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"Peter, your web fluid is low," Karen had warned.
I should have listened, Peter thought as he pulled himself miserably out of the dumpster that he'd crash-landed in. The bottles rattled around, making awful clinking noises, but Peter couldn't be bothered to care about the noise. He could feel glass shards embedded all over his body.
His hands were shaking as he stepped out of the alley. He was only a few blocks from his apartment, but the cuts were already starting to seal, and they stung like he'd stepped in a fire ant hill.
He took a deep breath and surveyed the damage. There weren't as many cuts as he thought, maybe only three or four major pieces, then a few that had fallen out. He grimaced and ran through the positioning of the 41 major arteries in the human body. Looks like biology is useful for something after all. The glass wasn't within an inch of any of them, so he went ahead and pulled them out. He winced as his skin clung to the shards, already starting the healing process.
He was about to start walking home when Karen spoke up in his ears. "You should disinfect the wounds as soon as possible, since you did get them from a dumpster of all things." Her voice had a bite to it.
Peter rolled his eyes. "Okay, well, where do you suggest I get a disinfectant?" He had his hand pressed on the cut that was most urgently bleeding; right above his hip on the left. Maybe he should stitch that one up.
"You could call Mr. Stark," she suggested in a tone that implied that she knew he'd deny her.
"Yeah, sure, and get grounded for all eternity," Peter snapped, wondering if he could ask Ned to remove whatever programming made Karen ask to call his mentor at every minor scratch.
"At least then you wouldn't ignore me when I warn you to land soon," Karen retorted.
Peter scoffed. "Whatever. I'll just use..." He trailed off, looking around. His gaze landed on the dumpster that he had just landed in, and his head tilted in consideration. Didn't most sanitizers have alcohol? "Karen, can I use those bottles?"
She paused before responding. "Yes, technically, although I'll have to strongly advise you against it. There could be-"
Peter cut her off by opening a half-empty bottle of vodka and dumping it on his torso. He immediately gasped at the unexpected burn of the alcohol meeting his fresh cuts. "What the- mm Karen, that hurts!"
"Well, you are pouring alcohol on an open wound. I would imagine that it stings more than hand sanitizer and a paper cut."
"Just shut up," Peter gasped. "Ow, ow, ow, ow, ow."
"You can stop pouring it now." Karen's voice was dry, as if stating the obvious. Maybe she was, but Peter was starting to feel a bit dizzy; whether from blood loss or pain, he didn't know.
"Yep- okay. Stopping." He threw the bottle back into the dumpster, clamped a hand over his sluggishly bleeding hip, and stumbled out of the alley for a second time. After another deep breath, he made his way down the street. It's only two blocks, he thought to himself.
Instead of climbing through his window like he normally does, he knocked on the door of his apartment with May. He waited with bated breath for the door to swing open with an obnoxiously loud creak, and a few seconds later, it did not disappoint.
May's face turned from frustration to concern faster than he'd ever seen before, and she pulled him into the house by the base of his neck, slamming the door behind him.
"Okay, you're getting your lecture later. Are you actively bleeding?" She draped a ready tarp over the couch and shoved him onto it.
He winced and pulled his hand away from his hip. The cut was scabbed over, but it still stung. "Not anymore? It's just a scratch; I've had worse."
May's head fell back for a moment, and she took a deep breath that wasn't unlike the ones he'd taken in the alley. Her exhale was a little shaky.
I did that, he thought, and his eyes filled with tears until he blinked them away. "Sorry, May," he mumbled.
"I know. I know you are." She looked him up and down, her breath a little steadier once she had processed that he was mostly okay now. "What happened? And why do you smell like alcohol?" She added the second question as an afterthought, as if she was only noticing just then.
"Um..." Peter hesitated, knowing that if she knew he'd ignored Karen's warning, he'd be in even more trouble. After a moment of consideration and a raised eyebrow from his aunt, he sighed, dropping his chin. "I ran out of webs and fell in a dumpster to avoid pancaking on the asphalt. And, well... the dumpster was full of bottles, so I got all cut up, and then Karen told me to disinfect the cuts after I pulled out the glass, so I dumped vodka on myself." His voice sped up as he moved on in the story, and the last words were barely comprehensible.
May got it though, and she crossed her arms, looking at the ceiling again. "Peter Benjamin Parker. You can't- you-" She cut herself off with a huff. "I don't want to yell at you. Go take a shower."
"Okay," Peter whispered, keeping his gaze on the ground as he speed-walked down the hall.
"And use the red towel!" May shouted after him, her voice strained as she tried to contain her frustration.