of doctors making their way towards the landing zone, the two of them pushing a gurney between them. Tony rises with Peter in his arms.
It’s gonna be okay, he thinks, daring to let the ghost of a genuine smile creep onto his lips. The relief is palpable, and Tony lets it wash over him like a wave on the beach.
It’s a mistake.
Just like a rise in the tide, Tony’s only given a few seconds of calm before the currents come rushing back in. He’s only taken a few steps forward before the kid inhales sharply and suddenly. His eyes shoot wide open, and whatever weight Tony had managed to slide off his shoulders slams back into his body with the force of a train. Peter opens his mouth, most likely in an attempt to speak, but the only thing that comes out is a weak, pleading cry. His eyes find Tony’s, and Tony swears he can feel his heart stop beating as he sees the immeasurable amount of pain swimming beneath his welling tears.
“Help!” Tony can barely hear himself call out through the sound of his own blood pounding in his ears. He stumbles the rest of the way out of the jet and onto the tarmac, meeting the doctors halfway. They pull Peter gently out of his grasp and lay him down on the gurney, his chest rising and falling in rapid succession as he draws in frantic gulps of air. Without Tony as a focal point, his eyes dart chaotically around his surroundings, never lingering anywhere for more than a second. For a brief moment, Tony half wishes he was still unconscious.
As the doctors begin to wheel him back towards the building, Peter reaches out, blindly grasping at the open air. His fingers find Tony’s wrist and curl furiously around him, a single strand of stability for him to latch onto as Tony watches his eyes move wildly. “It’s okay, I’m right here,” he says. His voice sounds too quiet. “I got you.” Peter screws his eyes shut, tears shining on his face.
The doctors move fast, aided by the fact that, given the late hour, the corridors of the Compound are mostly vacant. They arrive in the med bay with little trouble, the rest of the medical team already prepared for his arrival. Thank goodness for FRIDAY, Tony thinks belatedly.
As the rest of the med team surround them, Tony feels Peter’s fingers loosen their grip around his wrist. The wave of pain seems to have ebbed for the moment, his eyes still closed but no longer screwed up in a painful expression. Judging by the way Peter twitches and whimpers, however, Tony can tell he’s far from being out of the woods.
One of the doctors approaches Peter’s side, moving to cut away at his suit to properly assess the wounds across his chest. Tony steps back to let her work, recalling FRIDAY’s earlier analysis of the kid’s injuries, and Peter’s hand drops limply back to his side once he pulls away. Much of what she says to her associates washes over Tony without really sticking. He does manage to catch her mention of a chest tube, though, and his eyes widen in realization. “We haven’t figured out a safe sedative for him yet.” He hears himself speak, feels the sound reverberate through his throat and into the room, but his mind doesn’t register the sound of his voice. “His metabolism— he burns through them too quickly.”
The doctor exchanges a knowing glance with everyone in the room before turning back to Tony. “The best option would be to do it without putting him under, then.”
From his position on the bed, Peter makes another strangled noise, the pain no doubt having returned with full force as his mangled hoodie is slowly pulled off of him. Tony hears the sound and, for a fleeting moment, he considers arguing with her. The idea of putting the kid through any more pain when he was practically writhing in it not two feet away made something twist sickly in his chest. He catches her gaze, and she meets his evenly. Her tone is cautious as she elaborates. “We can look at options for temporary sedation once we can assess the severity of his other injuries. But we need to drain the blood in his chest now.” Tony breathes in deeply. He hates it, but he knows that she’s right.
Tony’s view of Peter is soon obstructed by the doctors as they prepare to insert the tube into his chest. He feels someone place a hand on his shoulder (one of the doctors, most likely), turning him away from Peter and steering him towards the door. He doesn’t want to leave, not really, not when Peter is right there and in pain and about to experience even more. He’s only acutely aware of being led out of the med bay, his mind unable to concentrate on anything that isn’t Peter in that hospital bed, Peter unable to breathe without pain, Peter with glassy eyes and bloody lips and drained of life and light and everything that made him so very Peter. He savors the momentary numbness to the world, an artificial second of silence before they make the incision and Peter is screaming and everything around Tony shatters once again.
