Stranded

He was given but a fraction of a second to prepare, both the suit’s arms snapping up to face him and flaring up with a bright orange glow in the center of each palm, a high pitch whine the only warning before dual repulsor blasts shot out at him.

Peter ducked and sprang forward, the heat wave from the blasts searing his back like an over the top sauna, the air shimmering with the strength of it, and the pulses collided explosively with the far wall, not even leaving a dent but searing the paint black.

Peter’s leap took him nearly all the way to the suit, and he sprinted the last couple of steps towards it, still crouched low under its arms.

He reached forwards, only for his eyes to widen impossibly when he came face to face with one of the glowing palms, and he threw his good arm forward to wrap around the metal wrist and yank it to the side at the last second, the blast going off right next to his head, burning a few stray hairs and leaving his ear shrieking with a high pitched ring that didn’t fade even as he darted away to the far side of the room. His gaze stayed fixed on his attacker.

Then he sprang away yet again, explosions trailing behind him as he was forced into continuous movement, pausing for even a second resulting in the suit locking onto his position and firing another shot with deadly accuracy.

“Hey, uhhhh Tony,” Peter called loudly, desperately, only half able to hear his own voice and still dodging around the blasts. “If you’re watching from somewhere could you please stop?” he basically pleaded, a strangled yell forcing its way out from him when a piece of the kitchen countertop blasted off and ricocheted from the latest explosion, piercing into his side, right into the still bubbling mess of burns courtesy of the Black Widow.

He tore it out, knowing that it’d let the blood freely flow but not able to keep it in when it restricted his movements, and he chucked it at the bot, where it clunked loudly but hardly left an indent. It fired another overpowered blast in retaliation that Peter ducked behind the cabinets to avoid.

It was there that a manic idea hit him, and Peter retreated to the other side of the room, barely managing to tuck and roll under another blast as he made it to the bedroom portion, where he tore the queen sized mattress up from the bedframe and launched it towards the suit with as much strength as he could muster, ignoring his screaming muscles and searing injuries.

The mattress catapulted through the air, and it hid Peter from sight for the few precious seconds that he needed to vault himself onto the ceiling before the bed was blasted through, bursts of cotton and downy feathers exploding through the air, further concealing the teen’s presence.

He knew that he couldn’t count on the latter fact that much with the bot’s heat sensors, but he prayed the distraction worked enough as he finally situated himself directly above the suit, not wasting any time to watch as it analyzed its surrounding areas to find him.

He launched himself off the ceiling with enough force that the surface would normally have cracked beneath the pressure, and he slammed his fists into the top of the droid’s head, the alloy collapsing in on itself with all the resistance of a tin can in a car compactor.

Bolts of electricity jolted up his arms, and the bot’s appendages spazzed violently, one of them jerking upwards to fire a final blast that barely missed centering on Peter, the outer edges of it burning his relatively uninjured side, now leaving him scorched across his entire torso as Peter screamed and punched his fist through the center of the suit’s chest, ripping the arc reactor out. The bot died down, light fading from it almost immediately.

He jumped off of it and stumbled, the still glowing blue reactor slipping from his fingers and falling to the ground with a barely audible clunk, and Peter followed with it, collapsing to his knees and clutching his throbbing skull, head pounding to the point that it felt like it was going to leak through his ears. It was like he was swimming through molasses, drowning in it as he sluggishly aimed for the surface, his neck flaring as if inflamed from the constant screaming warning bells it’d been sending him while his right eardrum continued to ring out a high pitched whine.

His shoulder was weeping heavily, as was the new wound on his side, and his older burns were still bubbled up in an angry pink color, while the new ones were seared black from his right hip to upper-waist, almost completely numb. That side of his shirt was practically hanging on by mere burnt threads, other parts of it heavily coated in blood both old and new. 

He gingerly peeled it off, swiftly adjusting so he was tearing it away instead since he couldn’t bring his arm up past his shoulder without bolts of agony arcing up his spine.

Unprompted, the suit collapsed into a heap behind him, and he flinched violently, which made all his overworked nerves flare back up bright in pain, the only thing preventing Peter from curling up into a ball being that it’d probably hurt even worse.

Instead, he picked himself up, planting one foot on the ground and pushing his arms against it until he rose enough to set the other foot down, waveringly making it into an upright position. From there, he pitched to the side and caught himself against the now jagged kitchen counter, breathing out in harsh gasps, and he used the surface as an impromptu support until he could get to the wall. He leaned heavily against it as he focused on putting one foot in front of the other, haltingly making his way towards the bathroom.

Wooden splinters coated the floor in front of it, and they pierced into the soft flesh of his feet as he mindlessly tread over them, all his attention focused on a singular goal, fearing his concentration would otherwise slip away.

He sat heavily on the closed toilet lid when he finally made it inside, placing a hand against the sink counter and panting, feeling completely drained. 

