Chapter Text
Peter Parker has drowned only once before, in the New York harbor. He was chasing after some crooks selling illegal weapons to people in Brooklyn, crooks he later finds out were working for the Vulture. Peter was only in the water for five, maybe ten seconds, before he was saved by Tony.
That was nothing like this.
It wasn’t even drowning at first. It was more like the marrow of his soul was being minced into thin chunks, leaving nothing more than wood chips. His who was cut away from his what while his spider-sense blared in his ears. Into what used to be his ears. It seemed like all of his atoms decided to tear themselves apart from each other, like a nasty divorce. It was a surprisingly dry feeling. There was nothing warm and sticky soaking into his clothes, no metallic tang in the air. How can fat and cartilage give way like potato skin and not feel wet? His muscles twitch at the thought, but the body is still.
May. He cried, his vocal cords disturbingly slack. I want my Aunt May.
By the end there wasn’t much left of him to feel the pain anymore. His aura was bathing in static, and he wished he was able to sob in relief. Floating from moment to moment like that, numb and weightless, It could have almost been considered pleasant.
The universe sees Peter taking the smallest amount of reprieve and spits in his face.
His moment of peace was gone as soon as it came. The pain had turned on its heel and tortured him in a completely new and different way. Scalding hot acid peeled the skin of his bones, eating away at whatever flesh was left like a maggot. The water was thick and syrupy, like someone was trying to drown him in molasses.
Was this a dream? The hurt, the pain, was he dreaming? Is he going to wake up soon? He sucked in a breath just for more green water to flood his airways, Chest cavity flooding with dry ice. His heart isn’t only pumping blood anymore. Maybe not, maybe this was real, and everything before it was the dream. The thought made his eyes sting.
The water was doing something to him. Green tinged needles threaded through his tendons and stitched his broken pieces back together. He could feel every twitch and spasm his muscles made, every agonizing breath his lungs took. His throat hurt like he had been screaming. he might have been screaming.
Peter tried to blink the green out of his vision but his eyelids were too heavy. Thick green bile was spilt onto the rocky surface under him, his lungs heaving with every cough. He just wants to go back to sleep, to dream of the life he might not have lived.
Peter Parker laid his head down and quietly listened to the sound of running water.
----
Peter noticed a few things while he slowly stirred from his unconsciousness.
For one it was freezing, like ‘May couldn't pay the heating bill in the middle of winter’ freezing. Horrible shudders wracked his body as he reached down for his blanket, which must have fallen off the bed again. His fingers collided with metal before they could even reach the ground, and Peter thought that was odd, because he definitely remembered his mattress being made of polyester last time he checked.
The second thing was probably how dark it was. His eyes could barely open but even he could tell it was too dark. The moon didn't shine through his bedroom window like it usually did, illuminating the dark corners of his room. Peter shifted to sit up, to get a better look around, and immediately regretted it when his head knocked into the metal ceiling above him. He opted to just stay laying down.
The third thing was the smell. After the bite, Peter’s nose has been akin to one of a bloodhound. He could tell you what you had for lunch yesterday just by standing too close to you. (It’s not as fun as it sounds.) And in this room the stench of cold meat and blood surrounded him from all angles.
Peter holds his hands in front of his face, not having to reach very far to hit cold steel above him. He reaches to his sides, only to get a similar result. Now Peter was starting to sweat, despite the cold.
Peter prays to every god he can think of, as he drags his trembling hands towards his front pockets. Maybe if he wills it hard enough, his phone will be in his pants pocket. Devastatingly though, Instead of his fingers brushing on top of favorite sweats, he touches the itchy fabric of boxer shorts. Fuck.
Peter is trapped in who knows where. He’s cold, he’s practically naked, and he’s in a tight metal box that may or may not have any ventilation.
Peter doesn’t have claustrophobia. He was sympathetic to the feelings others have, he never truly understood it. Peter adored enclosed spaces. Even as a kid, he’d hide himself away in a closet, or under his bed. There was always something so comforting about being able to see all four walls, to know no one could sneak up on you.
