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Crimson red stains his trembling hands.
Far away, he can hear sirens, blaring and almost as desperate as Peter had sounded before the gunshot had gone off.
A young girl, probably only a few years older than him, is cradled in his lap, blood soaking through her white blouse, blossoming across the white canvas like paint. Her face has long since gone pale, eyes closed.
He knows he’ll be arrested on the spot. He’s wearing his suit but his mask is somewhere far to his left and he doesn’t bother reaching for it. His gloves are gone, leaving him recognizable. He’s the one who’s covered in blood, her blood. They’ll think he did this.
Mouth tasting like salt from the never ending tears, he presses a kiss to her forehead like Tony would’ve if Peter were the one bleeding out on the unforgiving cold of the pavement.
“Stay with me,” he begs, keeping his hands carefully applying pressure to her bullet wound. If it were him, he would’ve been fine. It would’ve been easy. He would’ve swung to the tower despite Karen’s advisory and gotten Tony and Bruce to patch him up, and he would’ve been fine by the next morning.
But this girl? This young girl who was caught in the crossfire, might not be. She might not make it through the next few hours let alone forever.
“Please, god, please,” he cries, sliding his knees up to cradle her more carefully against his chest. “I can’t- Please, fuck, I can’t. Stay with me, shit- Just a few more minutes.”
He knows her name is Emily and she can’t be older than seventeen. Her little nametag, probably from a workplace is stained with her blood, but it’s got a little smiley face beside her cursive name.
The squeal of tires indicates the arrival of the emergency services, paramedics, ambulances, police, anyone they deemed necessary for a panicked call from a teenage boy who couldn’t stop crying because of a dying girl.
“Help her, please,” he begs, immediately giving her up to the hands of the paramedics. She’s gently taken away from him and he can’t see her anymore through his tears, far away he can hear doctors shouting numbers that don’t make sense to him.
Someone must recognize the blotted insignia on his chest, the mask and gloves discarded, because the next thing he knows is there’s a pair of cold cuffs tightening around his wrists.
He doesn’t care, can’t make himself care. Guilt is crashing into him like a tidal wave, sucking him underwater. His breath hitches and he lets out a broken sob, letting the police officers uncaringly jerk him to his feet. They don’t care about his tripping feet or wobbling knees or clumsy hands, they just shove him gracelessly into the back of one of the cars.
The window’s cold under his head (he doesn’t look at the blood that smears on the glass, refuses to think about it. Can’t look at his hands or the suit. He can’t.) and the colors blur through his crying eyes like he really is underwater.
The ride to the station is silent and they’re just as rough when they pull him out of the car and into the building. They dump in the holding cell before one of the officers pulls up a chair on the other side of the bars.
“Guess we finally caught you, Spider,” the man says. He pulls out a pack of cigarettes from his chest pocket, selecting one and lighting it. He takes a long draw before blowing it out into Peter’s face. “You have any identification?”
Peter shakes his head. He doesn’t want to out his identity to them. He can’t just straight up say that he’s Peter Parker. Who knows how quickly that would hit the news.
“The longer you’re quiet for,” one of the other men pipes up from the front desk. He’s got his clunky boots propped up on the desk and already has a cigarette dangling from his lips. “The longer we have to keep you here for.”
“Don’t I get a phone call?” Peter asks. He needs to call Tony. He needs to go home. He needs to wash the blood away. He thinks he might be in shock. He can’t stop shaking.
The man across from him laughs like Peter told the funniest joke in the world.
“I’ll break it down for you, bitch” he says, “We’ve been trying to track you for years and we finally get our hands on you. You think we’ll just let you go crying back to daddy? No, I don’t think so. You’re going to sit right where you are until we can get you thrown in jail for the rest of your long life. Should’ve thought twice before evading the law, hm?”
Peter wants to argue, he does, he knows he’s doing good out there, but after what just happened… Maybe they're right. He’s the reason Emily is dying in a hospital somewhere alone. He’s the reason she won’t be able to live out the rest of her life, so why should he be allowed to live his?
He rests his head against the cold concrete wall behind him, closes his eyes, and tries not to think about the blood sticking his suit to his skin.
*
A gunshot.
A scream.
“Stay with me.”
He jerks awake. He needs out. He needs Tony. The blood is dry, caking his hands and suit and he can feel it all the way up to his hair.
A ticking clock, a snore.
The only person in the pale green police station is the man at the front desk, feet kicked up on his desk, passed out. An empty bottle of scotch resting against his chest as he breathes evenly.
He can’t stop shaking, tears threatening to spill, but he’s on a time constraint.
Moving as fast as he can while trying not to make any noise, he gets up. The handcuffs are easy to snap, leaving them like bracelets around his wrists. It takes a little more of his strength to shove the cell door open, but he’s lifted busses before, this is nothing. He’s surprised the cops thought this would hold him.