He took a few moments to just breathe, then leaned forwards slightly so he could reach the cabinets below the sink, pulling them open with a weak tug. He limply slid off the seat so he could look closer into the depths of the cupboard, and, when he saw it, he was so relieved he felt like all the air had been punched out of him, and he rested his head against the cool wood above the opened doors.

The med kit looked completely pristine, the fine layer of dust that coated the top being the only sign of how long it’d been there, and Peter could’ve wept with how thankful he was.

He reached a trembling hand forward and quickly pulled the kit closer to himself as if worried it’d disappear. It took him a couple of shaky tries to unclasp the latch, but it was well worth the effort for the sight that was inside.

It was so innocuous, so normal, that he could almost laugh at how strongly he was reacting to a simple box of bandages and medical supplies.

Instead, he slowly set to work.

He knew he should probably disinfect everything first, but he felt physically incapable of subjecting himself to any more pain than necessary, at least so soon, so he just used a damp wad of toilet paper to wipe away the sweat, blood, and grime. 

From there, he found a couple of tubes of burn cream and applied a generous amount all over his charred and blistered skin, a small sigh of relief escaping him at the cooling sensation that immediately went into effect.

He set on to the task of his shoulder next, the wound only bleeding sluggishly at this point but still at risk of opening up like before if he had to keep moving it around. He unwrapped a practically industrial sized bandage from its package and smothered some Neosporin over it, then twisted around slightly to tape it over his wound.

Then he looked at his stomach, hissing through his clenched teeth.

The chunk of marble that’d pierced his skin had done more damage than he’d thought, leaving a long, moderately shallow gash through his abdomen that was about three inches long and half a centimeter deep.

The blood still flowing from it was a dark red, and Peter gingerly wiped away the excess, proceeding to pull out a small package from within the depths of the kit.

The needle and thread vibrated slightly between his fingers with his own shaking, and Peter closed his eyes for a moment, tilting his head back and breathing slowly. He tapped a rapid beat against his thigh with his free hand, willing himself to just calm down.

It wasn’t like he hadn’t stitched himself up at any point, most of the times being before he met Tony but there were also a couple of memorable occasions after. He gave himself a tight nod, wincing when his skull throbbed with reproach. 

He let out a breath, tipping his head back down to look at the wound and swiping at the blood that’d leaked out again before setting to work. He twisted the needle through his skin with short, concentrated strokes, the skin pushing together with each thread, and he bit into his lip until it bled, the taste of copper heavy and familiar on his tongue and the muscles in his abdomen completely tensed throughout the process. He finished after nearly a dozen stitches and tied it off, tossing the needle to the side where it hit the floor with a quiet tinkle.

Then he bandaged it all up just as he did his shoulder, and he was done. He couldn’t fix up anything else, the other array of marks on him just being colorful splotches of bright purple and blue bruises that mottled his skin. They’d be quick to fade, anyways.

He tugged the water bottle and snacks from his pocket, distantly amazed that they hadn’t fallen out or gotten destroyed, even if the granolas were somewhat melted.

Still, he finished them all off with relish, chasing them down with the bottle of water. 

He crumpled the plastic in his fist and hesitated for a moment, grimacing down at his wounds, ultimately deciding to cover his burns with bandages as well. He assumed that the wardrobe next to the bed frame was probably stocked with clothes, and hopefully some would fit him. If they did, he really didn’t want the rough fabric to rub against his raw skin.

Then he gave himself a few minutes to just lay there, relishing in his pulse finally settling into a somewhat comfortable range.

It took him a while to convince himself to sit up, but he did so in the end, albeit with heavy reluctance, taking note that it was at least much easier than earlier.

He braced himself on either side of the sink and turned on the faucet, ducking his head to reach the stream and guzzling down several deep swallows of the cool water before he set out. 

It turned out the wardrobe did, in fact, have clothes. There were outfits for multiple sizes and for both genders, so he was all set. 

He ended up choosing an oversized hoodie, thankful for what little padding protection it might provide should he need it. He changed out of his sweats too, having found a similar enough pair to his own - just slightly large - that tightening the string around the waist fixed easily enough.

The relatively quick process already left him feeling woozy on his feet, so he meandered over to the kitchen table, gingerly taking a seat and slowly settling his forehead against the surface.

From there, it wasn’t long before his eyes started to flutter closed, his breathing evening out as he felt the first sense of calm - of something close to peace - after hours of mind numbing panic and pain. Here, there was no other sound, there was no fighting, there was no sting of an echo of betrayal; there was nothing to worry about in the bolted shut and padded room.

His senses had long since faded to a dull hum, and Peter relished in it, a soft sigh escaping his lips.

His consciousness began to fade, and Peter let it.

-

A thunderous bang resounded against the other side of the door, and Peter’s eyes snapped open and he bolted upright, expression filling with dread as he turned to where the sound had emanated from, blood rushing back into his ears and melding with the ringing still present to form a cacophony that drowned him in his panic.