He wants to turn around, to run straight back to the med bay and back to Peter and not leave his side even after the doctors have picked up the pieces strewn about on that beach and sewn them back together. But he can’t. The tiny part of his mind still operating on logic wins out, surprisingly. All he can do is stand there, frozen, as Peter’s voice echoes in his ears and whatever pieces of him have shattered lodge themselves into his beating heart like shrapnel.
Away from the med bay, alone, Tony crumples under his own weight. He staggers to the side, his back colliding hard against the wall. He doesn’t even register when his legs give out beneath him and he slides to the floor, covering his face with his shaking hands and pressing his fingers into his eyes as if to fend off a migraine. His mind is cluttered, chaotic, anxieties and fears and reprimands all screaming at each other like some kind of mock debate. One thought permeates through them all, though, a simple fact that digs its claws into Tony’s mind and settles on his heart like a paperweight.
This is your fault, Stark.
As much as a small part of Tony wanted to blame Peter for this, to say that he simply didn’t listen to him and call it a night, he knew that wouldn’t be fair. Not even remotely. He was an idiot for thinking that Peter would ever leave this kind of thing alone. This wasn’t about proving to Tony that he was right to choose him, or about showing that Spider-Man could actually be an asset to the team.
The kid exuded morality the same way Tony attracted danger, polar opposite to Tony in every way and yet still stuck to his side like a magnet. He was right here, after all, laying in a bed two rooms over with a tube draining the blood out of his chest, a blanket statement that he would continue to put his life on the line for others with or without Tony’s support.
Tony doesn’t know how much time he spends on the ground, palms pressed to his face in hopes of fending off the relentless waves of panic now threatening to drag him back out to sea. He does know that, at some point, Peter’s screams had finally gone silent. Maybe the doctors were finally able to give him a safe dosage of sedatives, or maybe he had just passed out from the pain. Either way, Tony grabs hold of the quiet like a lifeline, trying, trying to pull himself back to shore.
“Tony.” A gentle voice breaks the silence around him, a voice he recognizes instantly and almost breaks down all over again upon hearing. Pepper. He hears her shift to crouch down beside him, feels her hands come to encircle the base of his wrists, a cautious attempt to pry him out of the shell he’s encased himself in. “Tony, look at me.”
With some reluctance, Tony pulls his hands back from his face. Pepper’s gaze is unwavering, her eyes filled with a mixture of concern and confusion and unspoken questions. Tony exhales slowly, a trembling sound. “It’s the kid,” he says, and even just those words are a struggle to speak. “Peter. He… he’s in bad shape, Pep.”
Pepper’s brow furrows, her thumb rubbing soothing circles on Tony’s left wrist. He swallows before continuing. “He took down that plane, stopped it from being hijacked. Did it all in, what can I even call them? Pajamas? All because I took his suit away.” Tony blinks, and his eyes burn. “It’s my fault he’s in there, Pep.”
“Oh, Tony.” Pepper wraps her arm around his shoulders, pulling him close. He closes his eyes, resting his chin on her shoulder. “You couldn’t have known,” she murmurs, her voice quiet even next to his ear.
Tony shakes his head lightly. “I should have,” he responds. “God, I should have. He was all over that guy, kept trying over and over again to take him down.” His voice is tiny. “I just feel like I failed him.”
Pepper leans back from their embrace to look Tony in the eyes. “You did not fail him, Tony. You saved his life.” Her hand moves from his back to his shoulder, an endlessly comforting point of contact.
Tony huffs, and it sounds like a dry chuckle. He glances down at his hands, noticing for the first time since the med bay that there’s blood drying on his fingertips. “I don’t think that matters very much when I was the one to put him in danger in the first place.”