His mask and gloves are sitting on the desk in a plastic bag. He grabs it but he doesn’t bother putting them on, he can see the blood on them and it makes his stomach flip.
Identity be damned. He just wants to be home.
He blinks and he’s in the towers elevator. He can’t remember anything from in between. All he can think about is the blood and Emily’s scream.
He’s sitting on the elevator floor, it’s not moving. All he can smell is the strong stench of the blood and he throws up into his lap. He doesn’t have the energy to move.
Tears start falling down his face in waves, choking him and drowning him all at once, and he hates himself more than ever.
He’s sitting in a pool of Emily’s blood and his own vomit, sobbing and shaking, and he doesn’t even have the strength to press the button to go up to the penthouse. If it were earlier in the day, anybody could’ve walked into the elevator and seen him like this.
But his brain doesn’t have the space for self-hatred. It’s all just guilt and grief and Emily.
The guy was mugging her. He made it before the guy even had time to grab her.
The mugger had pointed his gun at Peter’s head, he doesn’t know if he could’ve ducked in time, but he would’ve preferred to be dead than this, but Emily had jumped at the mugger. She’d screamed and then she’d fallen.
He’s not breathing right, can barely breathe at all without his stomach knotting more. And the only thing that saves him is Tony’s protocols.
“Boss has been alerted of your distress, young sir,” Friday calls out gently from the speakers. “Would you like me to take you up to the penthouse?”
Peter nods, or at least he thinks he nods. He’s not entirely sure, not entirely in control of his own shaking body. But the elevator lurches and starts its ascent, so he thinks he must’ve nodded.
The elevator doors slide open after what feels like a million years. Tony’s already there, already waiting. Peter doesn’t look up from Tony’s socked feet.
“Oh my…” Tony starts to say, but his voice trails off in uncertainty. “What happened? God, please tell me that’s not your blood.”
Peter sobs in response, wishing it was his blood. It’s supposed to be his, but it’s not. It’s Emily. Emily’s the one in a hospital, probably dead, he doesn’t know. He may never know.
He’s pulling at the chest of his suit, needing it off. He doesn’t want to feel Emily’s blood sticking to his suit to his skin. He can’t even look at it, but he needs it off.
Crying loudly, he claws at the front of his chest until Tony’s gentle hands are stilling his.
“It’s okay, buddy, it’s okay. I’ll help you,” Tony’s saying, oh so softly. He presses the spider emblem in the center of Peter’s chest and carefully starts pulling the material off Peter’s shoulders and arms as Peter cries uselessly.
Tony’s gentle and kind as he pulls Peter’s stained suit off his body and pushes it into the plastic bag with Peter’s gloves and mask. The teenager doesn’t offer much help, barely able to breathe let alone assist his mentor.
“C’mon, buddy. Let’s get you cleaned off, yeah? A bath?” Tony murmurs softly, brushing Peter’s hair out of his eyes. Peter hates that Tony’s fingers are red too. “You gotta help me out here, bubba. I can’t carry you anymore. You know I’m an old man with a weak back.”
Hatred settles thickly in his body like tar in his veins, thick and heavy and overwhelmingly dark. He hates that there’s blood on his skin, everywhere. He hates that he’s sobbing like a toddler having a tantrum, sitting in his boxers on the elevator floor. He hates that Tony’s speaking to him so quietly. The world should be angry. He might as well have been Emily’s killer.
Tony sighs softly, thumb gently brushing over Peter’s cheekbone, catching a few tears that fall like a waterfall.
“It’s going to be okay, Tesoro. I’ve got you.” Tony gently lifts him off the elevator floor into his arms. He says something to Friday about not moving the elevator until he gives the okay and starting a warm bath, but Peter can’t hear much over his own cries and ringing ears.
Peter’s fingers curl into Tony’s t-shirt, gripping the fabric like a lifeline. He tucks his head against Tony’s chest and lets himself fall weak into Tony’s hold.
Everything’s staticky and blurry, but he hangs onto the smell of coffee and the warmth radiating off Tony.
The next thing Peter’s aware of is being smoothly lowered into a hot bath.
He whines at the loss of contact with Tony, squeezing his eyes shut. He doesn’t want to see the water turning red.
“It’s okay, piccolo. I’m right here. I’ve got you, I promise,” Tony says not far from Peter. “Just relax and I’ll take care of you, alright?”
Peter tries to do as told, letting his muscles finally soothe in the heated, bubbly water, and let’s his mind float away.
He focuses on Tony’s hands maneuvering him deeper into the bath so he can carefully wash Peter’s hair. The subtle smell of rose shampoo followed by lavender soap. Peter wouldn’t be surprised if they were more expensive than everything Peter owns combined.
