Work Text:
Pick Your Poison (toxic/allergic reaction)
***
Peter Parker has accepted that the word “normal” just doesn’t apply to someone like him. Sure, maybe to an unsuspecting outsider, he may seem like a typical teenage nerd who loves Lego and science and is awkward around girls. But in reality, average for Peter is just about the opposite of normal for any other high school kid.
Yeah, other kids have secrets. But how many of them can say that the biggest skeleton in their closet is the fact that their DNA is mixed with a spider’s—and that they use the powers granted by said spider DNA to keep the neighborhood safe and free of crime?
Peter’s life is an interesting one, that much is for certain. Here and there he finds himself wishing that stupid spider had never bitten him, that he wouldn’t have to worry about shouldering the responsibility of the powers he has and could spend all of his time worrying about regular teenager stuff. But at the end of the day, if he could go back and change the past, that is one thing he doesn’t think he would. He’s able to help a lot of people by doing what he does as Spider-Man, and he likes being able to make a difference in the community in his own special way.
For instance, this evening he’s already stopped a couple of muggings in a not-so-great area of town, helped an old lady bring her groceries up to her second-story apartment, and saved a kid from getting hit by a taxi driver who wasn’t paying attention to the fact that there was a crosswalk sign right in front of him.
Now, Peter has found his way to a different block, using the tech in his fancy Stark-made Spider suit to check out police scanners for any criminal activity nearby. He’s particularly listening for any news regarding a specific string of robberies, all of which have taken place over the past three weeks within a few blocks of one another. The cops suspect that the same individual is responsible for all of them, and that he or she is working alone. Unfortunately, they don’t seem to have much more to go off of than that. Which is why Peter has spent a lot of time patrolling this area recently in hopes of catching the perp red-handed.
Tonight must be Peter’s lucky night, because it just so happens that he hears about a store’s security alarm being set off right as he’s swinging down the street where the building is located. He knows he’ll make it much faster than any cops. It’s possible that it’s an accidental alert, but it doesn’t hurt to check it out, and Peter’s got one of those feelings.
He lets another web fly, catching himself on a traffic light as he gracefully slides to the ground close to the shop. His heart is pumping with adrenaline, readying himself for the possibility of a fight.
Peter presses his body against the outside wall and peers through the glass window at the front of the store, squinting through the darkness. It only takes a moment for him to make out a shadowy figure—presumably the cat burglar—moving quickly as it clears out the cash held in the register’s till.
There’s no time to waste, and even if the criminal is a professional, it shouldn’t be too difficult to stop the guy and web them up—Peter’s had plenty of practice with these types. They’re no match for Spider-Man.
So Peter slips around the building and eases in through the cracked back door—he doesn’t have much time if the burglar wants to be out before the cops arrive, as has been the case with the previous recent robberies.
The shuffling reaches his ears as he creeps up close behind the masked robber. It’s nearly pitch black inside the building, and he wonders how long he could stand here before he’s noticed. He clears his throat. “Hey, buddy, sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but—I guess the fun is over.”
The criminal whirls around. “Spider-Man!”
“Yep, that’s me,” Peter says with a grin. “Just doing my thing, keeping the hard-earned money of New York’s citizens safe from people like you. Now, just hand over the cash you’ve got in the bag.”
“You know, I had a feeling you might show up,” the man says, voice gravelly as he reaches into the bag he’s been stuffing with money, pulling something out and holding it toward Peter. “So I came prepared.”
Peter’s reaction time is quick, but he isn’t prepared for what he thought was a wad of cash to instead be some sort of canister—which is suddenly and unexpectedly sprayed directly into his face. He rears back as the mist soaks through his mask, eyes already beginning to burn as whatever was in that spray begins seeping into his skin.
Despite the unexpected attack, Peter manages to keep his wits about him, shooting out a flurry of webs even as he tries to duck out of the way. Because it’s dark and he’s half-blind right now, most of the webs miss the target, but he hears an oof and knows that at least one has landed. He tries desperately to get a glimpse of the man in front of him to send out more webs, but his face feels like it’s literally on fire.
His opponent continues to wildly spray the contents of the canister in Peter’s direction until it runs out. Then he shoves forward, barreling into Peter on his way out.
Peter stumbles backward from the force of the hit, but manages to chase after the criminal—hoping that he doesn’t run into any walls, since he can’t exactly see much of anything at the moment.
As Peter darts out the door, he hears the sound of sirens and screeching tires on the street. He starts around the corner of the building, assuming it’s the same direction the burglar went.
The cops are pulling up to the front of the store now and shouting something along the lines of “get your hands where I can see them!” so Peter assumes that everything is handled. Which is good, because his condition is definitely deteriorating and he needs to get out here—now.
He scrambles back the way he came, latching onto the side of the building next to where the attempted robbery just took place and climbing up to the roof. He probably should try to get further away from the scene, but his vision is still pretty much gone and his whole face hurts.
“Karen, what is this stuff?” he asks, rubbing at his face through the Spider-Man mask—which he belatedly realizes is probably a bad idea because it’s just rubbing in whatever that guy sprayed at him.
