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Tuesdays suck. It’s just a rule of life. It’s that part of the week when you still have the rest of the week to go, but it feels like several days have already passed since Monday instead of just one. Pair that with a broken alarm clock and a life-threatening injury, and you’ve got yourself a day so horrible some would compare it to the disastrous period of time in which One Direction went on hiatus and never returned as a fully-formed group. Peter had experienced many bad days before this particular Tuesday, but he would later rank this one at the level where he crashed a Stark plane while fighting the Vulture after the villain had unintentionally ruined his chances with the girl he liked. So, a pretty bad day.
The worst part was, it had started out quite decently. Despite the hiccup of his alarm clock adamantly refusing to turn on or acknowledge his increasingly irritated tapping as he tried to get it to work, Peter had gotten up in time to hurriedly get ready, scarf down his Aunt May’s delicious (albeit slightly burned) pancakes, and rush out the door, somehow miraculously still on time for school. He’d made the subway (with barely a second to spare) and hadn’t had to stop any random muggers or pickpockets on the packed metro, much to his relief. As the train slowed to a stop, arriving at the next station, Peter squeezed his eyes shut for a split second before opening them and shaking his head sharply. He had stayed up late patrolling the previous night, and while it had been worth it as he had rescued a lost child and stopped a couple of robberies, he was exhausted. Hopefully there were no boring lectures in any classes; Peter wasn’t sure if he would be able to keep his eyes open, even without the looming threat of his teacher’s monotone voice droning on about the fall of the Roman Empire at ten in the morning. The whoosh of the subway doors opening shook him out of his wandering thoughts as he hiked his backpack further onto his shoulders. Checking his phone, Peter started jogging out of the station. He still had some time left before class started, but he knew how easy it would be to get distracted and turn up late… again.
Dark gray clouds promising rain loomed on the horizon and a brisk breeze nipped at his face as he made his way onto the crowded, bustling streets of Queens, dodging civilians with detached looks on their faces as they streamed along in a steady rush to their own engagements. Peter tugged the hood of his sweatshirt over his head with a shiver. It was an unusually cold day for the beginning of autumn, and had Peter been the superstitious type, he would’ve worried about what the weather foretold. However, the only thing on his mind at the moment was to make it into the warm school, where he could meet up with Ned and talk about Spider-Man’s latest defeat (a villain with the odd creation she had dubbed the Peeler, a device that turned people’s belongings into bananas. Peter had lost his sunglasses to the fruit-transformer and had subsequently thrown the newly-transformed produce into the villain’s face, before webbing her up and making a quick call to the police before splitting from the scene) and call Tony to check and make sure it was okay for him to go over to the lab that afternoon.
He was a block away from the school when his super-hearing picked up a muffled cry coming from several alleys down. Peter threw another glance down at his phone, which read fifteen minutes until his class started. Yeah, he had time. He ducked into a shadowed corner and dumped his stuff behind a large bag of trash, crouching and pulling his mask over his face as he quickly donned his suit. He shot a web at the top of the building and pulled himself up, landing as lightly as a cat and prowling to the edge of the roof, where he studied the alley he had heard the cry come from.
Peter narrowed his eyes at the sight of a man dressed in black with a beanie covering his head and his hand against the mouth of a young woman dressed in a business outfit, gun concealed between their bodies as he shoved her against a wall and motioned at her purse with the weapon. Her hands shook as she nodded against his glove and reached for her bag, drawing out her wallet from its depths. Peter considered his options before quickly leaping across two consecutive roofs and dropping silently to the edge that overlooked the mugging. He caught the end of the man’s sentence, whispered in the woman’s ear as she trembled.
“…swear to God that I will kill you if you tell anyone. Don’t do anything stupid, sweetheart, or the led in this gun will find its way into your smart-talking little-“
He was cut off as a web thwapped across his mouth, eyebrows arching in disbelief as he stumbled back. The woman sobbed as Peter swung down and leaned against the side of the alley.