Now though, sitting in the dark with his teeth chattering and his palms sweating, all he can think about is the Vulture’s warehouse. Jagged concrete impaled him from all angles, barely enough room in his lungs to cry for help. No help was coming then, and no help is coming now.
His fists pounded against the steel, again and again, leaving large dents into the ceiling. Peter’s fingernails tore against the walls, leaving both his hands and the metal slick with blood. His voice was hoarse and raspy when he cried out, making him sound like a forty year old with a smoking addiction. Eventually his flailing led to his foot kicking in the floor (wall?) under his feet. Blinding light poured in like someone had thrown in a flash grenade, but not even a real grenade could stop him from escaping that god forsaken box.
Blind as a bat, Peter inches his way forward, using his foot to feel his way around while his eyes adjusted. There was a drop that he wasn’t expecting, like the container was hanging in mid air. The drop was too much for his legs and they gave out on impact, throwing him face first onto the ground.
After a few more rapid fire blinks, his eyes settled on white linoleum tiles in front of him. He looked back at the steel box behind him, his eyes widening in horror as all the information he’d gathered finally clicked into place.
The freezing temperatures, the metal human shaped container, the smell of cold meat. He knows where he is now.
Peter has never been inside a morgue before. Thankfully he doesn’t have a lot of opportunities too, considering the rocky relationship Spidey and the NYPD have. They take the ‘no vigilantism’ laws very seriously. Taking a quick look around the room Peter thought of how similar it was to those crime/drama shows he used to watch with May. Does Aunt May think he’s dead right now?
A pained groan escapes his lips as he pushes himself up and onto his knees, the icy air from the broken body cabinet leaking into the rest of the room. The door it once had on its hinges was strewn across the floor in front of him, his footprint denting it so that it was visibly concave. Something was wrong about how his face reflected in the metal. The fringe in front of his eyes seemed way too light. If he didn’t have bigger issues to worry about he might’ve investigated that further.
Peter sticks his hand to the wall next to him, half crawling up it just to get himself standing. His skull throbbed, Being repeatedly shot in the head with a nail gun would probably be less painful than the headache he had right now. And the bright fluorescent lights hanging from the ceiling were not helping. The headache was so bad it took him a few minutes to notice the itch of his healing factor creeping up his torso.
Peter gets injured so often- especially on his chest- that he wasn’t all that bothered by it at first, but giving his mystery wound a cursory glance almost made him collapse again.
A methodical incision was carved into his skin spanning from just above his Adam’s apple, hooking down and around his navel, and continuing all the way into the waistband of his boxers. Four more cuts sprouted from it like branches, two starting from both sides of his jugular and meeting diagonally at the top of his sternum. While the other two were etched into the middle of his shoulders and arched across his collar bones before finally meeting in the middle, just under the other two incisions. All of it was sewn up with medical grade polymer thread, making his chest look like it had a zipper running down the middle of it.
Oh god, Peter felt like he was going to be sick. He traces the stitches with his index finger, a wince escaping him when he brushes against it. Someone had…opened him. How could they have done that without killing him? No, better yet, why would they perform an autopsy on him in the first place!? He wasn’t-… he didn’t-..
‘He did’, a little voice in the back of his brain whispered.
Peter had died.
His knees buckled and cracked against the tile floors. He remembers the fight on Titan, and how horribly they lost. A putrid green eats away at the edge of his vision as he thinks. Maybe Peter could have spared himself this injury if he had gripped onto the gauntlet better, if he’d pulled it off before Quill started asking Thanos questions. Gripping onto things is one of Peter's main powers, how could he have let himself slip up like that! He remembers the aftermath of the battle too, how his spider sense was ringing in his ears so loudly he barely heard mantis’s whispered words. How people kept turning to dust before his eyes.
He remembers the taste of ash on his tongue.
