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Peter walks to his classroom feeling oddly detached.
It’s just a light concussion, I’m fine.
He ignores the concerned glances Ned throws at him and tries to squint at his notes through the splintering headache.
His focus fades in and out throughout the day, like a badly adjusting camera lens.
He sees flashes through the pain-fog. Flashes of people, places, snippets of conversation.
English classroom.
His red pen.
MJ frowning.
“—it’s fine.”
“Are you sure? Cause—"
A trey of mashed potatoes and peas.
Mr. Harrington.
A clock.
“—use the Pythagorean Theorem to—”
A bathroom stall.
At one point, he thinks he tries to speak but the words come out all wrong.
“Peter, I didn’t understand that? What did you say?”
Huh. That’s weird.
He thinks he said “I’m fine” very clearly, but evidently not.
He tries again, but from the increasingly alarmed expression on Ned’s face, he can tell he didn’t succeed.
The alarm sounding the end of the school day saves him.
He jerks his hand in a goodbye and rushes out.
Happy is outside.
Oh, right, it’s Friday.
It’s difficult to open the car door with hands that have started to lose their feeling, but he manages.
He doesn’t try to speak again, and he can tell it’s bothering Happy. He keeps glancing at him through the rear-view with a profound crease between his brows.
The numbness spreading from his hands to his chest makes it easier to ignore it.
When they arrive at the compound, the numbness has blissfully spread to his head as well, finally dulling the ache there.
When he takes the first step out of the car, his legs crumble under him and he falls down to the ground.
Happy’s uncharacteristically worried face appears before his eyes.
“’m fine, ‘is jus’ a ligh’ concu—concusss…”
He wakes up to Mr. Stark’s scowling You're-In-Big-Trouble-Now-Kid face.
He kind of hates the fact that he has seen that particular expression enough times to recognize it on-sight.
“When were you going to tell me you hacked the suit again? When you got stabbed two weeks ago? Well, it appears, you didn't.”
Uh-oh.
Peter has a bad idea of where this is going.
“What about when you almost drowned last week? That should have been enough of a wake-up call, shouldn’t it? But noooo, not for Peter Parker.”
He braces himself.
“And what about when he gets clobbered on the head so hard that it lingers overnight – no thought spared for the brain damage that could have occurred – and well into the day, so bad that he faints, what about then? Oh no. Apparently he’s fine, it’s just a light concussion.”
Peter stares intently at the blanket, a light embarrassed blush covering his cheeks and ears. Yeah, that does sound kind of bad.
“To be honest, it didn’t feel that b—”
“No, Peter, this is where the adult talks,” Mr. Stark interrupts. “No more hacks. Not for any reason. Or you’re grounded for the rest of your life.”
Peter perks up a little at that.
“So I’m not grounded now?"
Mr. Stark fixes him a stern glare, but the corners of his mouth are twitching.
“You’re not grounded.”
His exhales deeply in relief.
“But you’re telling Aunt May.”
Oh.
I’m so grounded.