Chapter Text
could you do a peter parker hurt/comfort fic where he hides an injury? i really liked family web and i’ve been missing your peter parker fics. no worries if it’s a no <3 – anon
"Spider-Man? Status."
Peter grits his teeth and puts a hand to his comm. He doesn't have to—Karen would transmit whatever he said anyway, but the movement does momentarily distract him from the gaping hole in his side, so he's got that going for him. "I'm okay. I'm, uh, I'm at the corner of the collapsed building. Is everything okay?"
"We're still clearing away the stragglers. Can you keep lookout from there?"
"Uh—" he glances around. There's a toppled semi that would give him a high enough vantage point without straining his injury too much. "I think so. How, uh, how many are left?"
"Only a few. Stay sharp, kid."
"Aye aye, Captain." He hears a snort of laughter from Mr. Stark and a less-subtle dig at the fossil from Ms. Romanoff as he clambers shakily to the top of the wrecked shipping container. For better or for worse, the impact from one of the projectiles warped the metal so that there's almost a curve for him to lean against. The good news is the sharp part is not where he could sit and rest.
The bad news is that it faces the opposite way of where he's supposed to keep watch.
"Spider-Man? Anything?"
"Uh—negative, negative, Falcon, I don't—I don't see any of them."
"You sound winded. Everything okay?"
"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine, just—" he hisses through his teeth as a bit of shrapnel digs itself further into his side— "tired out."
"You should go on more runs with Steve, that'll get your endurance up," comes Sergeant Barnes's voice along with a screech of metal.
"You say like you don't run laps around him on purpose sometimes."
"He's actually pretty decent when it comes to pace matching," Ms. Romanoff says, and there's the distant sound of her firing at something, "unlike someone."
"I resent that implication." Mr. Barton muffles a grunt. "Just because I don't do all the aerial silk stuff with you anymore—"
"I'm sorry, back up: Barton did aerial silks? And this is the first time I'm finding out about this?"
"What can I say, Tony, you can take the kid out of the circus…"
"And I thought we shared things with each other." There's the telltale whine of the repulsor. "You taught the kid any of your tricks?"
"You think I can teach that kid anything he won't figure out on his own?" The whizz of arrows. They're all fighting. They're all doing things. They're all being useful. Peter's just sitting here. By himself. Not even doing the one thing he's supposed to be. "I'd be surprised if I came down and he already knew exactly what to do."
"We should put that to the test, huh, Baby Spider?"
Baby Spider. That's him. He should respond to that. Moving is hard. Why was he trying to move?
The world starts to get fuzzy. His eyes are closing—no, the world's just getting darker. And thinner. And flatter. And his head hurts. Why does his head hurt? He didn't get hit in the head. There's something wet on his side. And his hand. And the chair. Why is the chair so bumpy? He doesn't like bumpy chairs. He should've sat on a nicer chair. Maybe he should go do that. It's better to sit on a nice not-bumpy chair that isn't wet than a bumpy wet chair.
He blinks again. He's really blinking slowly. He could've sworn the world was upright a second ago. What happened to the flat black thing that was erasing his view? Maybe that was something from his suit. Mr. Stark did say he put a lot of stuff into it, so maybe it was something he just hadn't discovered yet. It wasn't like he could go into it now, he was…he was…what was he doing?
Chair. Right. He'd been sitting on a bumpy wet chair. He didn't like sitting on wet things. That just made his skin feel all itchy. Itchy and prickly and not fun. His whole side feels wet now, did he lie down on the wet chair? But that doesn't make sense. If he lay down on the wet thing, then the side under him should be wet, not the side facing up. But the side facing up feels wet. So does his arm. So does his hand. His mouth feels like it's filling with something. Is he drinking? He's wearing a mask.
He coughs. Something metallic splatters over the inside of his mask. His breathing feels thick. There's something stuck in his teeth. There's something in his mouth still. He tries to breathe. It's hard. It tastes wrong. Breathing shouldn't taste like anything, it should just be breathing. But breathing tastes bad. That's bad. He should say something. He's supposed to tell them when he thinks something's wrong.
But they're busy right now. They're fighting.
What're they fighting?
What's he supposed to do now?
Why is moving hard?
