Wrong number :/~~Spider-Man

Buttler (im very mature I promise)

Peter woke up in an unfamiliar surrounding, as you do after you've been drugged and escaped a hospital in the middle of the night! Just like in those superhero movies when an unexpected personage takes you in from the kindness of their hearts while you secretly escape to save the day. Problem was, there was nothing to save and he was too tired to sit up.

Irrelevant!

Peter groaned loudly, his voice much higher pitch than he'd rather have escaped his uncomfortably chapped lips.

Everything hurt. His entire torso ached with every breath, and the tears across said chest weren't helping. Peter's arms felt flat, but he could move them well enough. His eyes were more unfocused than he'd liked, but Peter could see the faint image of his hand in front of his face. Legs? Eh, not too worrisome at the moment, Peter wasn't ready to stand up yet anyways. Head? Headache. Killer headache. He wanted to die, but don't we all, so that's gonna go on hold till further notice.

Peter yawned silently, trying to suppress it in order to not make things worse.

How bad were things anyways? He genuinely couldn't tell. Hell, he couldn't even keep them focused on one thing. Peter's eyes fluttered for a minute until he could hold them open normally.

Once the treacherous yawn had taken its leave, he'd decided to at least look around the room.

From his vision, he could see a ceiling.

Alright, cool, doesn't help much but he'd take it!

He sat a moment, thinking what to do.

Arms? Yeah! Arms could move, that could work.

He propped himself up, hissing and shaking as he felt his back meet the rim of the bed. His arms gave out and he landed with a yelp, startled at how much worse the seemingly never-ending pain got. Lovely!

Now he could look around the room.

Well- slight detour, someone was in the room, and everything looked like hairballs.

So the quietest rout he could've taken was the right one, because said someone sounded like they were asleep.

Speaking of sounds, sounds sucked. A lot. A lot right now anyways, so many dumb sounds existing all at the same time. There was a buzzing from the light he assumed to be in the corner of the room, a pounding of his and the stranger's heartbeats, the unreasonably high hum of what he thought to be a fan to the side of him, and the ridiculous snoring Mr Stranger Man was emitting from his sleep. It kept going! It all sucked! Nothing ever shuts up when you want it to!

Onto feeling now.

Actually, scratch that, that's what's trying to be avoided, we don't like feelings today.

Room! Right, he was looking at the room. Mr Stranger was asleep, he was sitting up and in excruciating pain, and he also seemed to be elevated! Even better.

His eyes slowly gained more focus as he tiredly bitched about everything life had to offer, as if he had any reasons to be grateful at the moment. Peter was so done with everything, so tired, and so emotionally drained, that all he really had left was annoyance. He'd already spent all his sadness alone, all his happiness away, and his fear at home. All that he felt was left to expel was his anger, which was probably best when he was incapacitated and unable to snap a building in half.

He could see the rim of a door over to his right, his surroundings becoming a bit easier to process. There were pictures on the wall that he couldn't make out, and a desk chair barley peeking out from below him. There was what he could see as either a beanbag or a pile of body bags. For his sake, Peter hoped it was a beanbag.