“It’s not very gentlemanly to go through a woman’s purse, you know,” he commented, watching as the thief’s eyes narrowed and the hand holding the gun slowly started rising upwards. Peter sighed and sent another web flying towards the mugger, pinning his arm against the wall and causing the gun to fall and clatter against the concrete. “Nah, I don’t really feel like getting shot today. I appreciate the effort, though. Or I would if you weren’t so rude about this whole thing. I mean, veiled threats are one thing, but stealing someone’s wallet?” He clicked his tongue and shook his head as the man growled. “Just low, man. Not cool at all.”
With this, Peter raised his wrist to shoot another restraining web, but was interrupted by a sob. He glanced at the woman, whose eyes were closed and hand pressed to her mouth as tears streamed down her cheeks. Peter threw a look back at the man, quickly judging him to be no immediate threat, and turned his attention back to the woman. He softened his tone as he slowly approached her with his hands raised in front of him.
“Hey, you okay?”
The woman’s eyes fluttered open, gaze focusing on him before fresh tears welled up and her hand fell from her mouth to let out a fresh sob.
Oh crap. “Sorry, sorry! I didn’t mean to scare you!”
She shook her head and stepped toward Peter, who was becoming increasingly more awkward as the woman continued to cry.
“No. No, it’s fine. Thank you, Spider-Man. Thank you so much.”
Before he could process what was happening, the woman had reached out and wrapped Peter in a tight hug. He patted her back awkwardly, eyeing the purse she had dropped on the ground next to her. She had an accent; perhaps Russian, or Ukrainian? Peter cleared his throat awkwardly and she stepped back, scrubbing at her eyes. He laughed sheepishly and rubbed his neck.
“It’s no big deal. Glad to see you’re okay, ma’am. Do you need anything else?”
She opened her mouth to respond, but her eyes widened as her gaze traveled past his shoulder and focused on something.
“Behind you!” She yelled, and Peter’s spider-sense roared, sending electric shocks down his spine as he grabbed the woman and flung them both to the ground, a gunshot cracking overhead and splitting the tear-filled air apart a millisecond later.
Peter leaped to his feet, glancing down at the woman, and scanned her to make sure she was unhurt.
“Stay down!” He ordered as he judged her unharmed, before returning his attention back to the mugger just in time to avoid another bullet. Peter leaped onto the wall and used it to push him across the man’s head, landing on the opposite wall and pivoting his head to check where the man had been webbed to the wall.
Shoot. Rookie mistake. He had only webbed up one arm, foolishly assuming that was enough to keep the man in check for the couple of minutes he needed to attend to the woman. He cursed himself as he flipped to avoid another shot, bringing himself behind the man and reaching forward to restrain the arm that wielded the gun.
What he didn’t notice was the knife that glinted in the man’s other hand, obviously pulled from his jacket while Peter was distracted from jumping over his head.
Normally, this wouldn’t be a problem for him; he would just dodge it like he did everything and finish the fight easily, bringing the man down and disarming and webbing him quickly. However, this particular time was different. A storm had been brewing; he had been on patrol for almost the entire night beforehand and was completely exhausted; the woman had begun to yell again as the two fought; and his mind was overloaded with too much crap. Peter’s attention was suddenly yanked away from the threat right in front of him as a massive crash of thunder shook the earth and lightning split the skies and struck the road right in front of the alley, filling Peter’s senses with the smell of ozone and a ringing in his ears that joined forces with the spots now flashing in his vision to completely disorient him.
He staggered back as the man’s knife cut into his side, grimacing. The pain was sharp, sudden, but not anything he’d never felt before. He blinked furiously to clear the spots from his eyes and ducked backwards instinctively at the sound of a heavy step and a swooshing knife. It arced over his head as he leaned back, slicing his temple, and Peter hissed as blood began pouring into his eye, reducing his vision even more until he was left to rely on only one eye that still twinkled with bright spots. He recalled the fact that head injuries bled a lot even if the scratch wasn’t very deep as he lunged toward the man and kicked his legs out beneath him, webbing his ankles to the ground before going for his hands. In the split second it took him to reach for his webshooters, the man aimed his gun and fired.
Peter didn’t feel the pain at first. All he felt was the force that pressed him backwards as he shot a web at the man’s torso that pinned him to the ground. He stood, gasping for breath, and made quick work of pinning the man’s arms down before turning back to the woman, who was still crouched in the corner.
