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Peter’s night was not going well.
It hadn’t started off good in the first place. His entire day had been a prelude to a shitty night, starting with his alarm going off way too close to his head -- he’d set it on accident, he hadn’t had any classes today, and it had taken twenty minutes for his heart rate to go back down.
It had gone steeply downhill from there.
Every single shirt Peter had tried fit wrong, the collars too tight - or the fit too narrow, the sleeves clinging to his arms - and he’d allowed himself to be defeated, conceding to an overly large hoodie and his well-worn binder.
Then, he’d missed his bus. Not turned the corner as it pulled away, not chased after it until it sped up, not even fading tail lights in the distance. It had been long gone by the time he arrived, and he’d waited another twelve minutes - he’d counted - for the next bus to arrive.
Peter had had a plan, he had deadlines. There was this little grocery store that had the best fucking bagels in all of New York and their coffee beans had to have fucking crack in them, for how good they were.
And he’d missed his goddamn bus.
He’d spent all of five minutes in the little store, chest and back already aching, after barely an hour wrapped, feeling like his skin was gonna crawl right off his bones. He’d stocked up as quickly as he could and tore out of there, tugging the too-tight collar of his hoodie the entire time.
And he’d forgot the fucking bagels.
So, apparently, Peter’s brilliant brain had - for some unknown, possibly sleep deprivation influenced, reason - decided it was a great idea to test the will of the universe. He’d swung out his bedroom window just after the clock read two, stocked up on web fluid cartridges and mask pulled firmly over his face, ignoring the suffocating feeling of his suit around his neck.
He’d stopped a few would-be muggers, returned a runaway dog to their tearful owner, and webbed a burglar to the wall of an apartment building, tipping off the police to pick them up. His headache had worsened with every swing, pounding on the edges of his vision -- despite all the fucking water he’d drunk earlier, it has refused to disappear.
He’d even eaten lunch! A whole sandwich and carrots! The universe was conspiring against him.
It didn’t help that Harley was busy tonight. He had some big project for his class, something crucial towards his degree, and he’d spent the entire day in Tony’s lab, and was going to spend the night there too. Usually, at this point in patrol when things were calmer and Peter was - he was okay, he swore he was, it just got hard - struggling, he’d call Harley. His boyfriend always answered, and Peter could kill a couple minutes listening to the rambling of his better half.
That wasn’t an option tonight. It wasn’t that Harley had said anything against the phone calls but- he couldn’t interrupt something so important. He bothered his boyfriend a lot, anyways, and he refused to do it because of a headache and a tight chest.
And, really, Peter was being dramatic about it. He’d be fine! He could hold himself together for a couple more hours, even if it meant chewing the inside of his cheek to shreds between swings and leaps. It distracted him from the pounding in his head and the unfortunate series of events, earlier. It gave him a grounding sort of discomfort, one that was in his control, and kept his thoughts away from all the pains he couldn’t avoid.
So- he would be okay. He could survive it -- hell, he’d survived tenth grade social studies, and that had been way worse than anything he’d come across on the streets.
He was a vigilante, a superhero. What kind of hero let one bad day and an annoying headache cripple them?
Peter clung to that thought as he made his rounds, the quiet twip of his webs and the hubbub of the city at night, far below the rooftops, the only sounds. Each step was harder than the last, the vice around his chest feeling tighter and tighter, his breaths short and clipped as he leapt between two buildings. His head ached more with each heartbeat, pounding behind his ears.
Fuck, he knew he should’ve taken a break, if only for a couple hours before he went out. The binder had been on since the moment he woke up, that morning, and the one he’d sized up to wear under the suit - he’d sworn Karen to secrecy - wasn’t much looser.
He could’ve- he could’ve survived the afternoon with his hoodie alone. It would have sucked, but he could have done it. He would’ve been nauseous and self conscious every time he moved, but he could have.
Thirty more minutes, Peter promised himself. It would cut an hour off his usual patrol but- it was a Tuesday night, what kind of psychopath commits crimes on a Tuesday? The city would stand for an extra hour without him. That’s all. Thirty more minutes and then we can go to bed.
By Karen’s mark, it was only fifteen minutes and forty-eight seconds before it all went to shit.
It happened fast.