“You know what I think?” Pepper asks softly. She waits until Tony’s eyes meet hers again before continuing. “I think you blame yourself too much.”
At this, Tony says nothing. He has plenty of responses prepared, mostly excuses, but he knows she isn’t going to take any of them. As much as he wants to believe her, to tell himself that the man who hurt Peter was the only one to blame for all of this, the guilt still weighs heavy on his shoulders.
Pepper pulls him out of his thoughts with a gentle squeeze of his hand. “Come on,” she says, nudging him slightly as she stands. “You should get some rest.” Tony follows with only slight reluctance, unsure if his feet would be able to carry his weight. Once standing, he becomes acutely aware of how tired he actually is, and any protest against Pepper’s suggestion for him to sleep dies on his tongue. As they make their way slowly down the halls, Pepper wraps her arm around his shoulders again. “He’s gonna be alright. He’s in good hands,” she promises, and if it’s her who’s saying it, then maybe he can let himself believe it.
In the morning, Tony drifts towards the opposite side of the Compound. The doctors had moved Peter from the med bay to a room of his own sometime after they had finished patching him up, hoping that it would be more comfortable for him. Selfishly, Tony’s grateful for it. He doesn’t think he could handle seeing Peter in the med bay again, surrounded by reminders of what had happened. Tony was fine with settling for an illusion of normality.
When Tony arrives, the door is already open. Sunlight spills through the wall sized windows, illuminating the room with a warmth that feels hopeful. Peter’s already awake, his bed adjusted to an incline in order to keep the strain off of his upper body. His gaze is trained on something outside, Tony thinks, or maybe nothing at all. Still, he can’t help but feel optimistic at the sight of Peter awake and alert when he was nearly dead the last time he had seen him.
Tony taps his knuckles gently against the door frame, turning Peter’s attention away from the window. “Hey kid.” He lifts his hand to wave at him, attempting a small smile. “Mind if I come in?” Peter shakes his head, eyes wide.
Tony moves towards a chair at Peter’s bedside, clutching the homemade Spider-Man mask in one hand. Sometime last night, after Pepper was finally able to coax him into a few hours of restless sleep, one of the medics had gone back into the jet and had collected the discarded piece of costuming. The fabric is soft and intact and grounding, the only piece of the kid’s suit that isn’t somehow shredded or stained with blood. “Here,” he says, coming to a stop behind the chair. “I think you dropped this.” He passes it to Peter, who looks down at Tony’s outstretched hand before gingerly taking the mask, giving Tony a small smile of gratitude.
Tony smiles back. “How are you feeling?”
Peter hesitates before answering. “I’m… okay,” he says after a moment. He doesn’t look nearly as energetic as Tony knows he could be, but there’s color in his face again that isn’t streaks of dried blood, and he takes that as a win.
Tony sits down heavily, sighing deeply. “I’m glad you’re alright, kid,” he starts. “But we need to talk.”
Peter seemed to know this was coming. He opens his mouth, words tumbling out a mile a minute. “I wasn’t going to go after him, Mr. Stark. Honest. But I showed up at Liz’s house and— and it was him and he was going to, I don’t know, I just— I couldn’t let him go, Mr. Stark. Even if he threatened me and everyone I cared about, I couldn’t walk away knowing he was going to do something horrible.”
Peter’s eyes are wide and red-rimmed, his voice brittle from lack of use, and suddenly, Tony’s back in the kid’s small Queens apartment, grilling him on his self-imposed gig as the city’s resident “Spider-Man.” He’s all barely-contained nerves and frantic energy, no doubt confused as to why the hell Tony Stark would have taken time out of his day to come and talk to him directly, but that teenage anxiety is quickly trampled by the raw honesty in the kid’s words when he asks him the million dollar question.