(“Mr. Stark, I don’t feel so good..”)
The room fills with static, his body sways left and right with the struggle of keeping himself balanced. The cool ground could have soothed the migraine under his forehead if he had pretended hard enough.
His lungs can’t get enough air, like he was choking on sand. He needed to leave. The second the static cleared from his vision, Peter dusted himself off, winced at the poor choice of words, and wobbled towards the exit; gaining more and more momentum with each step. He didn’t mean to break the lock on the door when he forced it open, but he found he didn’t care as much as he normally would’ve. The hallway was just as cold as the box he woke up in, although that might be partially due to the fact he only has boxers on.
Peter didn’t hear anyone nearby, so he dared to peek into some of the other rooms. Most of them contained unused hospital equipment sitting on shelves or in cabinets, he found some EKG machines, some blood pressure monitors, a few surgical instruments, and even some spare gurneys stacked on top of each other. In one room he spotted a plastic box labeled “hospital gowns”, and didn’t hesitate to snatch one for himself. It wouldn’t help much with the cold but it was definitely better than the nothing he was wearing right now.
Once Peter felt a little more decent, he followed the winding grey hallway until he was greeted with an elevator and a flight of stairs. There was only one button for the elevator; an arrow pointing up. But after spending who knows how long in that body cabinet, he's not going to spend another second in a small metal box.
Breaking into the stairway (because of course the door to the stairway was locked too) Peter’s thoughts ran rampant. There were so many questions Peter didn’t have answers to. Like how Mr. Stark got him back to earth after they crash-landed on Titan, or how they were able to do an autopsy on him when his body had turned to dust. What happened to May after the snap? Was she alright? What if she didn’t-
He shook those thoughts out of his head like erasing an Etch-a-Sketch. No. He cannot think like that. Aunt May is fine, Tony is fine, he just has to get out of here and find them. Then everything will be ok.
He got to the next door. Peter could hear the rhythmic thumping of many heartbeats through the walls. He takes a deep breath through the nose. If this is a hospital like he assumes it is, then getting out of here should be simple. He’s already dressed like he’s supposed to be here, all he has to do is act normal long enough for him to get to the front door. This should be easy.
He opens the door, cursing the hinges for creaking so loud on his stealth mission. Maybe that’s what gave him away, because not even a second later his spidey sense felt a pair of eyes watching him. Lucky him.
“Ay! What do you think you were doin’ back there?”
Coming towards him with a glare that could melt steel beams was a grizzled 40ish year old man with a thick beard and nurses scrubs.
“I swear if you stole somethin’ down there I’ll-“
Peter opened his mouth to say something, anything to the guy but the only noise his stupid mouth made was a series of pathetic squeaks. This moment is definitely going on Peter's top 10 most embarrassing interactions.
The man stared at him for a good 30 seconds, likely trying to decide if he should call the cops on him or not. Peter felt more exposed than he would have liked when the nurses eyes latched onto the new scars on his neck. The man’s gaze left him squirming where he stood, like he was a bug pinned to a wall.
Obviously Peter's pathetic display earned him some pity points, because the nurse just sighed like his kid got an F on their report card and sternly asked “you ain’t supposed to be walkin’ around post-op. Which room are you stayin’ in? I’ll walk ya back.”
Now Peter was really freaking out, he didn’t have a plan for this. What was he supposed to say? Is he supposed to just pick a random room? His flawless plan is going up in flames!
“Oh, no that’s ok, thank you. I can get back myself.” Peter hoarsely offered. Peter hasn’t had a sore throat this bad in years, probably since before the bite.
“Nah, kid, I insist.” The nurse's hand attempted to slide behind his back to guide him down the hall but Peter was already moving to ‘plan B’: run. He could hear the man yelling after him as he turned the corner, and he tried not to feel like a bad person for making this guy's day harder. More nurses were starting to realize what was happening and jumping into the fray to stop him, thankfully his spider sense quickly alerted him before anyone could lay a finger on him. God, why do none of his plans ever go right?