“Are you okay?” He heard himself say, though it was as if he was speaking through a cloth, muffled and distant. The woman nodded, a quick movement of her head that shook her ponytail. Huh. Odd. Peter hadn’t noticed her hair was in a ponytail. He watched it bob up and down as her gaze scanned his face.
“Are… are you?” She asked, voice shaking as she stared at his chest.
What a silly question. Of course he was fine. The man had barely scratched him. He started to reassure her before he was distracted by something that glistened red in his peripheral vision. He slowly looked down and, feeling a slight ache in his chest, brought a hand up, up past his side and to his sternum, eyebrows rising as he felt something wet and slippery. He pulled his hand back from his body, red-and-black-patterned suit now dampened by something that was a dark maroon and covered his palm. Suddenly, a wave of what felt like fire coursed through him, and an agonized grunt split the air as he dropped to one knee. Blood dripped down his face and he gasped as awareness suddenly came back to him, rushing in all at once. Peter looked around frantically; at the woman in the corner, staring at him with a pale face; the man, bound and weaponless in the ground; and Peter, who was kneeling in an alleyway right before his Physical Ed class started, bleeding out.
Sorry, Ned, he thought dizzily. Gonna have to put a rain check on the Spider-Man talk.
As if the universe was taunting him, the sky began to drizzle as another thunderclap rattled the city. The fire roared brighter and more painfully in his chest, demanding his attention. He brought a hand to his back, frantically checking for an exit hole. There. It was right behind one of his lungs; must’ve punctured it. It explained the sudden lack of oxygen reaching his lungs and the screaming, burning pain in his chest that overpowered the cuts in his side and on his forehead. The bullet wasn’t stuck inside him, though; he could appreciate the little things. The woman was saying something, and he forced his gaze up as he strained to suck in air.
“Wh…wha…” he managed with great difficulty, but she seemed to get the gist and came closer. Her voice came into focus like a radio being adjusted.
“…o you need me to call… I need you to… you… listen… stay awake! Should I call an ambulance?!”
He wheezed and shook his head to the best of his ability.
“No… ‘mbulance… get phone… pl’se..”
She frantically reached into her purse and dug out her mobile, hands shaking as she pressed the dial pad and passed it to him. His vision was steadily growing darker around the edges, but he punched in the number he had memorized ages ago and brought the phone to his ear, heart squeezing painfully… or maybe his lungs, he wasn’t sure.
Please, please. Pick up. C’mon, c’mon.
After a couple of rings, the phone line clicked and a familiar voice filtered in through the line.
“…and who the hell is this?! How did you get this number? I swear, if this is some kind of prank Clint’s pulling-“
“M’r. Stark?” Peter wheezed. The woman clapped her hands to her mouth, gaze wide and disbelieving.
The line was quiet for a few more seconds. Then: “Peter? Is that you?”
Peter could’ve sobbed if it didn’t hurt to take in the tiniest bit of air. He nodded, though he knew Mr. Stark couldn’t see him, and coughed, the sudden jerk sending a jolt of agony through his body. He dimly registered blood spattering against the ground as he clutched at the phone.
“Did… sm’thing stupid. Wanted to… thank you. For be’n my mentor.”
Another moment of silence. Then, Mr. Stark’s voice came through the line, sharp and urgent. “Kid? Where are you? FRIDAY, give me something.”
Peter could hear movement in the background as Mr. Stark presumably shot to his feet and began to race to don Iron Man, rotating between barking orders at FRIDAY and checking on Peter.
Peter could feel his legs shaking. So much for super-strength, he thought bitterly as his knees gave out and he fell to the ground, hunched over and barely holding himself up with one arm as the other clutched at the phone like a lifeline. “‘S getting dark…” he wheezed, shadows encroaching on his vision. Mr. Stark’s voice rose in urgency.
“Peter! Hey! Kid, I swear, if you fall asleep, you’re not getting access to the lab for the next month. I don’t care what Steve or Pepper’ll say. Hey, you with me? Peter? Peter! Stay awake!”
