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The first time it happens, Peter has to admit that it makes sense.
He doesn’t remember much of the fight. There was a lab for some start up corporation and a few armed robbers and it was honestly a pretty easy job. Right up until the part where one of the guys picked up an actual table and chucked it at him and the security guard he was protecting. And seriously, the guy had to be enhanced or something, because when the thing slammed into him it actually hurt.
Sure, he’d caught it. Kind of. He’d raised his arm and hit it aside to avoid getting a table to the face, and maybe there was a very loud and very painful snap that happened in the process and–
Okay.
Okay, yes. His arm was broken. But it wasn’t a bad break, definitely not the worst he’s ever had, and he still finished the fight. All three of the goons are currently being escorted into police cruisers, and he’s waiting to give his statement to one of the officers that was sent to help clean up. He hates this part. He and the NYPD are still just barely getting along, but Tony says he needs to play nice to keep it that way.
Peter taps his foot impatiently, arms crossed in an attempt to look casual as he all but cradles the shattered bone against his chest. The security guard stands beside him, explaining things to the officer for the second time while holding an ice pack to her shoulder. She’d been knocked into the doorframe pretty hard when the creeps first showed up, though luckily the paramedics said she was getting off with only a few bruises. Nothing broken.
Not like Peter.
And see, that’s where things get weird.
The bad guys have been driven off to the station, the security guard has been treated, he’s given his statement, and he’s just about to swing off home - one arm down, but really, who’s counting - when suddenly one of the paramedics has a hand on his shoulder. He turns to see a man with wide blue eyes and a look on his face that Peter is only used to seeing on his friends and family.
Concern, he thinks. Actual, legitimate concern.
He blinks, the lenses of his mask copying the movement in perfect sync.
“Spider-Man?” Even the guy’s voice sounds worried, and Peter doesn’t know what to do with that. “Hey, uh. We noticed your arm?” The paramedic shakes his head. God, could he be more awkward?
Peter smirks under his mask. “Just a little banged up,” he lies.
The guy laughs nervously. “Banged up as in broken in one place, or banged up as in broken in three? Sorry, Spider-Man, but I know a broken arm when I see one, even under that costume of yours.”
Peter’s expression falters. Since when was he so easy to read? Better yet, since when has anyone other than May or Ned or MJ or even Tony looked close enough to notice?
“Uh.” Yup. Still the picture of eloquence, that’s what Peter is as he stands there still cradling his, apparently very obvious, broken arm, too dumbfounded to even attempt an argument. He can practically hear MJ laughing her ass off in his mind. He’s never going to hear the end of this one.
The paramedic is kind enough to brush it off though and continues talking as if Spider-Man didn’t just blue-screen right in front of him. “I still have triage set up, if you want to just come over to the ambulance? We can get a look at how bad it is and at least splint it up. We know you’ve got the whole-” He gestures vaguely, expression somewhat pinched. “-super healing? Anyway, it would suck if it healed wrong, right?”
Peter doesn’t know what to say to that. He’s never had the paramedics offer anything like that before, but then, maybe that’s just because he doesn’t normally stick around long enough for them to have a chance. To be honest, it’s…kind of nice, having someone other than his family worrying about him. Weird, yeah, definitely. But nice.
He accepts the offered help with a slightly forced laugh, and if he leaves the scene of the crime with his arm properly braced for once, well, he can’t really be too mad about that.
—
It happens a second time after a house fire.
Spider-Man pulled the residents out - mom, dad, all three kids - and even went back in for the family dog, all before the firefighters even reached the scene. To say he’s a little annoyed would be an understatement. He knows he’s the hero and all, but he shouldn’t beat the firefighters to a house fire.
In the end, it doesn’t matter. He’s here, he got them out in time, and the firefighters are doing good work in getting the flames under control before it can spread to any of the neighboring houses. It’s all part of the cycle, it’s why Spider-Man exists. He steps up if and when others can’t.