The other end of the hall opened up to a reception office where a woman also adorned in nurses scrubs was checking in a mother and her child. Peter could hear the gears in the automatic door whirring as they opened and shut to let more people enter the hospital. The squeaking of his bare feet hitting the linoleum floor echoed through the room as he dove out of the doors and into the street.
The snowy air crept up his hospital gown, freezing his bones far more than it should have considering how toasty nights usually are this late into May. The buildings loomed over him in a strangely threatening way, like all of them collectively wanted to shroud Peter in shadows. It set his teeth on edge.
Asphalt stabbed into his heels as he ran past a sign reading “West Mercy Hospital”. Peter knows for a fact there wasn’t a “West Mercy Hospital” in New York City before. That’s all he could think about while he left the nurses in the dust. He would know if there was a hospital by that name, right? He of all people would know.
The buildings were too pointy and the air was too cold, the pedestrians sneered at him with judgment if they dared to look his way at all, and the only thing he wanted was to go home.
But Peter had a nagging feeling that Home is a lot farther than he thinks it is.
----
Leaving the hospital might have been a mistake.
Getting out of there seemed like a good idea at the time, but after running until his lungs gave out he’s starting to think he should’ve stayed. They have phones, and heating, and probably a pair of shoes for him to borrow. The random street he’s on right now has none of these things.
At least he doesn’t look like a complete lunatic anymore. He had rummaged around in a few dumpsters to see if he could find anything useful. He’s no stranger to dumpster diving, he used to do it every day to make his gear before he met Tony. It’s practically second nature for him.
His fit as of right now includes one pair of jeans that are two sizes too large, some wine stained sweatpants he stuffed underneath for insulation, a t-shirt for a band he’s never heard of, a hoodie with the words “metropolis university” printed on the front, and a tacky necktie he’s using as a belt. Plus the sparkly pink scarf he’s using to cover up his neck stitches. The only shoes he found were for a six year old girl, so he was going to have to deal with bare feet for a little while longer.
People on the street are avoiding eye contact for a completely different reason, now.
Peter shakes it off, the most important thing right now is finding a phone. The task is proving more challenging than he thought it would be. At first he tried asking people on the street if he could borrow their phone, explaining how he was lost and he needed someone to pick him up. Two people told him to fuck off, three completely ignored him, and one guy pulled a revolver on him. Needless to say he didn’t try that again.
He thought maybe he’d fare a bit better asking clerks inside convenience stores and gas stations. This, somehow, leads to even more guns being pointed in his face. Peter guessed this part of town had a problem with robberies, since almost every single place he tried pulled some sort of weapon out to threaten him with. The two places he tried that didn’t threaten to kill him refused to let him in, because of their “no shoes, no shirt, no service” policy.
He was even desperate enough to ask a cop if he could use his phone, figured a potential hate crime was better than wandering around like a lost puppy. The officer snapped that if Peter didn’t get out of his face in the next five seconds, he’d break his nose. As much as he wanted to yell at the guy for not doing his one job, he decided that a broken nose wasn’t worth the trouble right now. He did note the words ‘GCPD’ on the squad car next to him as he left.
The sun casually dipped into the horizon, and Peter’s hope was dwindling. If he didn’t find a phone soon, he might have to camp out for the night.
It was when he stubbed his toe on a concrete gargoyle (hissing an amount of expletives his aunt would have definitely grounded him for) that he finally noticed the building next to him. To call it grand would be an understatement. This place- library, as the plaque above the door states- was magnificent. Marble columns lined the ivory white walls making the whole building look governmental in nature. Wide reaching windows allowed him to peak into the main entrance, which was just as regal as the outside.
This could be it, There’s no way a library this fancy doesn’t have some computers he can use. And he’s positive a lil’ old librarian wouldn’t threaten him with a shotgun.
