"Tony, you can't just avoid this." Pepper's voice can all but cut vibranium, hard and tight and furious.
Which, obviously, is a losing battle. Tony is literally in the middle of avoiding it. He wasn't marching down the hallway, away from her, for nothing.
"Watch me!" He calls, tossing the words over his shoulder.
She's a predator, hot on his tail. "You're acting like a child!"
Her high heels make angry little clickety-clackety sounds down the hallway.
"News flash, sweetheart." His voice is dry and sardonic in that way she hates, and he knows she hates, because she's told him a million times. It's the perfect timbre for his great escape. "I am a child."
"You don't have to be!" She argues back hotly.
"FRIDAY, baby, please tell Ms. Potts to kindly fuck of-"
He can practically hear the indignation on her face, can see her eyes widen in shock. He feels a little bad. A little.
"Tony!" Pepper shrieks, her voice shrill enough and hurt enough to make him pause and turn around.
She's standing there, a hand on her hip, her eyes narrowed into tiny, furious little slits. "You lied to me. You said you'd be there."
He opens his arms wide. "I forgot, okay? It happens. Gonna have to suck it up."
He watches as she bites her lip hard, hard enough to break the skin and hard enough to stave off the trembling. "Suck it up? I ask you to go to three, three meetings a year. That's it. That's the bare minimum. And you've skipped two."
"They were boring, okay?" He offers her in his best unconcerned tone.
Scoffing, she shakes her head. "You know what, Tony. Whatever. Do whatever you want. I'll just keep this company alive while you do whatever it is you do."
"You mean look good, make ingenious-"
"Shove it, okay?" She holds a hand up in his direction, physically pausing him. "Just- just save it?"
She affixs him with one last sour look, her bottom lip threatening to tremble, and fuck, Tony might be an asshole.
Then she turns on her heels, clickety-clacketying away from him down the hall.
He watches her retreat, a little guilty, a lot guilty, until she disappears entirely.
He runs a hand across his face, pulling the skin taut. Appraising the empty space where Pepper once was, he finally turns back to his A.I.
"FRIDAY?"
"Yes, Boss?"
"I'm activating Hidey-Hole protocol. Once I get to the lab, prohibit any calls coming in. I don't want to see, or hear from anyone."
Friday pauses before uttering a hesitant, "Yes, Boss."
*****
Peter's legs dangle precariously off the edge of the building, kicking happily.
Cinnamon sugar covers the entire front of his Spider-Man suit, courtesy of the churro he's just devoured.
Being the friendly neighborhood Spider-Man definitely has its perks.
"Hey Karen," Peter chirps to the mask concealing only half his face. He uses the back of his hand to wipe his mouth, pulling the bunched up fabric back down.
He can still taste the cinnamon.
"Yes, Peter?" She questions happily.
Brushing the crumbs off his chest, he asks, "Any crime yet?"
He's had a slow night as far as Spider-Manning goes. One lost cat, one mugging, and one potential food cart robbery that Spider-Man had expertly thwarted.
Therefore, churro.
Karen hesitates, her scans reaching farther then even Peter's enhanced senses can. And he can see a huge portion of Queens from the top of the Frankfort apartment building.
A pigeon lands by his feet, pecking around for churro crumbs.
"It appears there is another mugging six blocks from here," Karen helpfully supplies.
"Sweet!" Peter lets his eyes rake across the darkening horizon. He'll have to be home soon, or May will freak. And then he'll freak and it will be bad. Definitely.
"Sweet?" Karen questions, robotic voice lightly teasing, and Peter feels his masked cheeks go double red.
"Oh! Not sweet. Definitely not sweet. Crime is bad-" He gives up trying to prove his innocence to the A.I, thwipping his web to the building across the street.
"Bye," he tells the pigeon by his feet, "Enjoy the crumbs!"
Then, he leaps, the wind whooshing past him as he careens to the ground, the pavement coming up faster and faster-
Until his web catches him, arching him back up through the sky. He lets out a jubilated yell, slinging his way left and right across the tall buildings.