Now, he’s off to the side, petting the panicked dog while the three kids huddle around him, all of them coughing quietly but still in awe of the fact that it’s Spider-Man standing in front of them. Spider-Man saved them and their parents and their dog and—
The ambulance is the next one on the scene, and a pair of paramedics are immediately hurrying over to the family, still gathered gratefully around Spider-Man. From there, things move quickly and for that, Peter is grateful. The kids and their parents are checked for injuries - none, save a few cuts and bruises - and then all hooked up to oxygen masks to help clear out what little smoke managed to get into their lungs before Spider-Man was able to get them out.
Peter sticks around long enough to make sure all the kids are alright. He even crouches down to take a picture with them when the paramedics allow them to take off the masks for a moment or two. It’s bittersweet, Peter thinks as he smiles with them. They’re meeting their hero, eyes lit up with awe and admiration, while their home and the memories within have just burned up behind them.
Even their parents, while heartbroken at the destruction, look nothing short of grateful as they watch on. They murmur teary eyed thank you's to Spider-Man as they’re all ushered into the ambulances to head to the hospital.
Peter doesn’t know what else he can say beyond “I’m just glad I was here.”
Before they’re even out of sight, another paramedic appears at Peter’s side and speaks up with obvious concern. “Spider-Man?”
He turns to her with a light jump, but she speaks again before he has a chance to even greet her. “Could I just check you over? We have another oxygen system set up here too, if you’re willing. That much smoke isn’t good for anyone, not even you.”
He didn’t even inhale that much smoke, but she seems adamant. She has a tight smile on her face. One that says she’s not actually offering but demanding, if the glint in her eyes has anything to say about it.
His mouth opens and closes a few times, and he’s grateful for the mask on his face if only for the fact that it’s currently hiding his excellent impression of a fish. She’s ushering him along with a gentle hand on his shoulder before he can figure out an argument, and the next thing he knows, he’s sitting in the back of another ambulance with his Spider-Man mask pulled up over his nose and an oxygen mask in its place, pumping fresh air into his lungs. The doors to the back of the vehicle are closed - to protect his identity, she says - but he’s still able to hear everything going on outside.
All things considered, he’s not really complaining.
—
The third time it happens is in the middle of a Saturday, and he isn’t even actually hurt.
It’s after a mugging, and seriously, the guy couldn’t have been any more stupid. It’s the middle of the day and the sun is high in the sky. There aren’t enough shadows to hide the usual alley cats, much less a freaking mugging.
Spider-Man stopped it before anything could even happen, save for the idiot trying to pull a knife on him. The woman he’d saved screamed, but Peter just rolled his eyes under the mask and webbed the guy’s hand to the wall, weapon and all.
“Seriously? Pulling out a knife at a web fight, that’s your best move?” he’d quipped. There were already sirens approaching, having been called thanks to Karen and one of the many protocols she’s been programmed with.
All in all, it was one of his easier fights. And it also should have been the easiest one to walk away from as soon as the cop and the first responder arrived. Except…why was there even a first responder there? No one was hurt, and Karen only called the police…
Peter is frowning when he walks over to the paramedic, and it only deepens when he realizes that he recognizes the guy. He’s the same one who helped splint his broken arm a month or so ago.
The guy jogs over to meet Spider-Man partway, looking disproportionately worried in conjunction with the level of fight that happened. “Hey!” He calls out with a lighthearted wave that doesn’t match the concern on his face.
Peter juts a thumb over his shoulder, pointing to the sniffling woman still giving her statement. “Hey, man. She’s alright, but no harm in giving her a look over to be sure!”
The paramedic nods. In the sunlight, Peter can read the name embroidered on his uniform - Darrin.
“Thanks,” Darrin says, but he pauses before he fully passes Peter, hesitance clear in his tone as his eyes trace over Spider-Man in search of any sort of injury. “What about you, Spider-Man? You in one piece?”
Peter’s brows go up, making the lenses of his mask widen in surprise. “Uh, me? Perfectly fine, the guy didn’t even get a swing in.”