“My systems detect traces of multiple harmful chemicals, including pest repellant meant for spiders and insects,” the A.I. reports dutifully. “These can also cause minor irritations to humans if contact is made through the skin.”
Peter groans. Spider repellant, really? He tugs off the mask and rubs at his eyes again. Unfortunately, the motion does nothing to ease the pain; if anything, it makes it worse. His face feels swollen and hot, and he knows he needs help. Sure, he could probably find his way home with his eyes closed, but he doesn’t like the idea of missing a web while swinging and ending up plummeting to the concrete below. Plus, whatever chemicals are in spider repellant apparently can also cause extreme lightheadedness if inhaled. Maybe it wouldn’t affect the average person so dramatically, but again, Peter Parker is anything but average.
This is so stupid. With trembling fingers, Peter pulls his mask back on.
Karen’s soothing voice immediately fills his ears. “Peter, is everything all right? You seem to be in distress.”
“Yeah, sorta,” he answers, curling into a tight ball and pressing his hands to his face. “I…I think I’ll be okay. Just need to get home and, uh, I don’t know, rinse all this stuff out of my face?”
“My scans indicate that you are experiencing a severe allergic reaction.”
Peter winces. That would explain the fiery pain and impaired vision.
The good news about the whole situation is that May isn’t home this evening and probably won’t be back until late. That gives Peter time to solve the problem before his aunt can properly freak out. The bad news is that it means he’s on his own, both in terms of getting home and in taking care of his face.
“I have contacted Mr. Stark and passed on this information to him,” Karen informs Peter suddenly.
“What?” Peter exclaims, scrambling to his feet and nearly tumbling over again. “No, no, don’t bother Mr. Stark. It—it’s late, and he’s a busy guy. And besides, the Avengers Compound is, like, all the way upstate—”
“I am required by protocol to report major injuries,” she explains. “Mr. Stark has informed me that he is only ten minutes away from your current location. He has also asked that I relay the following message: ‘Sit tight, Underoos, I’m on my way. Guess I should leave a five-star review on that can of Raid under my sink; sounds like it works pretty well.’” Karen reads it in her own voice, devoid of the usual Tony Stark sarcasm and dry humor, but Peter can imagine the man recording the message. He lets out another groan.
A few minutes pass, and Peter decides that he should try to move a little further away from the hubbub of excitement happening below him—exacerbating the pounding in his head. There are sirens, lights, and voices surrounding the store next door.
It takes a lot of effort, but he manages to leap a few buildings over, only almost missing the edge of a roof once. He’s proud of himself, though, considering he’s practically flying blind—literally—at the moment.
While the initial burning of the repellant is finally fading, it leaves behind a dull, hot throb across Peter’s entire face and neck. The mask managed to absorb a good bit of the chemicals, but clearly they still caused a bad reaction. His throat isn’t exactly tight, but it’s not as easy to breathe as it was just thirty minutes ago. He’s not sure if that should be a cause for concern or not, but he knows that he needs to take care of this—yesterday.
Peter thinks he’s doing a good job not panicking, because considering the fact that he’s ninety percent blind right now, he thinks that panicking wouldn’t be an overreaction right now. Maybe he’s just in shock. That’s probably it.
He hears the soft blast of repulsors, followed by the sounds of the Iron Man suit retracting. If Peter squints, he can just make out a dark form advancing toward him.
“Thought I might find you flailing around on your back,” Tony says. “And what part of ‘stay put’ did you not understand?"
Peter shrugs miserably.
Tony sighs. “All right, come on, let’s see it.” He motions with his fingers.
Peter slowly reaches up and pulls his mask off again. He expects Tony to crack another joke, maybe tell him to be more careful next time, but instead he’s met with silence.
“Uh, Mr. Stark?” he asks, furrowing his brow as he tries to make out the blurry expression on the man’s face. The movement hurts his own swollen cheeks, so he forces himself to relax.
“Kid—” Tony cuts himself off. “That’s—wow. Okay. Hey, Fri, dear, where’s that water?” He stands and moves back toward the Iron Man suit standing behind him before making his way back over to where Peter sits.
“Is it bad?” Peter croaks miserably.
“Well, it’s not good, I’ll tell you that much.” Tony hums, popping the lid off a water bottle and holding it up. “You look like you stuck your face in a beehive. Let’s rinse off as much residue as we can, and then we’ll get you home to take care of the rest.”
Peter nods, letting the man cup his chin and tilt his head back in order to pour the water over his face. The cool liquid feels heavenly on his puffy cheeks and burning eyes. The process is repeated until the bottle is empty, and Peter feels a smidge better.
“Pest repellant.” Tony shakes his head in wonder as he readies to help Peter get home. “It’s genius—no offense, of course.”
“Mr. Stark,” Peter groans. “It’s so embarrassing.”
“Listen, every superhero has their kryptonite. Yours just happens to be…well, unusual is certainly one word for it. But we’ll find a way to make a suit resistant to that sort of thing.”
Peter, exhausted by the events of the evening, just grunts his agreement.
As they head in the direction of the apartment, Tony adds, “You may want to watch out for fly swatters in the future, too.”
“Mr. Stark!”