Chapter Text
Peter could tell something was wrong when he hit the ground.
The grit seemed to creep deeper into his flesh, losing its path until he couldn't feel it.
There was a stickiness lingering on his chest, likely a loose web that he failed to latch onto, maybe something deeper, something red.
The pain came in waves, and as he sucked in a breath it seemed to seep like poison into his chest, pressure and collapse. Maybe he was winded, or he fell? He didn't know how far, and he only just remembered that he did.
The memories came flooding back to him in a burst dam fashion, he was fighting - fighting weird, alien, monster-creatures with the Avengers, and, and - in an effort to stop Hawkeye being blasted by a weird zapping gun that was hoisted round a tadpole's neck, he was struck by a beam that phased into his chest with a thud.
Then everything went white. Not dark - white.
Endless and blinding and murmuring white.
And there he lay, feeling everything.
And now, he could feel… Nothing. No up and down of his breath. No weight of his body on the ground. He couldn’t even feel the ground.
It was almost worse than the searing pain - the unknown.
He stayed like that maybe for a minute. Or maybe it was a day, or a month, or a year.
It felt like a lonely emptiness, as if all that was Peter Parker had evaporated out and all that was left was space.
Then something shifted, like glass cracking deep in his skull, and the whiteness bled into color.
At first it was just moments, sounds, smells. The harsh antiseptic of the walls, the crimson on Captain America’s gloves as he lay him down, the broken cries of a flatline. He wasn’t dead, he was here. He was alive. He was alive.
Then Peter felt the time pass and clocks ticking as he lay. He felt the pain rippling through his body, counting the clock ticks amongst the noise.
He couldn’t see anything anymore. No white. No dark. No blood. Nothing. Just the pain that was so close he could almost reach out and touch it.
It changed for the last time. The final time. And everything shaped into existence and the pain stopped.
He was in the hospital room, at the foot of his bed, staring down and his empty body.
He had a tube in his throat and wires pulsing through his arms. The monitor steadily whined.
Beep. Beep. Beep… it went on.
The first thing he thought was that his hair was an absolute mess, matted under a mask for so long.
He noticed his t-shirt, the way it rippled against the paper bedsheets. It was painfully white.
As he felt the control cave in he turned his head for a moment before he saw Aunt May at his bedside sobbing.
“Peter.”
“May,” he said back at her as he took a step forward. May sat there completely unfazed.
“May?”
“Peter, I’m really sorry. I don’t know if you can hear me.”
“May?” He stared her in the eyes, “May what’s going on? I’m right here. I’m right here.”
Everything was blurry - so blurry that he wanted to throw up.
“Why did you do it? I know it's all service over self with you but why? Why can’t you just be okay?”
“I am May! I am! Can’t you hear me? Can’t you see me?”
That’s when the panic set in and he kneeled at her side, in submission to her, “May!”
“May.”
“You always…” May started as he ran out the hospital room, the world spinning round him like he was an animal in a circus.
Maybe he was the one who was spinning? There was an overwhelm of clipboards and latex gloves and people everywhere around him, all seemingly professionals.
A couple he recognised: Dr Holt who relocated his wrist after a swinging accident, Dr Kwan who had seen after a concussion, Nurse Harolds, Dr Tomms, Helen (formerly Dr Cho but they had met so many times after patrols that he gained first name privilege).
Seemingly everyone was there - but, no one looked at him, or noticed him. It was like he was a ghost. Maybe he was dead?
He scanned over the room as far as he could see, eyes locking on Natasha Romanoff.
Peter ran to her, straight through a young doctor who stopped for a second, looked up and through him. Then carried on walking.
Peter felt sick to his stomach as he stumbled back and around until he halted at Natasha who was stone faced, emotionless and staring deep into the floor.
He sat down on the ground in emotional turmoil.
“Ms Romanoff” Peter was starting to cry, “Please, Ms Black Widow, I’m here. Look at me, please look at me!”
She didn’t move, or flinch. Not even when he fell on his knees and curled into a ball and sobbed. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t breathe. Everything was fuzzy and cold and he was trembling and he’d done this before and he just needed to stop. Please make it stop.
A voice rang in his throbbing head.
5 things you can see.
“Doctors. Blinds. Plant…”
2 more Peter, 2 more.
He heard Uncle Ben’s voice in his head.
Window. Clock.
4 things you can hear.
Talking. Beeping. Cars. Keyboards.
Good. 3 things you can feel.
The floor. My breath. My clothes.
What was Peter wearing? He looked down and saw the clothes he was wearing under his suit still on him. Or still on something. The only difference was a massive, dried out, crimson mark slightly off centre on his chest, ruining the effect that the science puns he wears usually has on him.
And, it made him panic more.
Focus Peter, 2 things you can smell.
Antiseptic cleaner. Latex.
One thing you can taste.
Blood. That’s what Peter could taste. Thick, iron blood. Except he knew that was not going to help so he pretended he was eating toast. Peanut butter on toast. Yum.
Peter knew that there was a lingering, deep internal fear in his brain, but like usually, he pushed down to the soles of his feet.
He took a deep breath and out loud, said;
“Right.”