One hand in his hair, the other tipping his chin up to make sure none of it gets in his eyes, Peter tries his best not to think about Emily and Peter’s hands pressing down on her bleeding wound-
A hiccupping sob escapes his throat and Tony’s fingers tighten on Peter’s chin.
“Il mio bambino,” Tony breathes softly. His hands are so careful as they wash Peter’s hair and his chest, careful to remove all the blood. “I’ve got you. You’re safe. I promise.”
It’s been probably fifteen minutes since he was last crying, so it feels normal when the tears return, mixing with the water that’s run down his face.
He lets himself cry, no matter how much he shakes, no matter how much Tony soothes him, no matter how loud and pathetic he feels. He cries and cries and cries because it’s the only thing he knows how to do. Emily’s dying and it’s all his fault.
He can’t help but to think about Emily’s body, bleeding out on the pavement, an exact replicate of Ben’s body, bloody and eyes glossy. It makes his whole chest ache.
Eventually, the water is drained and he’s wrapped in a fluffy towel. His boxers are soaking wet and he’s shaking. But Tony leads him to the huge adjacent bedroom until he’s sitting on the edge of the bed. Tony collects a pile of clothing and sets it down beside Peter.
“Come on, tesoro. I don’t want to make you uncomfortable,” Tony says, pushing Peter’s dripping curls out of his face. “I’m going to turn around, but let me know if you need help.”
Peter manages to change into the new pair of boxers on his own, hands shaking almost too badly to do it, but he does. He gives up after that, whining wordlessly for help. Tony’s there immediately, gently pushing Peter’s arms into a warm hoodie and then his legs into a pair of equally cozy sweatpants.
Once he’s changed, Tony helps Peter back into the bed, wrapping a thick blanket around Peter’s shoulders.
“Boss?” Friday pipes up. She’s quiet and sounds more gentle than she normally does like somehow she understands. “Miss Potts is calling.”
“Can it wait?” Tony asks. His voice is pitched low for Peter’s sake, but there’s unmistakable annoyance.
“She says it’s about Mister Parker and a woman by the name of Emily.”
Peter jolts, reconnecting like his brain was jumpstarted. He doesn’t know how to speak.
“Put her through, Fri,” Tony sighs. He keeps Peter grounded, an arm around the teenager’s shaking shoulders. “Pep? Everything okay?”
“Peter’s on the news,” Pepper starts, voice pitched equally low. “Apparently, Emily’s mom went on Emily’s Twitter less than an hour ago saying that she needed to get into contact with Spider-Man. It went viral almost instantly when her mom shared the story of what happened.”
“Who’s Emily?” Tony asks, curiosity coloring his face. “I’ll call you back as soon as I can, Pep.”
The call disconnects and he turns to Peter. “What happened tonight?”
Peter shakes his head. He can’t tell him. But the handcuffs still hang around each wrist, broken chains clanging when he moves his hands. And Tony was nice enough to do everything he’s done, Peter might as well wreck everything.
“I’m a killer,” Peter says. His voice is broken, hoarse, shaking almost as bad as his hands are. “I… I tried to save her, but I-”
“You are not a killer, Peter.” Tony sounds angry, but when Peter looks up all he can see is love.
“He… The mugger was trying to shoot me and I- I let her push me out of the way. It should’ve been me. It should’ve- I should be the one-”
Tony shakes his head insistently, thumb brushing away Peter’s tears as they fall. “It was the mugger’s fault. Nobody else’s. She made the choice to save you, Petey.”
“His gun was at my head and I- I froze and she must’ve seen because she- she jumped at the mugger and she- she got shot and I-”
An ugly sob escapes his lungs and he ducks his head against Tony’s collarbone, shoulders shaking. Tony holds onto him tightly like Peter had done for Emily.
“That wasn’t your fault, buddy. I swear. It was entirely on the mugger. Nobody else’s. And whoever arrested you? That means they were stupid and I’ll take care of it, okay? I’ll take care of Emily’s hospital bills and family, I’ll deal with the mugger, I’ll deal with the police who saw your identity, I’ll take care of you. It’s all going to be okay.”
It sounds like a lie, but Peter prefers the false hope over no hope at all. For now, at least.
“Now, c’mon, bambino, get those cuffs off. I don’t know if that’s your new fashion statement or what, but I don’t like seeing them on you. And then it’s bedtime. You’ve had a long day.”
Peter’s hand grabs Tony’s sleeve when he feels Tony pulling away.
Tony’s face softens and he offers a sad smile. “I’m right here, tesoro. It’s okay. I’m not going anywhere.”
Nodding, Peter relents his grip and with his free hand he snaps the metal of the cuffs until they fall off. Tony removes them from Peter’s line of sight before he’s gently pushing the teenager down onto the bed.