There's something crackling in his ear. He tries to reach up and paw at it. Something makes it really, really hard to move his arm. So he doesn't. He turns his head slightly like that'll make the thing crackle louder. He blinks. Was he blinking? Were his eyes closed? It's dark. It's really dark. Maybe it's night time. Maybe this is all a bad dream. Is it bad? What makes it bad? He's in pain, but that's not new. Maybe this dream is just about being in pain. He's had those before. They aren't any fun. Sometimes he gets them when he's just in the tower, because then when he's there it feels weird.
He knows it's not supposed to feel weird. He's supposed to talk to them when he feels weird, not have them be the cause of him feeling weird. But the nightmares—bad dreams, dreams, the things he has when he's not in his head properly, they all tell him that they don't have anything to worry about because he's Peter, and he's supposed to be fine, and so he doesn't tell them when he feels weird because that's not helpful.
Helpful…helpful…he was supposed to do something. He's supposed to be doing something right now.
What was it again?
There are teeth in his throat and a claw piercing his ribs by the time he manages to scrape together enough brain cells to manage the word lookout.
"No, you got my Baby Spider hurt, you go away."
"He was my Baby Spider first, now let me—"
"No! You've done all the necessary things to make sure he's not dying, he has been transferred to the bed to sleep and heal, which means that it's time for me to tell you off for not taking care of our Baby Spider."
"Exactly, our Baby Spider! Let me see him, he's gonna wake up all confused—"
"And I will tell him what's going on. Now shoo. You know the rules, out, out, out!"
"…you'll tell me if anything's—"
"If anything is wrong, yes, yes, of course I will, now get out."
Peter's swimming through a haze of voices. There's something cottony in his mouth. Everything hurts. Does it hurt? It hurts but like it's on the other side of a glass wall, like he can see the hurt and feel the glass moving from the impact of it but it's just not quite getting to him.
"Hey, hey, Baby Spider, shh, it's alright. You're safe now, do not worry, Aunt Spider is right here."
The soft rolling words flood his ears just as the pain shatters through the glass. A high-pitched whine reaches his ears and he only realizes it's him when the voice shushes him again with all the tenderness to make him cry.
"Shh, shh, Baby Spider, you're okay. Don't cry, don't cry—they have you on the good pain medication for a reason, you're going to be alright. And if you're not, I'll go out there and kick all of their asses for letting you get hurt so badly."
Something soft and warm touches his head. It moves over his cheek again and again, before something else touches his forehead. It feels softer and…wetter? That's bad. He doesn't like wet things. Wet things are bad right now.
"Open your eyes, Baby Spider, come on, look at me."
Oh. That's why it's so dark. His eyes are closed. He blinks and immediately whimpers in pain. It's too bright. Bright is bad. He wants to go back.
"Shit—okay, there, lights are off now, come on, that's it, look at me, Baby Spider. Let me see you."
Peter cracks his eyes open, blinking muzzily up at the blur in front of him. After a few seconds the blur wobbles and something wet drips down the side of his face. He doesn't like that, but he does like the soft thing that brushes his cheek afterwards.
"There you are," the soft voice says again as a face begins to emerge out of the blurry darkness, "there's my Baby Spider. You scared everyone pretty badly."
"Y-Yelena?"
Yelena pouts. "Not Aunt Spider?"
"Aunt Spider?" His voice cracks and suddenly he's a baby again, crying when he wakes up from a nightmare and he doesn't know what to do except hide away forever. "A-aunt Spider, I'm—I don't—"
"Shh, shh, it's okay." She pets his cheeks and hair, leaning closer so he can see her better. "It's okay, Baby Spider, you're going to be okay. Are you scared, is that it?"
"What's—what happened?"
Yelena's expression darkens. "You were out on a mission. There were these gross little crawly things that got loose from some lab and they were attacking people. You got hurt by one of them when a building collapsed and then didn't tell anyone."
The wetness…the blood…he must've bled out on top of the truck. Bits and pieces come back to him; the scrabbling yelps and gross weird not-flesh leaving chunks of viscera on the sidewalk.
"One of them got to you. It messed you up pretty badly. For a while, we weren't sure if you were going to make it." She places her hand very gently on the side that hurts a little less, the sensation dulled even further through the thick swaddle of bandages. "You got hurt really bad, Baby Spider."