Mr. Stark’s calls rose in volume as Peter dropped the phone away from his ear, too tired to hold it up. He registered hands on his back; presumably the woman applying pressure to the bleeding wound. Some bleeding couldn’t be stopped, unfortunately, though he appreciated her attempts. His arms shook, strength fading from every muscle until he collapsed, chin painfully smacking against the ground. He vaguely noted the woman’s voice screaming for help as the voice on the phone next to his ear yelled with her. Something about staying awake? Peter didn’t want to stay awake. His chest hurt, and his head hurt, and his ears were ringing, and he just wanted to sleep. Just for a moment. He would wake up feeling much better. It was what Aunt May always said; if you’re sick, drink water and take a nap. Sleep’s the best healer. He chuckled, wincing at the pain it sent through him. Aunt May. He wondered what she was doing right now. Driving to work, probably. He’d see her when he woke up. For now, though, he was perfectly content to lay against the rough concrete and close his eyes.
He distantly registered voices, pressure against his chest that hurt hurt hurt, and in the distance, repulsor blasts that battled with the thunder overhead for dominance. Peter turned his face up towards the sky. His chest had stopped burning from the inside out, and he couldn’t feel the gash in his side or his forehead either. He smiled as he felt raindrops on his face, washing away the stickiness that covered one side. He distantly knew that the fact he couldn’t feel anything was alarming, and that he should be a lot more concerned. Right now, though? The rain pattered against his face, lulling him to sleep, and the last thing he heard before be drifted into sweet oblivion was the safe, comforting thrum of repulsor boots landing nearby and the clank of metal calming his thoughts.
————
Tony had always considered himself a level-headed man. Sure, there was that moment when he tried to kill Bucky Barnes in a fit of rage… but that was after he had discovered the man in question had murdered his parents, so he felt like his reaction was quite justified. And maybe he had revealed himself as Iron Man in front of the whole entire world, but so what? The instant respect and gratification he earned from it was worth it. So really, it was rare for Tony to freak out. Yes, he did make rash decisions. But he always had a reason! Granted, not very good ones sometimes, but still reasons! He had been priding himself on thinking through a very tough business decision and making the correct choice when the call came through.
When he heard the first ring of the phone, Tony groaned. He’d just finished up a big business deal that would hit the news the next day and was exhausted. Pepper was away at a conference and wasn’t available for him to call her and complain about how bored he was, so he’d just been sitting at his desk redesigning one of the plates on his Iron Man suit to be much more durable under stress when his phone rang. Not many people had his personal number; he normally reserved it for a select group of people that were allowed to reach him directly without going through his secretary or Happy. However, he knew that most of the members of that select group were either out on a mission right now or otherwise preoccupied, so when he saw the anonymous number, he assumed that it was either a spam call or a prank set up by one of the others in the Tower. He picked it up, annoyance through the roof already.
“Okay, and who the hell is this?! How did you get this number? I swear, if this is some kind of prank Clint’s pulling-“
He was interrupted by a weak gargle on the other side of the phone.
“M’r. Stark?”
Naturally, he stopped whatever he was going to say and frowned. That sounded like Peter, except Peter was supposed to be in PE right now and had his own phone that worked perfectly fine. However, there was only one person who called him Mr. Stark that he’d let have his personal number, and he clutched his phone, attention zeroing in on the line.
“Peter? Is that you?”
Tony was on his feet in an instant after the next few words. He frantically ordered FRIDAY to trace the kid’s location while demanding Peter stay awake, louder and louder as the kid’s voice got fainter. A thunderclap rolled overhead as Tony suited up and jumped off the Tower, FRIDAY guiding him to an alleyway near the kid’s school. He silently urged the suit to go faster as Peter stopped talking completely. Tony’s pleas fell on deaf ears as he neared the alley. A crowd of people was gathered around; a man lay webbed to the ground as a woman frantically pressed her hands against Peter’s sternum and a different man checked his pulse.
“We need an ambulance!” He yelled before gasping as Tony lowered himself to the ground next to the kid.
Murmurs started among the crowd as Tony knelt beside Peter, frantically scanning him. The computer identified a bullet hole, punctured and collapsed lung, stab wound, gash in his forehead, and sleep deprivation.
“Peter needs immediate medical treatment. I recommend you get to the MedBay as fast as possible and move him as gently as you can,” FRI told Tony, who clenched his jaw and leaned down to scoop the boy into his arms. As soon as Peter was secure, Tony shot into the sky, balancing the boy carefully. Stay alive, he thought. Please stay alive.