Don’t say that Peter, you’re going to jinx yourself…
He’s halfway up the staircase when a woman in a wheelchair rolls over to the door and starts flipping around the open sign so it reads ‘sorry, we’re closed’. Frustrated tears definitely didn’t well up in Peter's eyes. The redhead spots him pretty quickly, giving him a once over through her glasses. Peter recoiled a little when her gaze falters on his bare feet because- fuck, obviously such an elegant place wouldn’t let him just barge in with no shoes on. He should’ve spent more time looking…
He’s about to turn around with his tail between his legs when the woman smiles kindly at him, flips the sign back over, and waves him in. Peter doesn’t hesitate to take her offer.
“I’m so-so sorry, I promise I won’t take too much of your time.” Peter swore, trying not to step on the floor too much.
The librarian turned her head to acknowledge him while she wheeled her sticker infested wheelchair towards the front desk. “Oh it’s no trouble, really. Were you looking for any book in particular?” Her silvery voice echoed through the spacious entryway.
Peter fumbled with his sweating hands, it’s just awful that he’s making this poor woman stay after hours just to help him. He stood awkwardly in front of the check out desk while the librarian rolled behind the counter, smile never wavering.
“Oh- um, I actually wanted to ask if I could use your phone?” He pointed to the retro handset phone sitting next to the mug of pencils. It had a cord and everything. “I’m a bit lost right now-“ Peter couldn’t help but notice the subtle crease of her eyebrows at that comment.“-and I guess I lost my phone somewhere? I just want to call someone so they can pick me up. I swear I’m not trying to rob you. Everyone I’ve asked thought I was trying to rob them I promise I’m-” a manicured hand shot out to cut off Peter's word vomit.
“It’s alright, it’s alright, I’ll let you use the phone, Kid.”
“Peter, I’m Peter.” He grins sheepishly.
He jumps on his toes, he could probably hug her if a desk wasn’t in the way. “Thank you! You have no idea how much this means to me Ms.-“ he glances at her name tag. “Ms. Barbara.”
“Please,” she insists. “Call me Babs.”
“Thank you, Ms. Babs.” Ms. Barbara opens her mouth to correct him, but for whatever reason decides against it. She waves him behind the counter and Peter B-lines it straight for the phone, holding the receiver up to his ear while he debates which number to dial. As much as he wants to call Aunt May and tell her he’s alive, there isn’t really a lot May can do to get him out of here. Plus Peter isn’t sure how many phone calls Ms. Barbara is allowing him, and he wants to use his one call on someone who can get him home within the hour.
He dials in Tony’s personal cell number.
He holds the receiver up to his ear expectantly while bouncing on his heels. Peter didn’t have to wait long, but instead of the comforting sarcasm of Tony’s voice, a robotic female voice booms in his ear.
“The number you have dialed is no longer in service. Please hang up and try again later.”
Peter stared at the phone like it had just slapped him across the face. Tony would never willingly throw out his phone. He loves that thing like a child.
He hangs up the phone, dialing the number again with precision.
“The number you have dialed is no longer in service. Please hang up and try again later.”
Ok, it definitely wasn’t a wrong number. Peter absentmindedly bit the skin on top of his knuckle, he’s sure Tony is fine.
He glances over at Ms. Barbara, whose smile is a little more concerned than casual now.
“It’s-um- let me just-…” the explanation died on his tongue as he dialed in Happy’s number. He usually picks up.
“The number you have dialed is no longer in service. Please hang up and try-“
He clicks the receiver back onto its mount. May hasn’t changed her phone number since he was in Kindergarten. He dials May's number.
“The number you have dialed is no longer in service. Please hang up and try-“
His heart was beating its way out of his chest. He dialed in Ned's number.
“The number you have dialed is-”
Peter entered every number he could remember, MJ’s, Pepper’s, he even tried Harry Osborn’s number and he hadn’t talked to him in years. For some reason it was DareDevil's emergency contact number that finally did it for him. He slammed the phone back down one final time- probably breaking it in the process- while he shuddered out a couple breaths. This wasn’t happening, this wasn’t happening.
