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“It’s not even a big deal,” Peter protests. “I run outside all the time.”
“There is an active snowstorm, Peter.” Hank says, barely disguised exasperation playing across his face. “I know this is hard for you, but maybe try having a little common sense here.”
Peter makes a face. “Rude. Also, that just makes me want to do it more. Also- also, the snow is barely coming down out there. I’ll be back before it’s bad.” He turns for the door, zipping his jacket and pulling some gloves on. “If I’m not back in an hour, come find me. But you won’t need to, because I’ll be fine .”
Peter is, by all accounts, anything but fine.
It starts going downhill when he slips on some slushy ice right outside of town and rolls his ankle, which—in fairness, shouldn’t be that big of a deal. It doesn’t make his running that much more difficult, but it does piss him off, and he takes a few minutes to sit at a nearby cafe and get some hot chocolate.
Within a few minutes, it’s clear that his ankle is a little more than sprained. It hurts, and while he can definitely walk on it, running any more is a bad idea. Shit .
The snow outside is beginning to get a little heavier, so after five more minutes Peter decides ‘Screw it ’—he needs to get home, so he’ll have to run anyway, and he has to start now if he wants to beat the brewing storm.
Peter makes it a few miles before re-spraining his ankle, right as the snow begins to come down hard. He stands awkwardly, trying not to put pressure on his foot. His ankle aches and throbs; he must have pulled something badly. Why did he think this would work?
He’s nowhere near a phone booth, so he can’t call anyone at the X-Mansion. He’s only been gone twenty minutes, which means forty minutes until Hank & Co. begin to get concerned. Peter knows he won’t be home for another twenty miles. He tries walking—limping, really—despite knowing that, hoping whichever direction he’s moving in is the right one. He knows that he’ll only get a mile or two at best, but he figures the movement will at least keep him warmer.
A gust of wind stings his face, and it dawns on Peter that trying to run earlier—running away from the town like an idiot—has put him at a serious disadvantage. If he’d stayed, he could have at least avoided spraining his ankle a second time and waited it out at the warm cafe. He could have called someone, even. Now three miles out from the town and even further from the mansion, Peter has no choice but to wait.
The snow is coming down so thick now that he can’t see more than twenty feet away, and Peter feels dread settle in his stomach. He’s made some dumb choices, but he isn’t stupid. I am 100% screwed.
The cold isn’t excruciating, at first. For a few minutes, Peter focuses on keeping his hands warm. The tips of his fingers prickle as they lose feeling, until eventually his hand movements become stilted and stiff. His throat feels raw from breathing in the frigid air. He tries, unsuccessfully, to blow hot air onto his hands to heat them up.
Peter’s body begins shivering uncontrollably. He can’t tell what time it is or how much longer he’ll have to wait out there, but he guesses that it’s only been fifteen minutes. He sits down, deciding that he’d rather sit in the snow than keep standing on his sprained ankle.
And then something very unexpected happens.
Peter’s head suddenly swims with grogginess, and his skin bristles as if he’s been set on fire. The heat makes him feel immediate panic flutter in his chest. A panic attack—no, a hot flash? Peter can’t distinguish what it is. But he does the only thing he can think of doing, and his first thought is that he needs to cool down or he’ll literally burst into flames.
Peter’s movements are sluggish, clumsy. He’s pretty sure his hot chocolate wasn’t spiked, but he certainly feels drunk now. His half-frozen fingers struggle to unzip his jacket, but he has to. He feels anxiety thrumming through his veins, knowing it will cease as soon as he can remove this stupid jacket —
It doesn’t stop. The jacket comes off, and he still feels as if his body is being burned from the inside out. Taking his shirt off proves to be even harder—even his arms feel stiff now—so he gives up, curling into a pathetic ball as he sweats in the snow.
Peter doesn’t realize when he can’t feel his fingers anymore. He doesn’t realize when half his face goes numb against the snow. He doesn’t realize when a voice anxiously calls his name, when familiar hands pull him into an embrace, when someone else joins to carry him to a car.
Peter wakes up to a sterile room smelling of ammonia and lemons.
“Pietro—thank God.” Erik says, reaching for Peter’s arm. “Do not ever do that again.”