Peter’s vitals were displayed in the corner of his mask, and his heart dropped as he glanced and noticed the irregular rhythm of the kid’s heart and the almost-nonexistent oxygen level. He ordered FRIDAY to contact both Bruce and Helen Cho as he neared the Tower, thunder rumbling and lightning flashing all the while.
Tony landed with a thud on the balcony of the hospital ward, barely taking a second to catch his balance before he was racing through the halls. Bruce ran up to meet him as he neared the surgical area, eyes wide with concern.
“What’s wrong? FRIDAY told me to prepare for a surgical operation for a collapsed lung, but she didn’t tell me who-“
The man caught sight of Peter in Tony’s arms and froze for a split second. Horror dawned in his eyes, and Tony ground his teeth. They didn’t have time for hesitation. Without waiting for Bruce, he shouldered the door open to the operation room and was greeted with the sight of Helen Cho busily preparing a surgical area.
“Lay him here,” she called as Tony staggered in, bearing the weight of the unconscious (just unconscious, not dead, just unconscious) boy. Tony set him down gently on the operating table and backed up a respectable distance to allow Helen and Bruce, who had just rushed in bearing a chair, to work. Tony’s brows furrowed in confusion at the random furniture before Bruce shoved it into Tony’s arms and pointed at the hallway.
“I’m sorry, Tony, but you can’t be in here,” he explained apologetically. Tony clenched his fists. Every instinct told him to stay with the kid, make sure that Peter lived and was all right. However, he knew he’d hurt more than help if he stayed in the room, so with a dark glance at Bruce and a worried one at Peter, Tony walked out of the room.
————
Eight hours later, Tony had smashed a chair against a wall, paced until there was a dent in the linoleum beneath his feet, and chewed his nails to the quick. He was currently leaning against the wall in front of the operating room, Peter’s lifeless, pale face flashing before him. He shook his head to clear his mind of the image, but as soon as he closed his eyes, he saw it again, outlined against the black. What had happened? How had Tony not known as soon as Peter had gotten shot? What could he have done to protect the kid? Guilt piled upon his shoulders until he sank to the floor, head tilted against the wall.
Tony had always considered himself to be level-headed. However, apparently when it came to this kid, his kid, that level-headedness went out the window, only to be replaced with a bone-deep terror that returned with a vengeance every time he thought about Peter bleeding out in some alleyway. He squeezed his eyes closed, mind whirring with possible different outcomes that could’ve happened. His thoughts began to spiral, each one becoming darker, until a bang jolted him out of his head and his gaze shot up. Helen stood in front of him, gaze tired and shoulders drooping. Tony’s heart froze at the sight.
“Is he…?”
Helen seemed to register the terror on his face, because she was quick to hold her hands up and reassure him.
“No, no, Peter’s fine. The surgery went as well as it could’ve gone, and he’s sleeping now. He’ll probably be out for a few more hours.”
She bit her lip. “The hard part is going to be the recovery. His advanced healing was already working hard to repair his lungs when you brought him in, and it wore his energy out profoundly. He’s going to be very tired when he wakes up, and he’s probably going to be in a lot of pain for the next day or two. He’s very lucky, though; the bullet went completely through. If it had stayed, we probably would have been having a very different conversation right now.”
Tony’s head dropped in relief.
“Thank you,” he whispered, surprising even himself with the conviction in his voice. Helen’s face bloomed with a slight smile.
“Of course. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go take an eighteen-hour nap. Bruce will stay with Peter and monitor him. He’s taken him to a different recovery room through the door in the back; down this hall, room 36B.”
Tony nodded, not trusting himself to speak. Helen looked at him for a second, before something soft spread across her expression.
“You’re a good man, Tony,” she said, squeezing his arm and stepping past him as she meandered down the hall. He sighed and turned to walk where she pointed out. He still needed to call Pete’s aunt and his school and let them know that the kid was fine, but for now, he let his feet carry him in the direction he knew he needed to go, the direction that led to his kid.
