Chapter Text
Peter is fine. Really.
Things have been crazy ever since that Damage Control facility was blown up by a tank. Really crazy, with some sort of possesor on the loose and Metzger relying on him to step them. But Peter has dealt with crazy before. The stress and running around and lack of rest were all par for the course of being a superhero.
And hey, he hadn't had homework to do in years. Being a superhero was all he had to worry about.
Peter collapsed on his bed, only bothering to pull off his mask. He needed to check the facial recognition scans and refill his web fluid and he should probably shoo that bird out of the window, but-
E.V. was going over his health data, again, and it would take a minute to load. Peter could stop moving for a minute. It was fine. Probably. Maybe.
He lifted his hands, pressing them over his eyes as his breath shuddered. They wavered, weak and shaky. He needed to eat. The last thing he needed was to find the possessor and keel over from low blood sugar. His cupboards weren't exactly full at the moment, so he'd have to somehow make time to get groceries.
His last shop should have lasted him longer, but he was so hungry lately. Peter blamed the problem-causing arachnid part of him. Growing homemade web spinnerets was an energy drain. Who knew?
Though at this point, the gross webbing that spewed from his wrists was the least of his problems. Even now, with the light blocked out by his hands, his head was pounding. Agony stabbed through his brain, as overwhelming as it was never-ending. It was physically impossible for his brain to explode, but it sure felt possible, and hell, would that be the most unbelievable thing for his spider dna to cause?
E.V. beeped, signalling that he could look over his health data now. Peter dragged his hands from his face, slowly. He almost had to fight himself to do so, limbs heavy and tired.
Get over it, Parker, he told himself. People don't stop being in danger just because you feel like shit.
E.V.'s data was more of the same, disconcerting stuff. Arachnid hormones wildly unstable, peaking way higher than they should; injuries healing at whatever speed they felt like, fast or slow; and Peter's favourite: sensory inputs prone to freaking out for no discernable reason.
Distantly, he heard one of his downstairs neighbours unlock their front door. The sound screeched through Peter's head. He squeezed his eyes shut, pressing them against his knees, and held his hands over his ears. If he didn't want a full on sensory nightmare, he had to cut it off now. And he really, really didn't want one.
Eventually, Peter's body calmed down enough that he could stumble across his apartment to grab some food. That settled his stomach and helped with the tiredness, but not much. The headache stuck around. He set up his suit for repair and checked the facial recognition scans.
The bird was still sat by the window, preening its sad-looking, grey feathers.
Another stab of pain landed between Peter's eyes. Stupid arachnid hormones, making his head hurt and doing who knew what to his body. It had been bad enough the first time, when he'd been bitten. He'd been scared he was dying. He knew now that the spider DNA wouldn't kill him, which should have helped, but he almost felt worse.
He sat on the floor, curled in on himself. The bird shook out its wings, getting comfy. Peter's spider DNA wouldn't kill him, or at least, it hadn't yet. That could always change. Maybe this bird would be the only witness to what killed Spider-man.
...He never did like birds.