He swung around the corner of an office building, deep downtown, taking the turn so tight he nearly smeared himself on the shining glass windows. There was a burst of noise, tires skidding and people shouting, as Peter dropped closer to the ground. It hurt, like sharp spikes being driven into his ears, his eyes, and his breath caught for a second as he swung, the bottom of his feet nearly level with the roofs of cars speeding by. A flash of light, the honk of a horn -
His spider-sense screamed a warning, a shock running down his spine, matching the grating, bone-aching screech of metal on metal from the intersection -
Look out, said his instincts. Look out -
He caught the flipped motorcycle directly in the chest. Air rushed out of his lungs as he was flung backwards, web slipping out of his open hand, right towards the building’s glass windows. It felt like getting hit by a battering ram, things cracking in his chest, all shock and sudden, teeth rattling pain -
Fuck -
Injuries to the spine are the most dangerous, a frantic voice recited in his head. They lead to permanent injury, paralyzation, or death. And there was an entire motorcycle against his chest, and he was flying through the fucking air -
It was like his ribs had curled inwards as they’d been hit, broken, caving in to puncture his lungs, and he couldn’t get air in, he couldn’t breathe past it -
The glass windows behind him would shatter on impact, and he’d fly into the rooms behind it, hit the ground or a desk or a wall with glass shards in his back, and Harley would never forgive him.
Harley would bring him back to life - dig him right out of his shallow grave - just to yell at him.
The thoughts flashed through his mind in less than a second, and Peter reacted. He twisted in the air, scraping his side against metal and plastic until the bike was at his back, and webbed the pilaster between the windows, pulling himself forward even faster. Then, he yanked himself sideways and out of the direct path of the motorcycle.
He met the wall feet-first, and pushed, arcing over the bike as he reached through the air, his entire torso screaming, shoulders feeling like they’d collapse from the reach as he strained to catch the motorcyclist who’d been flung towards oncoming traffic -
If he didn’t catch them- they’d hit a windshield head first, and bounce off onto concrete, with nothing but a cracked helmet and leather jacket to protect them. Peter could take the hit, he’d survive it. He had enhanced healing and he was in the line of fire purposefully -- the biker had no choice in it.
It was Peter’s responsibility -
He shot a web at their torso, snagged the back of their jacket, and pulled the rider into him. They met with a tangle of limbs, knees knocking together and one of the rider’s arms crushed between them, pressing hard against Peter’s aching front.
With less than a second until impact, the concrete of the street rushing to meet them, Peter curled around the rider, trapping their arms and legs with his own. He twisted, tucked his head down, squeezed his eyes shut behind his mask -
Braced for impact -
There was no cushion to land on, no convenient bush to swing towards. It wasn’t like the movies, where the hero landed perfectly, and everything was okay, and no doctors were consulted for the entire time of filming.
Peter hit the ground hard, sliding across the intersection, coming to a stop in the middle of it. He felt his suit begin to shred as he slid, minuscule fibers tearing as seams ripped on the asphalt. It wasn’t gentle, he’d had no way to slow their fall, no seconds to spare on anything other than catching the biker.
His ribs and collarbone ached with white hot pain as he slowly uncurled from the biker. They seemed to have escaped mostly unscathed, minus the initial impact with the car -- truck, Peter realized, as he took in the standstill of the intersection.
A truck had gone to turn across traffic, too fast and without warning, and had missed the oncoming motorcycle. There were people, stepping out of their cars, doors left ajar, and Peter couldn’t muster the energy to try and listen to their shouted words, drilling into his skull.
The biker had rolled themself off of him and onto their back, cracked helmet sitting crooked on their head. Carefully, Peter shifted to sitting up, twisting a little too far and- he stifled a scream behind clenched teeth, exhaling hard out his nose.
Fuck, he definitely shattered his ribs. He could barely get air in, the sharp pain lancing through his chest. His lungs felt half-collapsed, his breaths coming short and sharp.
“Are you- you okay?”
The biker’s voice was dazed, airy from riding the high of nearly dying, and way too loud for how close the pair of them were. Peter barely stopped himself from flinching. His headache had somehow gotten worse, roaring behind his eyes in synchrony with the pounding of his heart -- or, maybe that was the concussion he’d just collected, like a prize from an arcade.