"Flying is quite fun," Karen agrees from within his mask.
"Totally." He lets himself land on the rooftop of a building within feet of the supposed mugging. His heart still pounding with exhilaration, his cheeks red with exuberance. "Where is it, Karen?"
He crawls, very Spider-like, down the building wall, his fingers sticking easily to the brick. His gaze darts back and forth, trying to pinpoint the crime.
"Forward." Her voice automatically becomes hushed, befitting the scene. "Left 100 fe-"
She doesn't even need to finish the sentence, a horrified scream lighting across his senses, alerting him to the trouble.
He leaps forward, finding a woman with her back pinned to the same red-stone wall, her purse clutched to her chest. Peter can see the terrified whites of her eyes, darting frantically between her three attackers.
They have her encircled, one on either side holding their arms to the wall to keep her there and one in front of her.
"Hey there," he chirps, landing with a silent thud.
Four pairs of eyes turn to him, shocked, and he offers a wave. "Nice night for crime, am I right?"
One of the men, the biggest, bald one, growls. "Get the hell out of here bug!"
Peter sighs theatrically. "That's not very creative, Mr. Criminal. Everyone calls me a bug."
The man growls again, reaching into the waistband on his jeans to pull out a wicked looking blade. "Get out of here now," he snarls, holding the blade up to catch the fading light, "or you'll regret it, pest."
Peter smiles, his lightning fast reflexes shooting a web out to encase Baldie's arm. "That's a little better as far as nicknames go," he acquiesces, tugging softly (for him) on the attached web. The man goes flying, his knife clattering harmlessly to the alley ground.
The webbing of their friend seems to spur the other two into action (whom Peter decides to don Dumb and Dumber) and they run at him, forgetting the woman entirely.
Her wide, terrified eyes find his once before darting away and leading her down the alleyway, purse still clutched in her arms.
Dumber tries to land a punch, his fist flying uselessly by as Peter ducks. Easy peasy. Dumb throws his own, but Peter's Spider-senses have him dodging left without consciously deciding to.
"Whoa, guys!" Peter does a back-flip, holding up his hands. "Let's talk about this-"
Dumb arches a knife in his direction, and holy shit when did he pull that out, and Peter has to practically somersault away. "Crime doesn't pay!"
"Shut up!" Dumb cries, slicing, slicing and missing everytime.
Peter shots a web out, the sticky material flying Dumb back to the alley way and pinning him there. He lets out an agonized screech, straining uselessly.
"That'll keep you-" Peter starts, Spider-sense flaring briefly before his world is rocked by a fist connecting squarely with his chin. He stumbles, nearly losing his footing, twisting his body almost unnaturally to face off with Baldie.
"Oh! You're awake!" Peter quips happily, causing the man's eyes to narrow into dangerous slits. His fists are curled up by his sides, another low growl reverberating up his throat. "Too much sleep is as bad for you as too little, you know? Science fact-"
Baldie throws a punch, which Peter thankfully dodges. His jaw is still throbbing from the first.
Unfortunately, he isn't llucky enough to also dodge the knife.
The blade enters the soft, fleshy part of his side, cutting deep.
Peter gasps, twisting unconsciously away from the pain. It causes the knife to rip out, slicing across his abdomen.
"Shit," he swears, finger pressing against the now bleeding wound across his stomach.
"Gotcha fucker," Baldie sneers, gesturing to Dumber. He's still brandishing the knife, blade now coated in Peter's blood.
"Aw man," Peter practically pants out, waves of pain washing across him. "I thought we were gonna be friends, Dumber."
The name startles both men, Baldie opening his mouth to presumably question who the hell Peter thinks he is, and it's the only distraction he needs.
In quick succession, he sends two webs flying, successfully pinning the criminal duo to the wall. Maybe a little spitefully, he sends another couple blasts Dumber's way. That traitor did stab him after all.
Peter's world tilts a little.
"Peter," Karen chimes in at the conclusion of what could have been an epic battle. "You have been stabbed."