"I'm sorry."
"No, no, no, you don't apologize for being hurt, that's not your fault. You apologize for not telling people that you're hurt so they can look after you."
He doesn't have the blood to spare for shame to rush to his face, but he feels it burn all the same. He's never been very good at getting scolded, not even when he's at his best. In some ways, he's happy it's happening now, when he's already in pain and crying in a hospital bed—can he count on looking pathetic and regretful enough to escape the worst of it?
Probably not. It's only Yelena here. He's going to get dressed down by everybody else later, they're most likely waiting until he's not in the bed as a favor to him but really he just wants them to get it over with now. Lick his wounds all at the same time, and all that.
"—by Spider, Baby Spider, shh, shh, hey, stay with me, look at me, come on."
"S-sorry," he wheezes out, "'m sorry, I know I did it wrong, I can—"
"Hey. Hey. None of that, you don't do that right now." The hands hold his face firmly. "You look at me, okay? That's all you do right now, you look at me."
"Yelena? I mean—Aunt Spider?"
"Yes, that's right. I'm right here, okay? I'm not leaving." Thumbs move across his cheeks—his wet cheeks—he's still crying, that's not good. "Shh, hey, it's okay. We'll worry about all that later, hm? Right now you just—"
"No!"
Yelena stops and blinks. Confusion flickers across her face. "'No' what?"
"We—we can do it now," he manages, "I know—I know I messed up, you can tell me it now, I can—I can take it, it's better that way—"
"I'm not going to yell at you while you're in a hospital bed, Peter—" Peter, not Baby Spider, he's making this worse— "you need to rest."
"No, 'm good, I'm good." He bites his lip hard and tries to take a deep breath, raising his chin. "I messed up, I'm sorry."
Something complicated works its way into Yelena's expression. The hands on his face don't soften, but the next pass of her thumb is less practical, more affectionate. "What's going on, Baby Spider? You look so scared. I'm not going to hurt you."
"No, I know, I know that."
"Then why do you look like I'm about to?"
He swallows heavily. His mouth still tastes like blood. "I-I just meant that it makes sense that—well, I'm awake now, so we can—so…"
She looks at him expectantly when he doesn't finish. He swallows again.
"I don't want to inconvenience everybody else," he decides on finally, "so if they're waiting to talk to me, then they can…they can do it now and then they don't have to worry about it anymore."
"And what is it that you think they'll say?"
"…you know, what I did wrong and what not to do next time."
"And once they've told you this, they'll leave you alone?"
"Y-yeah? I mean, I think so."
"And—what? Just let you be in pain by yourself?"
He frowns. "What?"
"You are severely injured, emotionally unstable, and quite possibly the most vulnerable I've ever seen you, and you think this is the right time to be, what, reprimanded and left alone?"
This is a trap, his body screams, this is a trap, this is a trap, this is a trap.
He doesn't say anything. Yelena looks at him hard for another few moments before she's pulling away. He bites his lip to stifle a whimper at the loss of contact and choke down the wave of dread that courses through him. She's probably going to get the others. This is good.
This is good, he tries to convince himself, get it over with now, heal all at the same time without the dread of it coming later, this is good, this is—
He's so scared. He's really scared and he's going to cry and that's not going to make it any better because he has to at least seem like he's worthy of being here.
"Drink."
—what?
"Drink," Yelena repeats, holding a straw to his mouth, "you need water."
He opens trembling lips and lets her feed the straw into his mouth. The few sips of water he's able to take rinse the worst of the blood from his tongue. She doesn't look at him as she watches the level of fluid in the cup go down, pulling away when he's had almost half. It comes to rest on the side table with a clunk. She folds her hands in her lap and stares at him.
"I do not abandon people to suffer in silence. I will not leave you to endure your pain on your own," she says firmly, "that is not the kind of person I want to be anymore."
"…okay?"
"You think they will be angry at you? You think they will yell at you?" He nods. "Then I will sit here with you while it happens, and afterwards, when you are still hurting, I will be here with you."
"Aunt Spider—"
"If it makes any difference, I don't think they're going to yell at you, but if you are scared of it, then I will stay with you." She puts her hand over his. "You want them to come and do it now, right, so that you won't worry about it happening later?"