Got hit by a fucking motorcycle? While it’s flying? That’s worth one (1) traumatic brain injury!
Peter shifted to look at the biker, who’d pulled their helmet off as he’d tried to catch his breath. Their hair, cut close to their head, was a vibrant green; no blood, that was good. Peter tried to force his mouth to work, swallowing the groan of pain as he tried to straighten a little.
He kept his hands curled at his sides to hide the shaking. The adrenaline of near death was slowly wearing off, that buzzing settling into his bones as he tried to breathe.
“Yeah,” he managed. There was someone on their phone, by their car. All the voices, the horns and irritated, nosy passerby were so loud, he could barely separate them, barely get a thought past them. Peter squinted, focusing on the biker’s shock of colorful hair, and tried again. “You gonna be alright?” The words came out thin, breathy. He couldn’t muster up the energy to be any louder.
The biker gave him a shaky nod, their eyes, peeking through the cracks in their visor, were little too wide to be anything but in shock. The adrenaline of their impromptu take off was slowly fading, and soon they would be feeling the consequences. Peter could hear the faint sound of approaching sirens -- someone must have called an ambulance. The biker would be okay, but- he had to get out of there before a paramedic tried to strong arm him into going to the hospital.
Somehow, he got his feet beneath him. He braced his hands on the cold concrete, ignoring Karen’s quiet comment that Mr. Stark is a call away, Peter. You must seek medical attention. He didn’t try to straighten upright, keeping himself hunched, an arm wrapped around his torso. There was someone hurrying towards him, hand raised as if to call him back -
He had to go. He couldn’t- he couldn’t breath, couldn’t think past the pounding in his head and the ache in his chest. It was so loud, as the sirens drew closer and more voices rose. Everything was too much, his mask too tight on his face, suit strangling his neck, each painful inhale clipped, short.
Peter didn’t wait another second, webbing a streetlight and pulling himself on top of it, biting back a scream with his teeth in his cheek. The coppery taste of blood flooded his mouth as black spots danced over his vision, and he clung to his perch through sheer strength of will and the knowledge that if he fell now, it would hurt very, very much.
Not more, really. Maybe the same amount. Maybe if he hit the ground hard enough, he’d just pass out. Passing out sounds nice.
He didn’t let himself pause too long - as if swinging fast enough would outpace that pain, as if he could beat it to a rooftop, to his apartment - swinging from the light to a nearby roof, hauling himself over the edge, collapsing to his hands and knees on the rough ground, gravel biting into his hands and knees.
Fuck, oh fuck, that had been a mistake. His vision was dark on the edges, flickering with every pound of his heart in his throat, as his ribs screamed and the throbbing ache of impact made itself known. He couldn’t get a whole breath in, panting through clenched teeth.
Don’t pass out. Don’t pass out, no one will find you here and you’ll be eaten alive by the pigeons of fucking Brooklyn. His stomach twisted, nausea rising, and he added another reminder to his matra. Don’t throw up and don’t pass out.
Slowly, the nausea and vertigo abated, and he stopped feeling like he’d tip over and spill off the edge of the roof. He kept his hands down, bracing him, ignoring the sting in his palms. His ribs were throbbing, his shoulder clicking in its joint from the pressure, breath catching in his chest with every inhale, but anything was better than sitting back or straightening.
It wouldn’t be long before someone pointed EMS in his direction; they had been getting less hesitant, in the last few years, about approaching him during patrol. Peter needed to leave before they came, he had to be long gone before they thought to check the roof.
His apartment was too far, nearly twenty minutes by rooftop, when he was uninjured and unhindered. Right now, he was very much hindered, and he’d take a one way trip to the pearly gates if he tried to make it home. Ending up as a suspicious stain on the pavement was not the legacy he wanted to leave. Not for himself, not for Harley, not for New York City.
So he couldn’t go home and he absolutely couldn’t go to a hospital -- that left one option. Peter did not like his one option. He was supposed to be able to deal with things like this on his own. He was a superhero, an adult.
Right now, barely choking in air and his head feeling like it had been split open, he didn’t feel much like one.
If he was lucky, Tony would be passed out in his lab or too engrossed in his latest project to hear Jarvis’ notifications, and Peter could make use of the well-stocked medbay before making an escape.
