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Peter grit his teeth, put his head down, and got to work. It didn't matter that every bone in his body groaned at the movement, didn't matter that he'd pulled pretty much every single muscle he had, didn't matter that he was walking off a sprained ankle, dislocated shoulder and cracked rib, didn't matter that he had two bullets in his side and another that he was pretty sure was actively being digested in his stomach. None of that mattered, because he was Spider-Man. He had one job and that was to ignore the pain, make silly jokes, and protect his people.
He missed when those snippy retorts came to him and fled his mouth with joy and jokes, missed when he could giggle to himself despite his injuries. Now it was all just… just a facade he knew he had to keep up for the sake of everyone around him. If the city knew how broken he was, how much he wished to just sleep and never have to wake up, how much he hated every aspect of everything he did… well he didn't know what would happen but it wouldn't be good. People needed Spider-Man. Queens needed Spider-Man. Not some depressed, no-longer-a-teenager, broken, traumatised guy.
So, he rolled his uninjured shoulder and shot out more webs, taking down the criminals he was chasing and dealing with the consequences of not eating enough for his healing factor and spidey senses and speed to be as good as they should be, as he received yet another injury in the process– a knife to his uninjured shoulder. Great. Just. Great.
He managed to get that asshole under control and finally got everyone webbed up, webbing over his bloody wound in some sort of makeshift bandage before swinging away, grimacing at the weight of his body fully hanging from the shoulder that had been dislocated less then half an hour prior.
Finally, he stumbled to a stop as he one of the alleys he had hidden a first aid kit in – there were a few around the city, just for emergencies. Jaw tight with the pain, he ripped his suit off just enough to reveal his shoulder, which, yeah, that would need stitches. With a soft groan, he sat down, leaning against the building and biting down on a scrap of fabric, which wasn’t much, but hopefully it would keep him from yelping too much as he stitched the injury closed.
Sure enough, he managed to stay relatively quiet as he patched himself up, and it wasn’t long before he could go back out into the city, only to get beat up once more. This time, though bloodied and bruised after being thrown around by some asshole with super strength, he at least didn't break anything. His head was ringing and he could taste blood, though he wasn’t sure if that was something in his mouth bleeding or if the blood that was pouring from his nose had just slipped in. Regardless, he focused entirely on taking down the villain, his quick retorts short so as to not get even more blood in his mouth.
When he was finally done, he stumbled pathetically away from the fight, not even bothering to swing straight away, just needing to move before the police showed up. So exhausted, his spider senses distracted by a thousand other sources, Peter didn't even notice until too late as he walked straight into a bulking form. Fuck, please let this be a random person up a little late, please don't be another villain, he was too fucking tired for that.
He stepped back – the intent was for it to be quickly, but given the way he was swaying slightly and the sluggish haze covering his every motion, Peter doubted it was. Still, he made up for it with the speed at which he spewed apologies.
"Woah there," the man grimaced, his hands coming up as though to slow the tsunami of apologies, and only then did Peter realise just who he had walked into. The Winter Soldier. Oh shit. Oh he was so fucked. "I was just headed this way since I heard there was a fight and J was nearby, but I'm gathering you've sorted it, Spider-Man?"
Peter nodded, wishing his mask wasn’t covering his mouth, if only so he could spit out some of the blood, which... well wasn’t that selfish. He knew already just how fucked everything would get if he let anyone know his identity, how dare he even suggest making it even the slightest bit easier to work out who he was.
"You don't look so hot," Bucky said, reaching out, likely planning to put a hand to his shoulder to steady Peter, though moving on pure instinct, Peter stepped back and away from the contact.
"Who me?" Peter retorted, praying he wasn’t slurring his words from the pain, "I feel like a million bucks."
"Do you need help? You should come to the tower with me, I'll beg you some first aid, maybe some food?"
Peter shook his head quickly, smiling through the blood in an instinctual attempt to pretend he was fine. He was fine.
"I'm fine, gotta swing!" And with that, Peter was gone, leaving a worried looking Bucky behind him, and, of course, because when was luck ever on his side, tearing the stitches in his shoulder and reopening the wound. Great. Just fucking delightful.
He stumbled to a stop once he was finally on a roof he knew was safe from cameras and too high for wandering eyes, dragging the mask off and spitting the pool of blood that had been building in his mouth. Now that he was free of it, he found himself coughing and chocking as he spat out more and more blood, dragging his hands across his face to wipe some of the stuff off and hissing as it rubbed against the freshly broken nose. Ignoring the pain, Peter simply felt around it, testing its direction as best he could without a mirror, and doing whatever he was able to in order to set it right.
Somehow spitting out even more blood, Peter shoved himself up from where he had crumbled to his knees, pulled his mask back on and started to swing back to his apartment, suddenly far too aware of how much medical attention his body needed.
He hated leaving patrol early, knew he was being selfish. Selfish. Weak. Pathetic. But still, he climbed in through his window and stumbled pathetically into the bathroom, dragging the bloodied, sticky suit off of him, settling down, leaning against the cold tiled walls in just his underwear, webbing the first aid kit from where it had been left open on the bathroom bench towards him, and starting the agonising process of restitching the wound on his shoulder, and then digging into his side, reopening the mostly closed bullet wounds to dig the bullets out. He didn't have the time or money to be getting an infection from leaving one in. His healing was too broken to fight off anything more than the injuries he'd already sustained. He had learnt that the hard way.
Once the bullets were removed and the wounds patched, Peter groaned, slumping down and giving up on the idea of cleaning the blood stained bathroom tonight. He would sleep first – though he was far too tired to climb up from the ground and into his bed, so here would have to suffice – and then in the morning he would try his best to scrub the blood out from where they would have stained the areas between the tiles, before pulling himself together enough to look semi presentable for work, where he would likely get the pleasure of being yelled at nonstop for several hours. Yeah, sleep sounded good. The rest he could deal with when he woke up. For now, he simply closed his eyes and relaxed into the cool comfort of the bloodied bathroom floor.