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"Peter, I'm programed to notify Mr. Stark if—"
"If I'm injured, yes. But I programmed you to only do that in—ahg—an emergency."
"You are currently bleeding out from three gunshot wounds."
"Which—ow, ow—is just another Tuesday."
It was just typical Parker Luck. He hadn't been feeling too hot, which honestly was so messed up. He had superpowers now. He shouldn't be getting colds anymore. Especially not ones severe enough to put his spidey-sense on the fritz and give a robber enough time to shoot him not once, not twice, but three times. And one was in the shoulder! That was not fun to deal with while he was swinging home.
But whatever, he digressed.
He was still Spider-Man. Getting shot, be it at or through, was part of the job. And he could handle it!
Sure, he only had a basic first-aid kit, was sitting in the bathtub of his tiny bathroom alone while May worked overtime, and most of his healing decided to join his spidey-sense on vacation, and—okay, he was getting pretty dizzy trying to pull these bullets out, he was rational enough to admit that, but he was fine! He could handle it. Mr. Stark didn't need to know, and therefore didn't need to give him his what were you thinking look and lecture.
It was fine. Everything was fine.
"Peter, you've lost a dangerous amount of blood."
The tweezers kept slipping from his hand. "Yeah, I can see that." He got one bullet from his leg already, the easiest of the three. Now he had the ones stuck in his shoulder and side. He didn't think they hit anything important. He hadn't bled out immediately, and he didn't feel like he was anymore pain than he normal was when he got shot, so that meant they were good hits, right?
Not that any hits from a bullet were good, but whatever.
Peter breathed slow and measured breaths, doing his best not to add his dinner to the mess of blood. He hoped May remembered to get more bleach last time she went to the store. He was definitely going to need it later.
His tweezers latched onto something hard and he gritted his teeth, groaning as he slowly pulled, and sighing as it finally came out. He dropped it into the tub with a dull clink.
He grabbed some more gauze and stuffed the wound like he had the first one, biting back whines.
"Okay," he panted. "One more."
The dizziness was getting worse, and the world was starting to fade at the edges. But it was fine. He could handle this. No need to worry Mr. Stark. Everything was fine.
He put the tweezers to the wound in his side and his stomach rolled violently. His head suddenly rolled with it, thudding against the wall. He could hear Karen calling his name, but couldn't make out any more than that past the ringing in his ears.
It was… it was fine. He was fine. He just… needed a minute to catch his breath. Just a minute.
His vision swam, then faded to black.
—
Peter could just make out a couple diluted sensations. Someone yelling. Warmth against his cold skin. A feeling of weightlessness. More voices and beeping. More beeping. The beeping wasn't stopping, and it was actually starting to get kind of annoying—
It took him an absurdly long time to recognize the beeping was currently happening and not a memory. The realization brought more to his awareness. The scent of disinfectant, a steady stream of air under his nose, and the familiar floaty-ness he associated with his specially-made painkillers.
Medbay, his brain supplied.
He groaned.
Something shifted to his left. "Look who decided to join the land of the living."
Peter cracked open his eyes, squinting against the brightness. "Mr. Stark?"
"Friday, dim the lights."
The light turned to something manageable and he turned to look at his mentor.
Tony was in a chair at his side, the bags under his eyes darker than normal.
He had that look on his face that Peter was trying so very hard to avoid.
Peter sighed. "Go ahead."
Tony raised a brow. "What?"
"Ask, what the hell were you thinking?"
"You got me, that was my next question." He leaned forward and frowned. "Pete, what the hell were you thinking?" He said it softer than Peter was expecting. Not angry or demanding, just… tired.
"Didn't wanna worry you," Peter admitted quietly. "Thought I could handle it myself."
"Kid, we've talked about this. I wanna help you out with the whole teenage superhero thing, but you gotta work with me. Which means not reprogramming Karen, and actually calling for help when you need it. Especially when you've been shot." Something emotional flashed across his face, looking misplaced on the usually nonchalant billionaire. "You almost died, Pete."
He knew that. Logically he knew Tony was giving him far more grace and help than he deserved. But it didn't stop him from wanting to impress the man. Tony was his hero. He wanted Tony to see him as a hero too, not as some kid who was constantly getting hurt or needed training wheels.
"'M sorry," Peter said.
Tony stared for a few seconds, then sighed and ran a hand down his face. "You're the reason for my gray hairs, you know that?"
Peter picked at the blanket under his fingers. "Are you… going to take the suit away?"
"What?" He looked legitimately confused by the question, then realization hit him. "Oh. No, I'm—I'm not taking the suit, kid. Though you are definitely grounded until further notice.
Peter couldn't even be mad at that. "Okay."
Tony stared at him again, searching his eyes for something. Then he covered Peter's hand with his own and squeezed. "The suit's yours, Underoos. I'm not gonna take it again."
Peter took a deep breath and let it out slowly, a weight lifting off him. He smiled. "Okay."
Tony smiled back, then leaned away and pointed a finger. "I'm not kidding about you being grounded, though."
"Yeah, that's fair."