Yes, Peter decided as he hauled himself upright, biting down on the inside of his shredded check to choke back a scream. The Tower was the best choice.
Somehow, he made it. The journey there felt like it lasted nearly an hour, though Karen kindly reminded him that only a few minutes had passed when he asked. His headache had gotten steadily worse, his vision blurry and flickering. Sometimes, it narrowed down to a single point, and Peter had to take a moment to try to breathe past the pain. His ribs felt like someone had taken a bat to them, and the rest of him wasn’t much better.
The window to his designated room slid open easily, quietly, and he was grateful for it as he pushed it open with shaking fingers and aching arms. Peter was relieved that Jarvis had the tact to speak quietly as he pulled himself inside, clenching his jaw so hard something cracked as he bent around broken ribs, landing in a hunched, painful crouch on the floor.
“Mr Parker, welcome home,” said the AI, automated voice hushed. “You are injured. Should I alert Mr Stark of your arrival and have him prepare the medbay?”
“No,” said Peter, the word sharp and tight. He wasn’t sure if he could stand again, but- Tony had enough to worry about. Peter had gotten himself into this, he could deal with a few broken bones and a headache. He was an adult, for god’s sake. “I’ll do it. I’ll be fine.”
“Mr Parker.” Jarvis sounded a strange mixture of irritated and concerned, and Peter would’ve laughed if he wasn’t panting through his teeth, holding onto coherency by the skin of his teeth. “I would not recommend that you attempt to treat yourself. Your blood pressure is dangerously low, and I detect multiple broken and fractured ribs.”
He waved the AI off as he pulled himself upright, the small table he clung to protesting under his weight. The world swayed dangerously around him, and he squeezed his eyes shut, willing his knees not to buckle.
There was a room down the hall, a miniature version of the actual medbay, meant for treatment of prolonged injuries and redressing of wounds. No one paid much attention to the supplies in there, restocked the moment they got low. It was like a medicine cabinet, except for superheros. That way, anyways, no one was required to be alerted, so long as the medbay’s doors didn’t open.
“I’ll -” Bile burned in his throat and Peter paused to swallow it back down. The nausea had returned, his stomach twisting painfully in tune with the pounding of his head. That wasn’t good, a concussion and nausea. He couldn’t- he couldn’t think of why, his thoughts foggy and muddled but- it wasn’t good. He tried to speak again. “I’ll be fine. Don’t gotta wake Mr Stark.”
Jarvis didn’t reply. Or, if he did, Peter couldn’t hear him over the sound of his heartbeat in his ears, a strange, high ringing settling on the edges of his hearing. He was focused on putting one foot in front of the other, shifting the hand clinging to the table to plant it against the wall. Each step ached, bright flares of pain lancing through him with every little movement.
He swore he could feel his bones grinding against each other, jagged edges catching and chipping, sending bolts of lightning up through his shoulders and down his spine, as he staggered forward. The door slid open when Peter reached it -- small mercies. He didn’t think he could open it, not with an arm wrapped around his torso and the other keeping him upright.
The hallway looked torturously long, stretching on and on, walls tilting inwards as Peter panted in his doorway. His knuckles were white on the door frame, holding tight as he tried to blink away the pounding in his head.
It felt like he was breathing through a straw, like his chest was wrapped in ace bandages, squishing his lungs as he tried to expand them. Getting a single breath in felt like an impossible task.
Just- just a little further, Peter tried to convince himself. He wasn’t sure he could see the door leading to the supply room, his vision gray on the edges, the distant doors lining the walls blurry. You can make it down the hall. That’s all you gotta do. C’mon- you’re Spider-Man.
The little voice in his head didn’t sound very confident.
He just had to get in the room. Then, he could sit down, he could take off the suit, the binder. He’d be able to breathe, and he could take care of his injuries. He could take a couple tylenol and crash on the couch and- it would be okay.