"Ugh." Peter keeps one hand pressed against his burning wound, the other against the wall to carefully lead him away from the webbed criminals. He doesn't need to be here when the police arrive. "You think?"
Karen takes the sass in stride. "You require medical assistance."
"No. No. No." He was on fire, his body burning. A wave of dizziness assaults him, and he has to pause long enough to gag. Chunky churro comes back up, curdled in his stomach, covered in blood, and he sobs.
"Karen?" He asks, shaking off the black spots in his vision. "Ho' bad?"
Her voice comes back solemn. "Very bad, Peter, I am afraid. You've lacerated several major organs and are losing blood at an alarming rate."
He takes a deep breath, instantly regretting it as pain jackknifes across his midsection. "Ow. Okay. Call Mister Stark."
He hates to bother him, to pull him away from the lab or from Pepper or whatever super important thing he's doing, but Peter is vaguely certain that maybe Karen is right. He needs help.
It kinda feels like his insides are trying to become outsides.
When he bends over at the waist, simultaneously crying out at the motion and dry-heaving, he repeats the order somewhat desperately.
"Karen, call Ms'ter St'rk-"
He might be crying, clutching his stomach, and trying to hold all his guts in all at once.
"I'm sorry, Peter," Karen comes back, robotic voice terse. "I'm unable to contact Mister Stark."
Peter frowns against his tears. That isn't right. He can always get ahold of Mister Stark. "Call- call again."
He tries to fight off another dizzying wave of nausea, nearly passing out as his body forces him to hurl food that isn't there anymore.
"He did not answer," Karen responds nervously, and Peter lets out a dry sob.
"Call. Call." He feels a little breathless, and he realizes suddenly that he's on his back, staring up at the sky. He doesn't remember falling over.
"Shall I call Aunt May?" Karen wonders, worried.
Peter shakes his head, croaking out, "No. No. Not Aunt May."
"Perhaps call for an ambulance?" The A.I. suggests.
Peter swallows blood. "No- no. My secret identity-"
"Peter." She sounds a little bit like May, softly scolding. "You need medical attention."
He takes a staggering breath, pressing a hand against the cavernous whole in his midsection. Voice a whisper, he orders, "Call Ms'tr St'rk."
"No answer."
"Call- call again."
"No answer. Peter, you should try and pack your wound with web fluid. It will buy you a little time."
Soundless tears fall down his cheeks. "Can't. Can't. Dying."
"I'm going to try and call Mister Stark again."
"Okay." Soft, soundless.
"No answer."
"Okay."
*****
Tony hates to be wrong. Basically, he never, ever is.
Except maybe this one time.
He sighs, dropping the soldering tool to the table in front of him.
"Hey, Fri?" He asks, spinning chaoticallically around in his chair. "Am I the asshole?"
Based on FRIDAY's exceedingly long pause, he is.
He sighs again. Maybe skipping out on possibly the most important meeting of the year for Stark Industries hadn't been a good idea. Definitely wasn't a good idea to assure Pepper he was going to go, and then just not.
Reluctantly, he has to admit to himself that he doesn't even have a good reason. He simply lost track of time tinkering on an upgrade for DUM-E, and decided he was too late to even bother going.
"By my calculations," FRIDAY hesitantly addresses, "You are only 51% an asshole."
"Yeah. Okay." He deserves that. "Order some of those flowers she likes. Some chocolates, too."
"Hyacinths?"
"Sure." He nods his head along. "Attach a note professing my deepest apologies. Tell her I'm an idiot."
"You got it, Boss."
"Do I have any messages from her?" He asks hopefully. A Pepper that is still willing to berate him is easier to deal with then one who goes silent.
"Afraid not."
"Damn." He ducks his head.
"You do have 12 missed calls from Peter Parker."
His head jerks up. "What?!"
"One call at 10:21 P.M, the next at 10:22-"
"Why the fuck didn't you tell me?!" He hisses, already making his way from the lab. He calls the suit to him, and it begins to immediately form; a second skin stretching over his first.