A soft hand touched his shoulder, barely even a tap, but it was enough to send Peter flying backwards; knocking into an office chair. Ms. Barbara was staring at him, worry etched into every crevice of her face.
“Hey, Peter, it’s alright. You’re ok.” She assured, dropping the customer service voice and adorning a tone of what he could only assume was pity. He’s not ok! Nothing about this is ok! “Just take a deep breath. It's going to be fine, I promise. I’m going to help you.”
Peter stepped back, tripping over the wheel of the chair he haphazardly tossed aside. Tears threatened to burst from his eyes but he absolutely refused to let them fall. there was no way he was going to embarrass himself in front of this woman more than he already had.
“Thank you,” he croaked. “For letting me use your phone.”
Peter was out the door before she could stop him, making his way past the stone gargoyles that sat outside the library in place of lions and down the dimly lit street. The sun had fully set now, and the only thing lighting his way were the dingy street lamps on the sidewalk. He didn’t notice how warm it was inside the library until he was forced to walk on the freezing concrete again.
Peter wipes the tears out of the corners of his eyes. He can’t just wander around all night, he needs a place to sleep so he doesn’t get picked off by a mugger.
hostels and motels were crossed off the list, for the obvious reason that he didn’t have any money. He thought about sleeping in a 24-hour cafe for a bit, but he’s not sure how the people of this city would respond to loitering if asking directions warrants a gun to the head. So his main two options are to find a homeless shelter or find a park bench.
——
O: [Library_Security_58.MP4]
Sent 7:41 pm
O: be on the lookout for this kid, age 13/14, New York accent, No shoes, last seen in Somerset headed towards crime alley.
Sent 7:41 pm
O: He told me he was “lost”. His parents aren’t answering the phone. If you see him, make sure he gets somewhere safe
Sent 7:42 pm
NW: lost? In Gotham? you don't think its trafficking do you?
Sent 7:42 pm
O: I hope not, but with his clothes and the phone and how obviously freaked out he was… I don’t know, I have a bad feeling. just be on the lookout tonight.
Sent 7:45
——
SafeHaven shelter wasn’t Peter’s first choice, or his second, it probably wouldn’t have made top ten. But it was the only one that was open this late at night, and as far as buildings go it definitely wasn’t the worst. The main entrance was barren other than the odd plastic plant. Its beige walls were stained with fluids he refused to really think about and the floors felt like it hadn’t been swept in the last year.
The man at the front desk was nice enough, if a bit sketchy. He had oily blonde hair, like hair gel was the only product he used, with patchy stubble and a red puffer jacket. His cigarette stained teeth grinned just a little too wide when he told him he was from out of town. But he graciously handed Peter a pair of cheap foam flip-flops and sent him upstairs to sleep in the cots.
Upstairs was just as barren as downstairs, Same brownish walls, same dusty floors. Four semi-sturdy camping cots lined the walls of the room, taking up way too much space in the tiny area. No one else seemed to be staying here tonight, so he got his pick of a cot.
He knows how sketchy this place is, and he knows it’s probably a front for some sort of crime, but this is the only shelter that will take him. He’s stopped too many people from beating up homeless people while they were asleep to even consider finding a bench for the night.
The second Peter’s head hit the oil stained pillow he was out like a light. He guessed all the running around he was doing finally caught up with him.
He wishes he could say his dreams were peaceful, or better yet, that he didn’t dream at all. But he did dream, and it wasn’t peaceful.
Green flooded his senses like a tidal wave, pulling him back under every time he broke the surface. Screams of fury and anguish echoed in his mind in a voice that sounded eerily similar to his own. He was treading water with numb limbs. The water was peeling the skin like a bad sunburn but he didn’t care, Peter was so focused on just keeping himself breathing. In and out. In and out. Another wave crashed down on top of him. He feels the burning in his air ways. Down his throat and in his stomach. His head is buzzing, something is wrong, he can feel it. But he can’t see. His eyes are sizzling out of their sockets every time he blinks.