When you can do the things that I can, but you don’t, and then the bad things happen… they happen because of you.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Stark.” Tony glances up. Peter must have taken his silence as a form of disappointment, some roundabout way of saying, “That’s no excuse.” His eyes are downcast, fixed pointedly on his own hands like they could somehow transport him out of the bed and away from this conversation. Tony recalls the last time the two of them had spoken, remembers the guilt and shame that had radiated off of Peter as they filled the drive back from the ferry with stilted silence.
Sorry doesn’t cut it.
If you died, I’d feel like that’s on me. I don’t need that on my conscience.
Tony opens his mouth before closing it again, his mind grasping for the right response. There’s so much he wants to say to him, so many apologies and half baked excuses rising to the forefront of his mind. He exhales slowly, clasping his hands together until he can find the words. When he finally speaks, it’s barely above the cadence of a whisper. “You almost died last night, Peter.” The words are heavy, carrying their own kind of weight that doesn’t loosen itself from Tony’s body once he speaks them, only shifts from his heart to his shoulders.
At this, Peter nods solemnly.“I know you know that,” Tony says. It hardly needs repeating. “But what I think needs to be said is that a lot of it is on me. Starting with the suit.” Peter’s eyes widen, confused. He looks as though he’s about to respond, mouth opening in protest, but Tony holds his hand out to stop him. “Ah, ah. Let me finish.” Peter folds his lips together, and Tony continues. “I’m sorry I took it. The ferry was, indeed, a mistake. And yeah, I had an intention for doing it, but you know, looking back on it now, I almost want to laugh at myself. I don’t know why I thought taking away that suit could have somehow stopped something like this from happening.
“And let me say that, for the record, this isn’t just about the suit, although that is most certainly part of it. Look, I may have jumped the gun a bit when I took you to Germany. I knew you were capable, obviously, and I didn’t have any worries about you getting seriously hurt in that whole… debacle. The thing is...” Tony can feel his voice beginning to shake. He swallows, clasping his hands together. “You said it yourself when we first met, kid. You take the blame when shit goes down and you can’t stop it. Which, to be fair, hey, not that far off from yours truly. And I did listen to you when you first told me about the vulture guy, but apparently I didn’t listen closely enough.” Tony fixes his eyes on Peter, who, surprisingly, doesn’t shy away from his gaze. “I’m sorry, Peter. I’m really sorry. I should have listened to you.”
I should have been there for you, and I wasn’t.
This, apparently, is Peter’s breaking point. “No, Mr. Stark, it isn’t your fault!” He tries to turn himself around to properly face Tony, but thinks better of it as a sharp stitch of pain explodes across his abdomen. He winces, hissing quietly through an exhale. Tony keeps his mouth shut, but he doesn’t pretend that he doesn’t see the way the kid struggles in the aftermath of last night.
Peter draws in a deep breath before continuing. “Look, I… I was the one who didn’t listen. I went after Toomes when you told me not to, and I kept going even after he threatened me and dropped a building on me and I didn’t— it’s my fault, I got hurt Mr. Stark.”
Any rebuttal Tony had been preparing dies on his lips. His eyes darken. “He dropped a building on you?” It doesn’t sound real, Tony thinks. Even just repeating it doesn’t compute, because how can it? How can Tony possibly comprehend the fact that, on top of surviving a plane crash and coming dangerously close to drowning in his own blood, Peter had also shrugged the weight of an entire building off his back?
Peter seems to shrink in on himself, unable to look Tony directly in the eye. “Y-yeah, he did,” he says, his voice suddenly ten times tinier. His fingers grip his mask, his knuckles turning white as he clenches the fabric in his fists. Tony can see the beginnings of a small tremor in his shoulders.
“Holy shit, kid,” Tony breathes out quietly, and really, that’s the worst part of all of this. Peter is just a kid. He should be cramming for decathlon and running late to band practice and worrying about whether or not the girl he likes will go with him to homecoming. He shouldn’t have been in Germany or on Tony’s plane or digging himself out of the rubble of a building because someone had decided that a child was too much of a threat to him to be left alive. He shouldn’t be here, with Tony, wrapped up in living this superhero lifestyle.