And Darrin practically deflates with relief. He lets out a sigh and nods, as if he’d been on edge until Peter confirmed that he was alright.
Which is weird. Right? It’s weird?
Darrin doesn’t seem to notice the internal crisis he’s caused, just nodding along. “Cool, good. Be careful out there, Spider-Man!” He goes off with a wave, heading for the woman.
Nothing else particularly weird happens when Peter starts to walk away again, but he spends the rest of the afternoon questioning his sanity. Since when have people worried so much about him when he’s so obviously perfectly fine? It doesn’t make any sense…
—
MJ laughs at him. She thinks it’s hilarious, much to Peter’s chagrin.
“Maybe they’re all just finally noticing how accident prone you are,” she teases over the phone when he calls her after patrol. “Considering the number of times you’ve ended the night with a broken-”
“Okay-” He cuts her off with a huff and he can practically hear the way it makes her smirk on the other end of the line. “Point taken, and also, point ignored. Come on! I’m Spider-Man, I’m clearly enhanced, and they’ve seen me take way too many hits over the last few years. There is literally no reason for…whatever all this is.”
She’s quiet at first, contemplating her words before she speaks again. “Is it a bad thing? Having people out there worrying about Spider-Man, the way we get to worry about Peter Parker?”
He purses his lips. He can feel his grip tightening around his phone, only to loosen a mere second later as he sighs. “I don’t know. Maybe a little bit? I’m a hero, MJ, I’m supposed to be the one out there taking care of them. They aren’t supposed to be the ones taking care of me.”
“Is it bad if they do?”
His face pinches, his brow knitting and his nose wrinkling as he tries and fails to answer her.
Is it bad if they do?
—
The next time it happens is after some freaks get their hands on old Chitauri tech. Again.
And alright, seriously? Peter is going to need to have some freaking words with someone about the absolutely abysmal clean up of this crap. The number of alien guns in this city is going to be the death of him. At least, the death of his patience. How many times is he going to have to deal with freaking explosive crystals and disintegration guns before someone gets the memo that it’s way above his pay grade??
Considering the current situation, though, he’s realizing pretty quickly that he’s going to need to amend that thought.
Death of his patience? Yeah, it’s already been shot and drowned. His patience with this issue has definitely run out.
Death of him? That one might actually be possible today if the giant gapping, bleeding, oozing wound on his side has anything to say about it.
The apparent leader of the bad guys is down. He has been for a good ten minutes now, curled on his side against the concrete and broken glass from the window he’d crashed into when Peter took a swing at him. He’s moaning in pain, and whining about the gun Spider-Man destroyed and how much money it cost and how screwed he is-
Yeah, Peter stopped paying attention after the aforementioned gun went off at point blank range against his abdomen. The proper authorities have been called. Cops to arrest these assholes, the fire department for the very much on fire warehouse - thank you, stupid explosive alien rocks - and an ambulance for the half dozen unconscious goons currently laid out on the sidewalk where Peter had dropped them. Because it’s not like he could leave them in the burning building, even if they were the ones who blew it up in the first place.
Curse him for being a good person, though, because damn. Dragging them all to safety had taken the last of his strength, and now he’s slumped against a nearby brick wall - left of the idiot in the broken glass and far enough away from the fire to be out of immediate danger - questioning why he has the worst luck in the world.
Ned is on a camping trip with his family, May is working the night shift, MJ is stuck at a lecture her dad dragged her to, and Tony is quite literally in another country on SI business. Yeah. Parker Luck. He’s on his own.
The sirens approach while he’s still silently questioning what his ancestors did to piss off God, and in one blink to the next, the street is suddenly full of police cruisers and ambulances. A fire truck is already getting the blaze under control, and he doesn’t even remember seeing it drive up.
He drops his eyes down to his gut, where he has an arm wrapped tight around himself to try and keep the bleeding contained. Considering the spreading stain of burgundy oozing through his suit, it’s not working very well. He squeezes a little tighter, earning a wince that forces him to screw his eyes shut.