‘Wake up! Hand!’
The jolt of his spider sense was the cold chill that woke him. Peter’s hand had automatically shot out to grab the wrist of an unfamiliar man, who looked almost as shocked as Peter felt. Gripped in the stranger's hand was a bandana that was drenched in the unmistakable smell of chloroform.
Instinct took hold, Peter shot up and landed a punch square in the guy’s jaw. Not expecting the hit, the guy flails to the ground, giving Peter the opportunity to roll off his cot and land directly on top of him. The guy was huge, both his legs were barely enough to saddle him. The hood to his black sweatshirt slid off just enough to show off his tattoo, a crown of thorns wrapping the expanse of his shaved head.
He lifted his fist to hit the man again when his spider sense buzzed, He couldn’t turn around fast enough. A second stranger who stank of cigarettes and hair gel willed his arms in between Peter's torso and armpits, forcing him into a full Nelson. Peter easily grabbed the second man’s head in his hands, and yanked him over his shoulder like he was a rag-doll.
He’s gone by the time either of them recover, flying down the steps with his shoes in hand and running back out onto the street. Peter can hear them chasing him, thundering footsteps behind him ordering Peter to stop. He doesn’t. It’s not until he rounds the corner into an alleyway and ducks behind a dumpster that he finally manages to lose them.
Peter sits there for a while, just getting his breathing under control again. This isn’t fair, He thinks to himself, None of this is fair. He should be lying in bed right now, in his own apartment, in his own city. But no. He’s hiding behind a dumpster in a city he doesn’t recognize, wearing the grossest clothes he’s ever felt. Peter rubs at his sleep crusted eyes. It's not fair…
He’s walking now, he doesn’t remember getting up but he’s definitely walking. The direction doesn’t really matter. The buildings start morphing from major OSHA violations that should have been torn down years ago to sleek and shiny businesses with billboards advertising the “latest developments in technology”. The city felt a little less gothic and a lot more corporate. He was following a trail of said billboards when he saw it, a large brick news station with a TV tower and satellite dish looming on the roof.
Peter had a really, really bad idea, but he couldn’t stop himself. He wants to blame it on the lack of sleep, or the almost-kidnappers freaking him out and rattling his brain cells, but he knows it’s because he’s just a little stupid and impulsive. He snagged a bag of tools from an auto repair shop across the street- which he swears he’s going to return- and climbs to the roof of the news station. His princess pink scarf is tucked tightly over his nose, just in case there’s a camera up there he’s not expecting.
He marches straight past the tower and sets himself in front of the power box. The screwdriver loosens the panel door enough for his numbing hands to pry it open. There’s wires of all colors looping around each other like spaghetti, and Peter’s hand starts to falter. Peter’s never worked on a radio tower before. But he’s made a radio out of a broken toaster and half a computer, so that can’t be too different from this, right?
He doesn’t have a microphone, so getting a message across might be difficult. He thought about stealing one for a second but he felt bad enough for taking the tool bag. No more stealing. He snipped one of the wires that connected the thing to the satellite dish and held it in his hands, pressing it back to the other wire in an obvious pattern. Morse code. He’s not sure if he’s doing the letters right, or if he’s even close enough to New York for FRIDAY or Tony to hear the message, but Peter can’t sit around and twiddle his thumbs all night.
“.- ...- . -. --. . .-. ... / ... --- ... / ... .--. .. -.. . .-. / .- .-.. .. ...- .”
“AVENGERS. SOS. SPIDER. ALIVE.”
He sat there, touching two wires together, watching the red light on top of the tower blinking on and off. Friday will hear him, he knows she will. She can connect to anywhere in the world, she will hear the pattern and tell Tony to come get him.
Everything is going to be fine.