Peter repeated that to himself as he forced his feet to move, lifting each leg clumsily, his knees nearly buckling with each slight impact. It was like trying to walk through wet concrete, at knee height. Shuffling his feet was a herculean effort. He rested more weight on the wall until he was nearly sliding across it, his shoulder and hip fully resting against it. His vision was flicking, his head aching -
Just a little further -
His left leg crumpled and Peter went down hard, landing on his right side, his head knocking against the carpeted wood. His vision went white, stars exploding behind his eyes, sound fuzzing out to ringing, echoing around his head. He couldn’t hold in his scream this time- it felt like he’d been hit again, like a fire had been set in his chest and it was burning him from the inside out -
He couldn’t- he couldn’t breathe, his head had been split open -
Someone was crying. Short, high, wispy little sobs, like they were dying and- fuck, Peter was the one crying, alone in this endless fucking hallway with not enough air to force into his lungs. He couldn’t get up, he could barely think as tears spilled onto his cheeks, hot as they dripped down his chin.
There was a voice, yelling, somewhere down the hall -
They were familiar, Peter knew that, they were safe and he couldn’t force himself to move, couldn’t get a breath in to call back. He could barely see, his vision blurred by the pounding in his head and the tears still in his eyes.
There were hands on him, big and warm and safe, rolling him onto his back. The person was saying something, but their voice was muffled and warped, as if yelled from far above water while Peter drowned beneath the surface.
It wasn’t supposed to happen like this. He was- no one was supposed to be worried, that was the whole point. He couldn’t remember why that mattered but -
The world was getting fuzzier and fuzzier, a high ringing in his ears rising, and he couldn’t keep his eyes open. The sharp edges of the pain were fading, slowly and -
He let the soft pull of the dark pull him under.
-----
Peter woke slowly. There was a quiet, repetitive beeping on his left, and the soft exhales of someone sleeping on his right. The bed beneath him was soft and tilted at an angle, half sitting up. The pain was gone, replaced with the slow, syrupy thoughts of pain medication and the full body fuzziness that came with them.
It threatened to pull him back down, that heavy warmth running through his veins, but Peter instead forced his eyes open. He didn’t want to go back to sleep, even if opening his eyes felt monumentally hard. The room around him was blurry shades of beige and it took several hard blinks before it came into focus.
There was someone on his right, slumped in a chair, and Peter slowly rolled his head to the side. It was Tony, sprawled in the position of someone who’d fallen asleep unplanned, his head tilted back at an awkward angle, one arm dropped towards the floor. He looked rumpled, as if he’d been sitting there for several hours too long.
Peter must’ve made a noise, or shifted, the scuff of hair on fabric loud, or Tony wasn’t as asleep as he looked -- the engineer was blinking himself awake the next moment, his eyes flickering to the door and around the room, before they finally landed on Peter.
Instantly, Tony looked more awake, sitting up straight and leaning forward, the back of one hand coming to land on Peter’s forehead. He wasn’t sure what that was supposed to do, considering he was very obviously already treated, in a med room, and hadn’t arrived because of a fever.
The silence stretched on, only broken by the beeping of the machines, as Tony leaned back - pulled away - and stared down at Peter, and fuck, he’d meant to deal with it himself, he should have done better -
“You scared the shit outta me, kid,” Tony said, finally. His voice was rough, tired and worn. It matched the bags under his eyes and the smears of machine oil on his face and neck. “What the hell were you thinking? Jarvis said you refused help multiple times. You tried to walk off broken ribs, bone bruises, a concussion, and muscular tears. What’s the point of a tower filled with backup if you go off on your own?”
Tony sounded mad. Of course he would be. He was the one who found Peter crying on the floor, unable to stand on his own -- if he’d just paid better attention or gone to the real medbay in the first place, Tony wouldn’t have had to deal with it at all.
He went to apologize, to promise he’d do better next time -
“How long have you been wearing that under your suit?”
Oh, god. Oh my god, please, no -
The tight cling of his suit was gone, replaced with soft, nondescript clothes issued to all minorly injured patients, and so was- Peter could barely get his voice to work, the words scraping on their way out. “Wearing what?”
“The binder,” said Tony, voice flat. “How long have you been swinging across New York city with a binder on?”
“Since I started.” Peter avoided Tony’s eyes, staring at the blankets draped over him. The blurry vision and short breaths had returned again -- those were tears, burning in his eyes. “I’m sorry. I didn’t -” He couldn’t think of a way to end the sentence, and started again. “I’m sorry.”
To his horror, the tears spilled over, leaking down his cheeks. Still, Tony didn’t say anything, sitting there in his peripheral vision and- a sob cracked its way out his chest, breaking halfway through. He swallowed the next one down, shutting his mouth and gritting his teeth, trying to breathe the tears away.