When he opens them again, there are a pair of paramedics in front of him with concerned looks on their faces. Actually, they might be better described as bordering on panic instead of merely concerned, now that he’s really looking. Their mouths are moving too, he realizes, but he can’t understand what they’re saying. It’s like he’s underwater, and only getting deeper. He can’t even hear the sirens anymore.
He jolts when one of the paramedics reaches out to squeeze his shoulder and he tumbles back to the waking world with a gasp. Sound rushes in like a tidal wave, flooding his senses so quickly and violently that it whites out his vision. It’s like sensory overload, but so much worse, and amidst all of it, before he can give in to the beckoning call of unconsciousness, he latches onto one of the paramedics voices just in time to hear “Come on, Peter, you gotta stay with us-”
—
Peter wakes up in the back of an ambulance.
He opens his eyes in a dazed flutter, immediately taking in the unobtrusive view of the ceiling of the emergency vehicle.
He wakes up in the back of an ambulance, but it’s sirens aren’t on and it isn’t moving and he doesn’t have his mask on–
He sits up with a choked gasp, only to be caught by the shoulders by a pair of hands on each side. He struggles for all of two seconds before his body realizes that there isn’t a threat. Darrin is on his left, holding him tight and rambling and-
And Peter should probably pay attention to what he’s saying.
“-the doors are closed and locked, we’re just getting you patched up.”
He turns his head, not enjoying the way his vision swims in the process. On his right is another paramedic, a woman with blonde hair and a more serious expression on her face. “You need to lay back down, Spider-Man, we haven’t finished the stitches and we don’t know what other damage that gun did yet.”
Peter finds that he can do little more than blink as his confusion grows. He knows he’s staring, and he also knows he should probably do as she’s saying, but he’s too stunned to move.
“Peter-” She snaps at him so fast that it feels like whiplash.
His jaw drops and he doesn’t even have the chance to think about refuting it before he’s saying, “How do you know my name?!”
Then Darrin’s hand is squeezing his shoulder again and Peter is so thrown off that his body is following the man’s lead without resisting. He’s lying back on the gurney again in seconds, while Darrin sheepishly smiles down at him.
“Sorry, Peter,” he says, and he sounds like he really means it. “But after that building came down on you a few months ago, we all know your name.”
Peter blinks. It’s faster than he means to, an accidental attempt to combat the wave of nausea that’s threatening to take him over. Whether it’s from the injury or from the revelation that his secret identity isn’t as secret as he thought, he can’t tell.
The other paramedic huffs out a quiet, amused laugh. “We all being most of everyone at Queen’s General. Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed the way the whole crew has been up in a tizzy about their favorite teenage superhero’s every little bump and bruise?”
And oh my God - it all makes sense in an instant, the way all the first responders have been keeping their eye on him and making sure he’s actually getting treated before he runs back to patrol-
Darrin is still smiling when it all clicks in Peter’s head. “We, uh. Well, we’re really grateful for you, kid. You do some amazing stuff out there. You save a lot of lives.”
“But-” the woman cuts in as she finally returns to addressing Peter’s wound. He doesn’t even feel the stitches, which probably isn’t a good sign. Maybe he’s a little glad these two are here after all. “-turns out that once we saw that baby face of yours, we all ended up being total worrywarts.”
Peter blinks again, slower this time as he tries to connect everything they’re telling him. “You signed NDAs,” is all that eventually comes out of his mouth.
It earns a shared look between the two medics, and then a shared laugh a split second later.
“Yeah,” Darrin says nervously. “Clearly you’ve never been in a hospital break room.”
“Don’t worry though. It won’t be leaving the hospital.” The woman reaches up to ruffle his hair. A part of Peter wants to be insulted at being treated like a kid. The other part of him is just glad she’s here. Exhaustion is quickly overtaking him and his eyes are closing while her gentle hand is still in his curls.
He barely catches sight of her smile before he’s drifting, her confident voice the last thing he hears.
“Rest. You’ve got all of Queen’s General on your side.”