"Yeah."
"Okay. I will let them know they can come see you." She reaches for her phone and types something. A moment later, she puts it away again. "They are on their way."
"Thank you."
"Mm."
The dread billows and pulses in his chest and throat. He still doesn't have blood to spare for his face, but he can gnaw on his tongue. There are footsteps and shadows outside. He suddenly squeezes Yelena's hand hard and she squeezes back.
The door opens—
"Oh, Peter—"
"Shit, kid—"
"Pete —"
"All of you move, that's my Baby Spider." Ms. Romanoff shoves her way to the front of the group and glares at Yelena, before her face softens and she's reaching out to cup his face. "Hey, Baby Spider, you doing okay?"
He manages a nod, still holding the dread in his mouth like a frog.
"You need more painkillers?" He shakes his head. She taps him lightly under the chin. "What's this face for, then?"
His eyes look to Mr. Stark, who immediately turns to the nearby screen and starts scanning it. "Readouts look good, vitals are stable. You're due for another round of meds in…about fifteen minutes."
He looks over the edge of his glasses at Peter.
"You need more now."
"N-no, Mr. Stark."
"Mr. Stark," he huffs, looking away, "you're killing me here, kid."
"Wh-what was I supposed to say?"
"Peter," Captain Rogers says with his voice all soft and low from the foot of the bed, and when he turns to look he sees that really gentle expression he sees aimed at Mr. Stark when he's not sleeping or Sergeant Barnes when they're talking about something, "we're worried about you."
"I'm sorry, Cap—Captain."
Captain Rogers comes closer, stepping around Yelena—he squeezes her hand again and she squeezes back—and sitting near his head. He reaches out and brushes some hair back from his face. "What's going on in your head right now?"
"I—I—"
Out of desperation, he makes eye contact with Yelena. She sighs. "He believes you are all angry with him and would prefer if he were to be reprimanded now, so that when you leave he can be in pain by himself and heal from it without having to worry about more pain later."
…more explicit than he would've gone with, but true.
"Oh, kid," he hears Captain Rogers murmur—and that can't be right, but there are still fingers carding gently through his hair, "we were never going to yell at you. We're not mad at you, sweetheart, we were scared, that's all. You got hurt on our watch, Peter, that's what we're worried about—we just want to make sure you're okay."
"Barton and Barnes didn't come up 'cause they didn't want to see you so hurt," Mr. Stark says, "'cause they're still pissed at themselves for letting it happen. Wilson's off with Aunt May getting your stuff so you can stay here for the next few weeks."
"B-but—"
He cuts himself off with a truly pitiful sound when Ms. Romanoff leans in and kisses his forehead. He distantly registers the sound of winces and muffled curses but he's too busy not being able to think.
"I will never be mad at you for being scared, Baby Spider," she whispers, "and I won't leave you in pain. You're my Baby Spider, Peter."
"You're not—you're not mad?"
"No, Peter."
"You won't yell at me?"
"We won't yell at you," Captain Rogers murmurs, ruffling his hair, "you're safe, sweetheart."
"And we're not just gonna let you be in pain." Mr. Stark presses a button and Peter's body sags in relief as something floods his system. "We don't leave people behind."
"See, Baby Spider?" Yelena squeezes his hand again. "You're not going to be abandoned to pain here. If you're hurt, you tell us, and then we take care of you."
"That's right."
…well, now he feels like an idiot for assuming and making them feel bad that he assumed. And now he's definitely going to start crying because he doesn't know what to do now and crying sounds like a good idea.
"Shh," he hears a gentle voice murmur as a warm hand rests lightly on his injured stomach, "shh, sweetheart, it's okay, let it out."
"Move over, sit down. There, that's better. We're not leaving, kid, you're gonna be okay. FRIDAY, can you—?"
"Already on it, boss."
Another kiss—at least he thinks that's what it is. "Shh, Baby Spider, we're right here. You're safe."
Everything hurts. Everything hurts and that's…that's okay. Because there's a warm hand in his hair and a gentle voice in his ear. There's a kiss on his forehead and a whisper against his temple. There's a shadow on the bed and a watchful eye on the machines keeping him stable. There's a hand in his and a promise filling the room.
You will not be abandoned to pain. We will take care of you.