"I am sorry, Boss," FRIDAY offers, contrite. "But per the rules of the Hidey-Hole protocol, you requested no calls come in-"
"Peter's calls always come through! You always let his calls through, you hear me?" His voice is hoarse, the faceplate falling over his worried features.
FRIDAY offers another apology up, and Tony can't help but cut her off. "Connect me to Karen, now. Find his location, and his vitals. Now!"
He takes to the skies, able to hear his own heartbeat galloping away in his ears. He fucking ignored Peter, and if something has happened to the kid-
"I have connected with Karen," FRIDAY cuts in. "Unfortunately, Peter Parker is no longer responding."
Oh, fuck.
Tony's heart kicks even farther into overdrive, his breath thick and hot and hard to pull in. "Vitals," he chokes out.
Please, please, please, let Peter be alive, please, please
"Karen detects a heartbreak."
His breath leaves him in a pained whoosh, and he struggles to bring more in.
"He has lost a lot of blood, and is suffering from a deep laceration that stretches from his hip to his midsection. Several perforated organs-"
"Holy fuck."
"I believe you are suffering from the beginning phases of a panic attack. Perhaps you'd like to do some breathing exercises-"
"No." He bites the words out with hatred. "Get me to Peter, now. Keep his vitals displayed on my screen. I want to know the moment anything at all changes."
"Understood."
"Hold on, kid."
*****
Peter can't see the stars anymore. Granted, New York doesn't have many to offer, with the pollution and whatnot, but Peter likes looking at them all the same.
Now they're gone. He can't see anything but darkness.
Somewhere, far away, there's a woman calling out to him. Trying to wake him up? Why?
He doesn't want to wake up if he can't see the stars.
He's dying.
He wants to tell everyone how sorry he is, especially May, and especially Tony, who are probably going to be pretty upset he's dead.
He wants to apologize to Ned, for that one time in fifth grade that he broke his brand new Lego set and acted like he didn't. He was a dick for that.
He wants to tell Happy sorry for always being so annoying.
He wants to tell MJ sorry for not asking her out.
Mostly, though, he wants to see the stars.
*****
Peter's dead.
It's all Tony can think as Peter's prone body swims into focus, laying in the alleyway, still and unmoving and lifeless. Practically drowning in what looks like gallons of his own blood.
Tony all but crashes to the concrete floor, stepping out of his suit simultaneously. Dropping to his knees beside Peter's uncharacteristically still body, with blood soaking into the cotton of his jeans, he feel his breath hitch and stop.
Because there was no way, no fucking way that Peter could have survived this. This level of bloodshed.
"Peter," he chokes out, placing a trembling hand against the vein in his neck. "Oh, christ, kid."
At some point he'd ripped his mask off. The fabric is lying next to him, now soaked in liquid red.
It's hard to tell in all the blood, but Tony is pretty sure some of Peter's innards are trying to escape the confines of his body.
A shrill laugh threatens to tear up Tony's throat. Those belong inside you, silly.
He finds a beat, dancing erratically beneath his fingertips, but it does little to stave off the delirious panic crawling across his skin.
"FRIDAY!" He calls out desperately, voice hitching. "Can I- can I move him?"
How are you gonna fly him with his guts all hanging out like that?
Tony gags, bending over from Peter to toss up his earlier coffee. It tastes far more bitter now.
FRIDAY's voice comes back from the suit now standing sentry. "It is inadvisable, but the best option in this scenario. He needs immediate medical attention."
"No shit. No fuckin' shit," he shoots back, somewhat hysterically. "Just gotta fly him back…."
"Please be careful," FRIDAY advises. "Peter is in a delicate situation."
Another delirious laugh bubbles out of his throat. "Oh god, kid." He traces a hand across Peter's slack features, doing his best to find some kind of resolve within himself. "I'm going to step into the suit, okay? And then I'm going to pick you up and take you to get some help. Got it?"
Peter doesn't respond, and Tony quickly returns to his second skin.
With more care then he probably would have taken with even his own newborn, Tony slides his mechanical arms under Peter's unmoving body. Doing his best not to jostle the kid (the guts) too much, Tony shifts him into his arms.