A hand found his, tangled in the blankets. Tony’s hands were always cold, a side effect of the machine keeping his heart running, and the chill of his fingers felt nice against the heavy warmth of the medication.
“Kid.” Tony’s voice had changed entirely. The word sounded wretched, thick and crackly as it hung there in the air. It was a long moment before Tony spoke again. “Peter. Could you look at me? Could you do that for me, please?”
It felt like ages passed before Peter managed to force his eyes up, turning his head back to face Tony. He dragged his gaze along the blanket, to Tony’s hand, still covering his, up his arm, to finally rest on Tony’s face.
Those were tears, running down the other man’s face. He looked miserable, a faint attempt of a comforting smile flickering before disappearing. “I’m not angry with you. You’re not in trouble, okay? That wasn’t- I said it all wrong kid, I didn’t mean it like that.”
Peter didn’t know what to do with the apology, sobs still trapped behind clenched teeth, so he jerked his chin down in a nod, once. Tony didn’t look comforted by the non-answer, instead he almost looked sadder.
“Peter, I mean it,” said Tony. His hand, now wrapped entirely around Peter’s, squeezed once. “You’re not in trouble. I was just scared, okay?” The billionaire’s throat worked for a minute, before he continued, enunciating each word. “ I’m sorry. You probably didn’t want me to find out like that and I wished you could have told me instead. Or- not told me, if that was your plan.”
Tony didn’t- he didn’t mind?
It wasn’t clicking, with the muddled, slow thoughts he could barely process. It wasn’t that Peter had thought he’d be transphobic in any way -- he’d seen enough scandalous reports - most with truth to them - to know Tony was beyond progressive in that area. But -
It was different when it was your kid, wasn’t it?
And Tony had done nothing but try and convince Peter of that fact, that he was Tony’s kid, since he’d first interned at Stark Industries.
Some of those thoughts must have shown on his face; Peter didn’t have the best poker face and all attempts of filtering his expressions failed before they began, with the warmth of painkillers still running through him. Tony brought his other hand to cover the two already entwined, leaning closer. He hadn’t bothered to wipe away his tears.
“I love you either way, kid. No matter what.” Tony said so sincerely, so clearly, as if he didn’t want Peter to miss a single word. “Whatever bullshit they put on your birth certificate isn’t going to change that.”
“Are you sure?” The question was childish, insecure, for Peter’s twenty years of life. But- there was Tony, declaring that he didn’t care that Peter was transgender. People didn’t do that. Not adults, not parents. Even Aunt May, for as amazing and loving as she was, had needed nearly a year to adjust to it.
“Well -” Tony gave a little laugh, voice still thick with tears, and Peter didn’t feel a wash of anxiety at the step back, not as the man continued talking. “I am upset that you endangered your health with a binder meant for walking, and I don’t want you to do that again. But, Pete, of course I do. I love you more than anything in this world. Ask Pepper, she’ll back me up.”
He said it like it was a known fact. Not insignificant, but not noteworthy, either. The sky was blue, the sun was bright, Peter was his kid, and he loved him like one.
“I can’t- I can’t be Spider-Man without some kind of chest compression,” Peter confessed, quietly. He was lucky enough to have a small chest, and so a sports bra could work in a binder’s place, at times. Going without anything flattening his chest wasn’t an option, though.
“Then we’ll figure it out,” said Tony, easily. He gave Peter a real smile now, crinkling the tear tracks still on his cheeks. “We’ll build something into the suit or, hell, I’ll pay for the surgery myself, if that’s what you want.”
What? Oh my god, holy fuck -
Never in a thousand years would Peter have asked that of Tony, no matter how close he’d grown to him and- there Tony was, offering it as if it was a simple, easy option. He couldn’t help his grin, so wide his cheeks ached. It was as if something in his chest had loosened from around his heart, falling away in the wake of Tony’s easy acceptance.
“You got it, Peter? It will be okay, I promise.”
Despite the memories of the hours before, despite the phantom ache that got through even enhanced strength pain medication, the shock of Tony knowing and the one-eighty when he apologized -
Peter found his smile didn’t falter. He believed Tony, with all his heart.
They would figure it out.
It will be okay.