Work Text:
Summer in New York is brutal, this Peter knows only too well after spending so many years in the city. A summer heatwave isn’t something unheard of, let alone something Peter would ever let stop him. The schools are staying open and Tony is still in back to back meetings most of the day (if he bothers to go, that is). So why should the heat stop Spider-Man?
Extreme heat increases crime; people get pissed off more easily and that leads to all sorts. Not to mention the amount of people who might need help, people who don’t have anywhere to shelter or can’t afford to run their air conditioning unit. So the heatwave will most certainly not be stopping Spider-Man from looking out for the little guy.
‘Make sure you drink, and try to stay in the shade. You know, I really think you should stay home, just this once?’ Aunt May is fretting over Peter as he sits on the windowsill, wondering if his mask can portray the exasperation he feels beneath.
‘I’ll be fine, May. There are people out there who need me! I won’t be out for too long,’ Peter insists, pushing the window up so he can slip out. ‘I’ll be home soon, promise,’
And so he jumps down to the streets of Queens, calling up Karen to keep him up to date with any distress calls or unusual activity. He takes the same route he always does, stopping by Delmar’s for a sandwich on the way, and he escorts Mrs Bingley back to the retirement home out of which she breaks at least once a week.
He helps some volunteers hand out water to homeless people and guides them to cooling stations, all the while wishing there was something more he could do. There’s a little girl at the park who has strayed too far from her mother, so he helps the two reunite. Then there’s a man having a heart attack, a teenager who passes out on the skatepark and a toddler who wanders out of an open door into the street.
The sun is beating down on him as he works, Karen reminds him to drink water constantly but sometimes Peter is too busy for that. People need him, one after the other calls his name and before he knows it, the sun is setting down below the horizon.
Sweat is dripping down his back, his hair is flattened against his skin in a way that itches awfully. A relentless throbbing in his head makes it difficult to see straight as he swings clumsily back towards his apartment. At one point, luckily as he swings down a back alley where nobody can see him, he misjudges a shot and promptly falls through the air. Peter lands in a heap on the floor, limps tangled underneath him as he groans quietly.
‘That was stupid,’ he mutters, pushing back to his feet. Perhaps he should simply walk back home. Peter’s never made a mistake like this before, never missed a web in his life. It’s always been an easy calculation he makes without thought. Now even getting his feet to find their place underneath him seems to take too much thought.
Just as he manages to stumble to his feet, his face is suddenly in the concrete again and he’s staring sideways out of the alleyway. It’s a deserted street, the sun has gone down and night is well underway, yet the heat hasn’t dropped.
There’s a voice in his head, saying something Peter can’t comprehend. He thinks he should recognise the voice, but he doesn’t think he’s ever heard it before. It won’t stop talking, even when Peter tells it to shut up, the voice drones on. On, and on and on.
Peter keeps staring ahead, watching the odd car whizz past the entrance to the alley, eyes sliding back and forth lazily. He could just stay here forever, watching the cars, cheek pressed against the rough concrete ground. Everything hurts, his head is pounding and his limbs ache in that deep, unending way that comes with a hard day’s work.
As Peter lays there, sweat dripping down the back of his mask and into his eye, a bright light shoots across the sky, drawing nearer and nearer. A shooting star! Peter’s never seen a shooting star before, having been in Queens for as long as he can remember, he rarely gets to see any kind of star. But here one is, a real shooting star, heading straight for him.
It even shouts his name as it draws near.
***
This kid is going to be the death of Tony Stark. He had warned him not to go out in the heat, said he could get hurt if he went out in the heat. And what does he do? He goes out in the damn heat. He spent eight hours swinging around Queens, covered head to toe in spandex until now Karen has alerted him that Peter is laying in a random alleyway all the way out in Brooklyn, muttering nonsense to himself.
And so Tony has waved goodbye to his romantic evening with Pepper and is now flying towards the red and blue heap, ten miles away from where he should be. Tony is going to wring the boy’s neck tomorrow morning. Once he’s dragged his sorry ass back to the Compound and had FRIDAY run a full scan on him.
‘Peter!’ he calls nervously as he nears the boy, landing with a loud clang of metal on concrete. The suit melts away from him, standing guard at the entrance of the alley.
Peter doesn’t respond with anything more than an incoherent groan. Tony kneels down next to the boy, checking around briefly before deeming it safe enough to peel Peter’s mask away from his face.
It’s a sorry sight that meets Tony’s eyes. His face is bright red, eyes bloodshot and pupils blown wide open. Sweat trickles down his face, his hair is plastered to the skin in wet, curly clumps. With each breath, Peter’s chest heaves in a way that looks incredibly painful and his breath rattles in his throat.
‘Shit, Pete, what have you done?’ Tony mutters. Peter only smiles.
‘Star,’ he mumbles, staring blankly up at Tony. ‘Shoo’n star…’
‘Sure, mumbles, we’ve gotta get you out of here, bud,’ Tony agrees with the kid absent mindedly. If he didn’t know any better, he’d think that he’d taken something, but Peter would never do that.
Tony tucks Peter’s mask into the neckline of his suit and rises to his feet. Peter whines from the floor, calling more jumbled words after Tony as he walks over to his suit, stepping back inside. He has FRIDAY set a course back to the Compound, straight to the medical wing, and then returns to the heap of Spider-Man on the ground, bending down to pick the kid up.
‘Alright, buddy, hang tight,’ Tony tells him, even though he doesn’t appear capable of basic comprehension right now. ‘Time to go home,’
‘Star… ‘s a star,’ Peter’s whispering, shivering in Tony’s arms as the boosters kick in and they rise through the air. Tony shakes his head, looking down at the child cradled in his arms.
‘Sure, Pete. A star,’ he concedes. He’s not sure where the star is or why Peter’s so intent on it, but he’ll humour him for now.