My Blood
“Those are the only choices you have.”
“But what about-?”
“No,” Peter held up a finger, squinting his eyes threateningly, “You either pick The Lorax or Megamind or, I swear, I will not hesitate to play another Star Wars film.”
“But Petey!” Morgan whined, bouncing on the couch, “Both of them are so old.”
Peter gasped, beyond offended, “I’ll have you know, missy, I grew up with those.”
“Yes, Peter,” she rolled her eyes dramatically, assembling her Frozen Lego set, “That is because you’re old.”
He scoffed, “...Remind me to apologise to Mr. Stark. This hurts. And speaking of things that can hurt; isn’t this practically a safety hazard?” he poked the Lego castle, “This is very sharp and could probably seriously maim someone.”
“Dad can seriously maim someone.”
Peter agreed with a laugh.
“When will Mom and Dad be back?” Morgan asked, cozying against his side.
He wrapped an arm around her, patting her head, “They said not to wait up. So, a few more hours at least.”
Mr Stark and Pepper had gone to New York for a fundraiser helping all the people who lost their livelihood due to the snap, leaving Peter to babysitting duties. He didn’t mind it. He loved Morgan. Her sharp humour (even for a five-year-old) kept him on his toes. He shared her stories from before she was born and in exchange she told him stories from the years he was - ah - MIA, to put it lightly.
He wondered himself when Mr. Stark would be back, and checked his wrist to see the time only for his eyes to widen, “Oh shi-” Morgan looked at him with a look that was just pure Tony.
“...sheeps. Time to… count sheep! In bed! Time for bed! Sleep!” he said jerkingly, getting up, shutting off the TV, and gathering Morgan in his arms.
“But I’m not sleepy,” Morgan said, letting out the cutest ever yawn oh my god.
Peter smiled, “Of course you aren’t.”
In less than ten minutes, he had gotten Morgan to brush her teeth, change into Iron Man pyjamas –with Spider-Man socks!-- and tucked her in her bed. He freshened up too and was scrolling mindlessly through his social media after chatting with May when he felt it.
His spider-sense.
He paused, holding his screen to pause the video of a rabbit nibbling on a strawberry.
Nothing.
Peter had learned by now to never doubt his tingle, so he put his phone on the bedside table –a decision he’d come to berate himself over later– and made his way down the staircase.
He held his hand onto the handle of the door leading into the main hall, steadying his breathing. He opened the door and-!
No one.
Huh.
He swallowed and found his throat dry. He made his way to the kitchen, ducking to reach the lower cabinets for a glass.
Maybe his senses were just warning him against dehydration.
The lights turned on.
…that’s probably just Morgan who woke up and followed-
“Get out from under there. Hands in the air. No funny business.”
Okay… maybe his senses were not just warning him against dehydration.
Peter slowly straightened up, hand clutched around the glass, and frowned at the sudden onslaught of lights.
“Seriously? Are you trying to get caught? Who turns on the lights in the house they are trying to rob!”
At least, he hoped they were just robbers. There were three guys –all in black attire, complete with ski masks– all of them tall, with knives in their belts. The guy on the left looked the strongest with muscles bulging out of his arms, whereas the other two seemed more on the leaner side.
“Look,” said the middle guy, “You don’t have to get hurt. We are just here for Stark’s kid. Get outta the way.”
Peter’s head vibrated with an inner ‘Activate: Protective Brother’ as he tried to stall them to formulate a plan.
“Wait,” Peter shook his head, “So they sent three of you for ah five year old? Seems a bit overkill dude, not gonna lie”
“Kid-” the middle guy spoke again, the other two as still as rocks. Was he like the spokesperson of the group? “I will ask you one last time. This doesn’t concern you. Get. Outta. Here.”
“Well, too frickin bad. If you wanna get to Morgan,” his hands clenched around the glass.
This glass empty.
“You’ll have to go through me.”
Yeet.
He threw the glass straight at the thug nearest to the stairs, both –the dude and the glass– shattering on impact, leaving the spokesperson and the strong dude to be dealt with.
“You’re gonna regret that, punk,” the kidnapper spokesperson moved in front of him as the other guy moved behind him, essentially trapping Peter between the two thugs and the countertop.
“You know, I regret like ninety-five percent of my decisions, so it’s really not that bold of a statement.”
Using his banter as a distraction, Peter rolled over the countertop and before the spokesperson could turn around, rammed his shoulder between his shoulder blades, sending him flying into the bulky guy.
The bulky guy rolled the other thug off of him and came at Peter with his knife raised high. Peter looked around and ended up using a rolling pin to defend himself. He punched the assailant in the ribs, before throwing the rolling pin on his masked head. He was about to follow it up with a kick when-
Spider-sense.
He ducked.
And not a second too late, if the knife embedded in the wall by his head was anything to go by. The Spokesperson looked almost offended that Peter had dared avoid getting shish kebab-ed by his knife.