Tony slides into the bed beside Peter, letting the boy leech onto his side almost instantly, burying his face into Tony’s heavy sweater.
“I’ve got you, cucciolo. It’s okay,” Tony murmurs, smoothing Peter’s damp curls. “It’s going to be okay.”
Peter cries himself to sleep in Tony’s hold.
*
Peter wakes blearily to a phone ringing. He’s still tucked against Tony’s side like a child who had a nightmare and crawled into their parents bed.
He feels more normal than before. Weird because of his dry eyes and stuffy nose and scratchy throat from crying all night, but more like himself. More human.
“Yeah, he’s right with me,” Tony’s saying quietly. He must’ve picked up the phone. He pauses. “He’s not… He’s alive and unharmed, but not good, May. He… He had a tough night.”
It’s May.
He suddenly knows he needs to talk to her. To hear her voice.
Grabbing Tony’s sleeve, almost missing in his sleep-bleary state, he makes a whiny noise, throat too dry and mind still too fuzzy to remember how to speak.
Tony looks down at him, a fond smile on his mouth. He gently cards his fingers through Peter’s messy bedhead, smoothing it down and beginning to work through the knots as he hands Peter the phone.
“Hmm?” Peter hums, wishing he could offer her more than that.
“Hey, baby,” May murmurs, adopting the same tone Pepper, Friday, and Tony have all taken on around him. “How are you doing?”
He clears his throat, pushing himself another step towards feeling like a human. “Okay.”
“That’s good,” she says. “I got worried when you didn’t come home last night, but I’m glad you’re safe and well. I know it’s been a tough night…”
“Can you do me a favour?” he asks, focusing on Tony’s fingers unknotting his hair. “Can you find out if Emily’s okay? They took her to the hospital and I… I just need to know.”
May sounds like she’s smiling when she starts talking. “I’ve been at work all morning and I’ve been taking good care of her, kid. She got out of surgery last night and she’s already well on her way to mended. She gave a statement to the police and they’ve already narrowed down their search by a helluva lot to find the guy. Her and her mom wants to talk to you, well Spider-Man you, whenever you have a chance to swing by.”
“They wanna yell at me?” Peter asks quietly. He sounds young and small and nothing like the hero he wishes he was.
May laughs though. “No, Peter. You saved her life. You kept pressure on the wound and you kept her awake, even though she didn’t look awake. You did everything you were supposed to do.”
“Except keep her safe in the first place.”
“You can’t save everyone, baby, but you saved Emily.”
*
Tony and May waited in the hallway while Peter went into the room. May made sure it was clear of everyone but Emily and her mom, and Tony managed to jumble the security cameras in the hospital, too.
“Hey,” he says, sounding braver than he feels.
Emily looks fine. She’s sitting up in her hospital bed, laughing at something her mom said. She’s got one IV in her left hand, and heart monitor stickers on her chest, but otherwise… Otherwise, she’s fine. Better than fine, even.
Both women look up, confusion written across their faces.
“I didn’t wanna show up in the whole costume, but I thought I should pay you a visit,” he says. “I’m, um, I’m Peter. Peter Parker. Spider-Man.”
“Oh my god, you’re just a kid,” Emily’s mom breathes. “You’re just a little kid.”
“I’m sixteen,” he says on impulse. “Listen, I, um, I know you need to rest and I don’t know how much you really want to see me here, but just- Thank you. For saving my life. And I’m so sorry. I couldn’t be more sorry that I-”
Emily rolls her eyes. “You didn’t do anything. You stopped me from getting mugged. You were practically a nurse when I got shot, did everything right according to the nurses. Said I was very lucky I had you there with me.”
“But I-”
“You saved my baby,” Emily’s mom says sincerely. She looks pained and tired, but so beyond grateful. “Not only is my kid okay, but you’re okay too. You’re aunt was sick with worry when she heard the story. Both of you are okay and that’s all that matters.”
Peter swallows thickly, unsure how to answer. “Thank you, ma’am.”
She smiles. “Now, get back to your family so they can swaddle you in bubble wrap like I plan on doing with Emily.”
“Sounds like a good plan to me,” Tony pipes up from the doorway. “I think we should let them rest and head out, kiddo.”
He says goodbye to the nice family, even exchanging numbers with Emily in case she needs anything ever again.
Tony keeps an arm around Peter’s shoulders as he leads him out to the car.
When they get there, Tony pulls the teenager into a hug.
“I’m proud of you,” he says, pressing a kiss to Peter’s temple. “And she’s right, I’m swaddling you in bubble wrap when we get home.”
“Love you too, Mister Stark.”
Tony’s grinning when he pulls away. “Pancakes, bambino?”
Peter lights up in a smile.
Peter’s okay, Emily’s okay, everything’s over.
There’s no red on his ledger, his hands are clean.