Peter lets out a pained moan, his eyes flickering.
Tony's heart skips a beat. "Kid?"
Another agonized sound breaks through the kid's lips. "M's'r S'r'k?"
"Hey, hey, it's me." With as much ease as his thrusters can manage, he takes to the skies. Peter lets out a pained wheeze, his eyes opening wide.
"Stop!" He whispers, breath hitching.
"I've got you, kiddo," Tony assures, pushing his own panic deep, deep down. He'll pay his piper later, no doubt. "We're going to get help, okay?"
Peter's eyes terrifyingly flutter. "Pete, no, no. None of that. Stay with me, okay?"
He gulps, and Tony watches his adam's apple bob up and down.
"Sorry," he gasps out, miserably.
Tony's heart breaks. "Nothing to be sorry for. You did the right thing. You called me, right? You did what I've been telling you too."
And fuck, those words hurt to say. Peter had called, and Tony had missed it.
"Sorry," he mumbles again, head bouncing listlessly with the motion of Tony's flying. His tongue darts out to his lips, wetting them with red. "You…busy…"
"No, no." Tony berates himself internally. "Never too busy for you, kiddo. Promise."
Peter's eyes flicker again, a fire trying to extinguish itself. "Stars," he whispers, distressed. "Wanna see the stars."
Tony chokes on his own misery. "Just look up, Pete."
His eyes close instead.
*****
Waking up smells like bleach and betadine, a sharp, acrid scent he knows well.
Somewhere under the antiseptic fragrance is the tange of blood.
His eyes slit open, barely, just enough to catch the fluorescent lights and slam shut again. Groaning, he blindly feels across his body.
"Peter?"
The voice has his eyes flying back open with a wince. He knows that voice.
"Hey, buddy." Tony lowers himself into Peter's eyespace, a strained smile across his face. There's a redness in his eyes that makes Peter feel nauseous. He's done something, even if he doesn't quite yet remember it.
"Sorry," he croaks out.
The strained smile turns down. "How you feeling?"
He licks his lips, finding his mouth to be unfathomably dry. "Tired."
"I bet. We've got you pretty doped up on Cap's supply. Even so, you're burning through it way quicker than him."
The words struggle to find any meaning in Peter's mind, and he grimaces. "Sorry."
Tony's worried features soften, and he lets a hand swoop down to gently stroke Peter's forehead. "Don't worry about it, Pete. You're pretty out of it. Try and go back to sleep."
"Hurt?" He murmurs, fingers fluttering around his stomach. There's a numb ache there, something that feels like the ghost of pain.
Tony's face breaks for a minute, and he takes a staggering breath. "Yeah, kiddo. Hurt. You were hurt real bad this time."
"Sor-"
"Don't. Okay? Please don't apologize again."
Peter bites his lip, struggling to form a coherent thought. Confused tears pool in his eyes. "Mad- mad at me?" He whispers brokenly.
"Oh, hell." Tony closes his eyes, his fingers absentmindedly smoothing the worried lines across Peter's forehead. "Not mad at you. Not at all. I'm mad at me. I let you know down big time. I fucked up. I screwed the pooch this time."
Peter wants to close his eyes, to sink back down into whatever world he was in before betadine brought him back. Back to the world where he didn't have to try and make everything make sense.
But he can't.
Not with Mister Stark looking like that. "Didn't," he argues quickly. "Didn't fuc' up."
His stomach is starting to throb a little, and he has a brief flash of red and gleaming and smiles that aren't really smiles-
"Go back to sleep," Tony murmurs softly, his tone very, very convincing. Peter's so tired, and his stomach can't ache if he lets himself go for awhile.
"Not your fault," he whispers desperately, finding Tony in the confusing sea of fluorescents. "Okay?"
Tony sighs, the weariness not quite leaving his eyes. "Go to sleep, kid. I'll be here when you roll back around again."
Peter nods, eyes flickering. "Okay. Mister Stark."
He falls asleep to the familiar pace of Tony's heartbeat.
He dreams of the stars.