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His lungs burned. Actually, his entire chest burned.
It hurt.
I'm sorry, May, I'm not gonna be home for dinner tonight.
Peter brought his fingers up to probe his chest, wincing when they brushed the wound. It was deep; really deep. Is this what dying feels like? It hurts.
Mr. Stark would know what to do. Actually, he'd probably pop a top and give everyone a spectacular farewell. Peter could never be Tony Stark; at best, he'd weakly flash the peace sign.
At worst, well…there were a lot of possibilities on that end of the spectrum.
His breath sounded raspy. Not good. His lungs seized, and his entire body shook with the effort not to cough, but it forced itself out anyway. Peter whimpered in pain; screaming was too much of an effort. Double not good.
He wiped the blood away from his mouth. Coughing up blood was bad news, right? He was dying; that was all there was to it. And no one was there to even say goodbye. What was the last thing he said to May? Ned?
He was stupid. He'd let the idea of becoming an Avenger go to his head, make him cocky and careless, and now he lay on the ground in the middle of nowhere in a pool of his own blood. Peter tingle be hanged, he never saw that knife coming.
He lay in the brush below a bridge; he could hear the cars passing by, even in the dead of night, and could see their lights reflecting off the foliage around him. And none of them knew that their friendly neighborhood Spider-Man lay a dozen yards away, alone and…scared.
I’m sorry, May. He closed his eyes.
“Why do I always have to come bail you out of these situations?”
Peter’s eyes shot open, and he managed a weak smile. "H-he-hey." It was a whisper; he doubted that Mr. Stark could even hear it.
"What'd you do this time? Trip and impale yourself on a stick?"
Something like that. He couldn't talk; too much effort. He was tired, so…so tired…his eyes drifted shut.
"No you don't, kid." Mr. Stark's voice came as if through a tunnel. Peter's mask came off, the fresh night air cooling his hot face and rousing his senses just enough to keep him from drifting off. "Stay awake with me. If you're a good boy, I'll give you a lollipop." A compartment opened on his metal suit's arm and an assortment of Dum-Dums flopped out. "I've got grape, root beer, cherry…"
The hoarse scream that emitted weakly from Peter's mouth interrupted the man. He panted, tears smarting his eyes at the pain that exploded in his chest. Blackness overtook his vision, and he fell into the welcoming arms of oblivion.
***
Tony clenched his jaw until it popped. Distracting the kid from what he was doing may have been the right thing to do, but catching him off-guard made it more painful for both of them.
That is, if Tony were able to feel anyone's pain but his own—which he wasn't. It was a fact on which he prided himself; some might call it insensitive and uncaring, but he simply called it his coping-with-others'-stupidity-mechanism.
Nope, putting the kid through the trauma of such pain didn't phase him a bit.
His stomach rolled.
"Friday," he muttered, "did we get the bleeding stopped?"
"Looks like it, boss. The sponges seem to be working."
Tony let out a long, slow breath and dropped his head. He didn't realize that he'd been sweating until a salty drop fell to his hand. "Can I move him?"
"Not advisable. Moving him at this stage could reopen the wound, causing further blood loss."
Tony swallowed hard. "Is he gonna make it?" AI might be just that— artificial intelligence—but at least it was someone to talk to.
"Hard to say, boss."
He couldn't just stand here and wait for the kid to die. He didn't dare hope that he'd live. "Friday, page Dr. Banner."
"He's in China giving a lecture about gamma radiation, sir. Still want me to call him?"
Tony cursed and shoved to his feet, pacing. "What else do we have in the suit?"
"Scanning the Babysitter compartments now." A pause, then "Band-Aids, five rolls of gauze, tongue depressor, smelling salts, ipecac syru—"
"Smelling salts. That sounds good," Tony interrupted. A valve opened over his fist. Tony held his hand beneath Peter's nose and pressed the switch.
A few seconds later, the boy's eyes fluttered open. "M-Mr. Stark?"
"You never learn, do you kid?" Tony settled back on his haunches and glared at Peter.
The boy's lips twitched in what could've been considered a smile. "Guess…guess not." They were whispered, but at least they were coherent words. "Sorry to…to…scare y-you."
Tony scoffed. "As if." Elevated heart rate: check. Nervous sweat: check. Tension headache: check. Adrenaline. Just adrenaline.
"I'll be…up an-and…moving…soon." Peter's eyes drifted shut again. "J'st g'me—"
Uh-oh. Slurring was a big no-no. "You sound drunk. Wake up, kid." He slipped his hand underneath Peter's neck and began to massage the muscles. If anyone finds out about this, I'm never going to live it down. "Peter Parker, so help me, if you don't stay awake, your aunt is going to skin me alive. And…well…I like my skin."
Peter's eyes opened again, slightly more focused. "I'm—I'll be okay, Mr. Stark."
"Is your little healing thing kicking in yet?"
A nod. Barely there, but there all the same. "I'm okay now. If-if you'll g-give me a h-hand, I-I'll—"
"Don't lie to me, and don't you dare try to get up at any point within the next two hours." Tony rolled his eyes at Peter's pathetic face. "And don't try those eyes on me. I'm the boss. And what do we do with the boss? We listen to him." He settled in the grass next to Peter and heaved a sigh. "Next time I hear from Karen that you're dying, I might just ignore it."
"Thanks for…c-coming…sir."
Tony sighed, then settled a hand on the kid's shoulder. "Don't mention it."