But that was the hand that fate had dealt him. The universe had picked him, thrown its metaphorical dart on a map, and this is what had come out of it. Peter Parker became Spider-Man, and he would continue to be Spider-Man until the universe had its fill of him. Even with all the technology in the world, Tony couldn’t protect Peter from that.
Neither one of them says anything for a long moment. Eventually, Peter breaks the silence, his voice timid and small in the space between them. “It was… really scary, actually. Like… I had gotten so used to the way I can see the world now, and then suddenly, it was all gone. Everything was dark and muffled and I couldn’t breathe.” Peter breathes in shakily, lips trembling, and Tony can see that he’s using every last bit of energy within him keep himself from crying.
Peter is strong. Tony knows this. He’s strong to a feat that scares him to death sometimes, able to catch moving cars with his bare hands and hold together fractured ships at the risk of tearing his own self apart. And yet, Tony knows, it feels wrong to admire that. There is absolutely nothing to admire in a fifteen year old kid being too afraid to cry in the aftermath of having his chest torn open and getting trapped under a concrete building.
Tony looks at Peter and sees the shadows under his eyes, sees the faint remnants of sand in his matted curls and the shape of his shoulders bent under the weight of the world that had been stapled to them. Before he can even think about it, Tony’s on his feet, wrapping his arms around Peter’s back. It’s far from what he would consider a legitimate hug; the kid’s line of sight is only an inch above his own shoulders and the majority of his face is pressed into Tony’s upper chest, but he hardly thinks it matters in the kid’s eyes.
A second passes before Peter completes the semi-embrace, having been taken aback by the sudden display of affection. Tony raises a hand to comb reassuringly through Peter’s hair, and the dam breaks. The first sob tears silently through Peter like an earthquake, his shoulders ratting with the aftershocks of emotion. “It’s okay, Pete,” Tony’s voice is soft, kind. “You’re okay. Everything’s gonna be okay.”
“I‘m sorry, Mr. Stark,” Peter whispers through choking cries, his voice muffled slightly from where his head presses against Tony’s chest. His breath hitches on every other syllable, and Tony just holds him tighter.
Eventually, Peter’s cries quiet down, and his breathing begins to slowly even itself out. As Tony begins to pull back from the hug, he can tell that the onslaught of sudden emotion has effectively drained Peter of whatever small amount of energy he had managed to regain after sleeping. Every breath he draws in is slow and heavy, accompanied by a small wince alongside each exhale. He blinks slowly, leaning most of his weight on Tony. “Alright, kid.” A moment passes before Tony speaks. “Let’s get you back to sleep.”
Peter doesn’t protest as Tony pulls away fully, replacing the support of his arms with the pillows of the bed. Peter sinks into them, eyes drifting slowly shut. This time, the sight is a comfort to Tony.
“How’s May?” Peter asks, after a moment, his eyes still closed “Does she know I’m here?”
Tony hesitates. “No, she doesn't,” he says. He clasps his hands back together, sighing deeply. “Germany was pretty easy to get an alibi for, but I can’t lie to your aunt about this.”
“Mhm,” Peter hums softly. “Ned’ll keep her from worrying too much,” he mumbles, drowsiness already seeping its way into his tone. “Prob’ly just… say I spent the weekend with him. Oh, yeah, I need to tell him…” Peter trails off, drifting away into sleep before he can finish verbalizing his thoughts.
Tony chuckles lightly. “Soon, kid.” He bends down to pick up Peter’s mask as he stands, which had fallen out of his grip and onto the floor shortly after he had begun to sob into Tony’s shoulder. Tony places it besides Peter on the bed, running a hand over his forehead to brush a few loose curls away from his eyes. “Right now, just get some rest.”