————
Awareness came back in snatches of lights and hushed whispers. A hand brushing his hair from his forehead; a muttered conversation involving his name. Peter drifted in and out under white lights and comforting voices. He woke up a few times for a couple seconds that were hazy and dreamlike; each time, he spotted Mr. Stark on a chair next to his bed. One time, he was fast asleep. Peter shook his head, sure that he was hallucinating and turned his head back into his pillow, shutting out the harsh hospital lighting.
When Peter finally woke up for good, he was greeted by the sight of a pair of eyes studying him and the sound of notes being jotted on a clipboard. He groaned, wincing as a jolt raced through his chest at the action. The pen stopped as soon as he made a noise, only to be replaced by the sound of shuffling feet and a gentle, cool hand against his forehead. He squinted up against the lights, confused as to who was touching him.
“Dim the lights maybe? The kid’s gonna get a migraine.”
“Bruce?”
The lights flickered off as Peter finally recognized the voice.
“Mr. Stark?” He asked, confusion and hope coloring his voice.
“Hey, Pete. How ya feeling?”
“…Sore,” he responded, moving each of his arms and wincing at the burn it sent through him.
“I’ll bet. Took a hell of a beating there, kid. Good to see you awake.”
Peter looked to the side and caught a glimpse of his mentor, eyes tired and face pale but smiling genuinely. Peter tried to smile back in return, but he was sure it looked more like a grimace.
“I would say the same, but I feel like a piñata right now.”
“We can help with that,” the feminine voice interjected. Peter looked up and was greeted by Helen Cho, who was grinning at him and holding a clipboard.
“Dr. Cho?”
Her eyes crinkled. “Hey, Peter. I’m glad you’re okay.”
He smiled back tentatively before locating Bruce in the background. “No way! Hi Dr. Banner!”
A real, full-fledged grin broke out on Peter’s face, and Helen chuckled as Tony let out a grumble.
“Of course it’s him the kid’s most excited to see, not the man who literally saved his life…”
Peter was too excited to pay an iota of attention to Mr. Stark’s whining. “I can’t believe you’re here!”
Dr. Banner smiled bashfully. “Good to see ya, Peter,” he responded, nodding his head at the excited teenager. “Do you remember what happened?”
Peter furrowed his brow. “I think so? I was fighting this guy who mugged a lady, and it was storming and I had class, and he got the jump on me… I got shot?” He guessed, glancing up to judge the others’ reactions. Helen nodded, expression unreadable.
“You don’t remember?”
Peter frowned. “I remember… pain. And flashes of things, like Mr. Stark’s repulsors and the lady screaming… I can’t remember much after I called Mr. Stark though.”
Helen nodded. “Short-term memory impairment is common after surgery. You were also bleeding out, so I don’t expect you to remember much. You’re doing fine.”
Peter nodded, then looked up sheepishly. “Sorry, I think that’s all I remember.”
Helen nodded. “We can come back to it later, along with a full run-down of your injuries and your treatment plan.”
Peter grumbled under his breath about needing a treatment plan as Helen turned to Mr. Stark.
“He’ll be fine. Just make sure he’s being monitored and don’t stress him out too much.”
She smiled at Peter. “Alright, I’ve got some other things I need to attend to. You gonna be alright in here?”
Peter nodded and she saluted him, put the clipboard at the end of his bed, and walked out of the room, followed shortly by Dr. Banner. The door closed, leaving Peter and Mr. Stark in thoughtful silence. Peter cleared his throat.
“Have you called my aunt yet?”
Mr. Stark nodded. “A couple hours ago. We made an excuse up for you for school; said you randomly got sick and projectile vomited over your house and May had to take you to the hospital for a bit.”
Peter snorted. “Well, glad you kept my dignity.”
Mr. Stark smirked. “When do I ever not?”
They fell into a comfortable silence for a while, broken only when Mr. Stark shifted.
“Peter?”
“Yeah?”
“Never do anything like that ever again or I will revoke your lab privileges for a month and nothing Steve or Pepper or Rhodey will say will sway me on that. You understand?”
Peter laughed and settled back in his bed, shoulders relaxing at Mr. Stark’s casual jab. “Yeah, okay.”
And with a smile still on his face and the knowledge that Mr. Stark was right beside him, Peter drifted back to sleep, knowing he was completely safe.