Peter was about to show some real offence to his face when he was tackled by the muscle of the group. The guy manhandled him into standing in front of the spokesman, pinning his arms behind him. The spokesperson took advantage of his bound arms and punched him square in the jaw, his body stumbling further into the guy behind him. Blood gushed in Peter’s mouth as the spokesperson continued raining down punches on his face.
Peter’s vision started blurring around the edges and knew that he had to think of something; and fast. Thrashing around was useless –only tiring him further– and unless he wanted to reveal his identity to these creeps (he didn’t) he couldn’t Spidey his way out of this one.
So he did the only smart thing he could think of.
He bit the arm holding him.
Hard.
The bulky guy howled in pain and released him. Peter gave him a hard kick in the nuts for good measure before whirling around and throwing a punch at the spokesman’s abdomen, the impact sending him skidding across the floor till he hit his head on the window.
He wasn’t getting up anytime soon.
“Peter?” Morgan stood at the doorway, her Black Widow plushie grasped tightly in her arms.
“Oh… hey Mo!” he smiles awkwardly, waving a bloodied hand. Oh, he must look horrible, blood covering his face, staining his teeth, trying not to collapse on the floor.
Trying to be as non ‘character in a horror movie’ as possible he spoke in a calming, yet hurried voice. “Mo, I have a mission for you: I want you to go to your bedroom, lock the door, call Mr. Stark, and not come out until he asks you, can I trust you with that?
“Yes, but about you- Watch out!”
A sudden weight on his back sent him sprawling across the floor.
“Morgan! Lock the doors!”
He listened to her hurrying up the stairs and sighed internally. Fingers grabbed at his hair and sent his face pounding into the floor. Repeatedly. Each thud resonated painfully in his skull. Peter gritted his teeth against the pain, placed his palms on the floor, and jerked his head back with everything he’s got.
The weight disappeared off his back and in a split second Peter got up, crouching low to the floor, and before the muscle-man had time to recover, tackled him around his shins, using his bulky build against him as he dropped to the floor like a bag of bricks.
Bag of Bricks, however, had more fight in him than Peter gave him credit for. He sat up, grabbed the back of Peter’s sweater, and hurled him across the room.
Peter’s body collided painfully with the sofa’s edge, sending him rolling across the sofa and onto the ground, all the air being knocked out of him, leaving him winded and dizzy.
Footsteps walked in his line of vision and Peter couldn’t do anything but cry out as a foot reared back and kicked him in the ribs.
“Punk,” The guy scoffed and Peter saw with bleary eyes as he made his way towards the stairs.
Peter scrambled to get up, looking around desperately for something. That’s when his eyes fell on his weapon of choice. He grabbed it and with a final burst of strength ran towards the assailant and just as he turned-
BAM!
Peter slammed Elsa’s Lego Castle across the bulky guy’s temple, efficiently knocking him out for good.
He stood for a few seconds, reeling with the aftershock, panting with exhaustion, sweat dripping into his eyes.
“Yep,” he bounced the Lego set in his hand, “Could definitely maim someone.”
He winced and looked around at the destroyed living room. He hoped Pepper wouldn’t be too mad. He heard the distant hum of thrusters and knew Mr. Stark was near. He’d know what to do. Mr. Stark always does.
Peter blamed his momentary sense of relief as to why he didn’t notice the first guy getting up.
Glass guy grabbed him by the shoulder, turned him and pushed a knife to the hilt into Peter's side. A broken gasp lodged itself in his throat which turned into a hoarse cry as the guy ripped the knife out, slowly. Peter felt each jagged cut of the knife tearing through his insides as it was pulled out and felt his eyes closing against the pain.
When he opened his eyes, it was to find himself leaning against the countertop, legs spread in front of him and head lolling onto his shoulder, the assailant screaming crazily something which Peter was too far gone to comprehend. A steady nothing had taken over Peter’s hearing; only the sound of blood dripping onto the floor audible to him.
He knew he should do something. Put pressure on the wound, stop the blood from flowing, shut the stupid yelling, but he was just so tired. Fatigue had settled heavily on his bones and made home. His eyes threatened to roll back into his skull.
A great stream of light blasted across his vision, his eyes squinting against it and when he opened them he was seeing red and gold.
Red and gold meant safe.
Red and gold meant he was okay.
“Peter! Kid! Stay with me, please. Come on, don’t do this. Talk to me!”
Mr. Stark had gotten out of his suit, his cream Armani suit –which probably cost more than Peter’s existence– was stained a rusty shade of red as he pressed his hands to Peter’s sides.
Peter knew he should feel pain. But he felt absolutely nothing.
He gathered his strength and choked out, “M-Morgan-”
“Rhodey’s got her. That’s it, kid. Keep talking to me.”
He shivered, “S’ C-Cold.”
Mr. Stark’s face crumbled painfully as tears flowed freely from his eyes, “We’ll get you warmed up soon. Okay? You hear me. Just- just, hold on. Please.”
“I’m – I’ll be okay. I’m safe.” he coughed, and felt blood dripping down his lips, “As long as you’re here, I am okay.”
Mr. Stark smiled.
And he thinks he smiled too.
Right before passing out in Mr. Stark’s arms.