Peter starts webbing himself across the city without knowing exactly where he’s going. He starts automatically toward home. It’s a ways from Coney Island back to Queens, so it gives him plenty of time to think.
He’s a gritty mess, covered in sand and sweating through his ill-fitting original suit. He needs to shower. Then probably sleep. Maybe hork down some painkillers. As the adrenaline from the fight starts to ebb, pain is starting to flare. His shoulders. His ribs. His biceps. His quads. Every muscle that strained to hit something aches. So do all the points that got hit by something. Plus his head, but that’s probably more due to dehydration than impact. Hopefully.
He needs to go home. But the more Peter thinks about it, the more he realizes he can’t. He doesn’t know what time it is. He doesn’t have his phone, so there’s no way of telling whether May’s at home. She thinks he’s at the dance, anyway. If the dance is in fact still happening. He doesn’t trust time not to have slipped past midnight without telling him.
Peter shakes his head and tries to focus. He can’t go home in this condition. May will flip out. She’s probably texting him like mad right now. Either that or calmly watching TV, assuming he’s detoxing from homecoming with Ned. Maybe he should go to Ned’s house…
But he can’t put this on another 15-year-old kid. Ned’s already been so helpful; he’d probably be down to tend to Peter’s wounds as well. But, he’s back to the hassle of not knowing what time it is. If Ned’s still at Midtown high, Peter will end up stumbling in on his parents. And that’s not something he really wants to explain.
Peter swings between a building and a street lamp, then casts another web onto a stoplight. He’s tired. Out of breath. Maybe a little dizzy? He pulls himself across the street, then crouches on the roof of a building to think things through. He gazes blearily at the brightly lit buildings all around. What’s he going to do? Honestly the ER doesn’t seem like a bad idea, but Peter doesn’t know how he’s going to explain that one. Hi, sorry, I’m Spider-Man, and I don’t feel very good. Here’s my aunt’s insurance card…
He wishes there was someone else. A confidante. A caregiver. Someone he could trust. For a moment he squats there stupidly, looking out at the slightly blurry city lights. The stylized A alighting Avengers tower glows back at him. Then the obvious slaps him in the face.
Of course it’s still there; the plane had crashed and ostensibly delayed the move upstate. Even if Mr. Stark is already gone, someone will be home in the lit-up tower. Happy, or maybe Pepper. Peter steels himself and launches another web.
It’s a good thing he only has a few blocks left to travel. Peter bangs into a couple walls, ramping up the echo in his head and the pain in his body. Finally he makes a clumsy landing on the balcony outside Mr. Stark’s lab, where, thankfully, the light is on. Peter can see Tony’s silhouette bent over a stack of boxes.
The sliding glass door is locked, so Peter leans into it. He means to lift his fist to knock, but his forehead hitting the glass ends up doing the job.
Mr. Stark turns around and makes a confused face when he sees who it is. He opens the door, and Peter nearly falls in on top of him.
“Whoa, ok, kid,” Tony says. “Hello there to you too.” He pulls Peter over to the desk and unloads a couple boxes from the swivel chair. “Alright. Sit. What the fuck happened?”
Peter barely has any breath, but he can’t stop the rush of words. “The vulture, the guy with the tech…” he starts.
“Yeah?”
“He’s Liz’s dad. And…your plane…crashed. On Coney Island right by the Cyclone…”
“Yeah, I got the memo on that one,” Tony says. “I got Pepper filling out the insurance reports. I’ve never been good at that kind of thing.”
“I left him there,” Peter pants. “I don’t know if he’s hurt…”
“Who? The vulture?”
Peter nods. His vision swims. “I mean… I tied him up. Left a note…”
“You what?” Tony’s eyes widen. He runs his hand anxiously through his hair. “I’ll have Happy give him a ride to the police station, ok?” He looks toward the ceiling and addresses the AI. “FRIDAY, you wanna get on that?”
“Of course, sir,” the disembodied voice replies.
“I don’t know if he’s hurt,” Peter says again. “He should go to the hospital. Then probably prison, but, then Liz won’t have a dad…”
“Hey, kid.” Tony bends forward to look into Peter’s face. “You ok? You seem…off. I know you were just out tussling, but…”
“Yeah, maybe a little off,” Peter admits. Off is right. His head’s going to fucking explode. If that’s not off, he doesn’t know what is…
“Did you hit your head?”
“No. I’m just really sore. And really tired. And May probably thinks I’m still at the dance…” Peter rests his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. He’s feeling worse by the second, and the sudden flicker of thought to that worry isn’t helping.
“Ok, I’ll take care if it,” Tony says. “Don’t worry about May, don’t worry about anything. Just…sit tight for a sec. I’ll get you some, uh…” He gives Peter another once-over. “Some of everything, I guess. Meds. Clean clothes. You want something to eat?”
“Ugh.” Peter’s stomach is more than a little uneasy.
“FRIDAY, can you have Dum-E do some PB&Js? If he’s doing painkillers, he’s gonna need to eat. And I can’t remember if I ate dinner.”
“Right away, sir.”
“Alright.” Mr. Stark pats Peter on the back. “Hold tight. I will be right back…” His footsteps retreat and the lab’s door bangs shut behind him.
“Aw, geez,” Peter mumbles under his breath as soon as he’s alone. When did he get so shaky? And when did he get so nauseous?
The feeling comes on suddenly, and it’s all he can do shove up from the swivel chair and dash into the bathroom before he’s dry heaving over the toilet. There’s hardly anything to purge, but every retch increases the dizziness playing around his ears. Eventually he lays his cheek on the toilet seat to wait for the next inevitable contraction of his stomach.
“Hey, kid?” Tony’s voice returns. “What the hell? Where’d you—” Then he steps onto the echoey bathroom tile. “Oh.”
“FRIDAY, can you maybe put him on concussion watch?”
“Nah, I’m ok,” Peter croaks into the toilet bowl.
“Eh, just in case.” Tony breaks the seal on a bottle of water and holds it out. “You want to try some of this before we see if you can stomach some ibuprofen?”
“Hm. Yeah.” He pulls himself upright with his elbows on the toilet seat. “Thanks, Mr. Stark.”
“Oh, sure. This is totally weird, but I’m actually kind of impressed. I’m not gonna start on how you could’ve gotten yourself killed, but…that was some initiative you took out there.”
Peter blushes and tries not to choke on his water. Despite feeling like absolute crap, the moment is pretty damn fantastic.
