it is painful to watch
It all comes back to one moment. A singular juncture that happens in the span of a multitude of things and events occuring at the same time. Maybe it’s a thought. Perhaps it’s an idea. Possibly an action. Conceivably a word. It might even be nothing.
The universe was created in one moment. Not in the way one might ask for a pause in the grand scheme of things, a momentary and brief relaxation from being aimless. Rather, it was created in a moment of explosive possibility and an intense wanting to be directional. To have purpose. To be something. A universe.
In one, singular, explosive moment, May Jameson became May Parker. It was a thousand and a million things and events all at once that formed it and shaped it to become destiny and fate and luck that she would marry into a family full of cursed tragedy. It was a blissful and happy moment though. It was a good moment.
And, in just the same way, in just a moment that was singular and explosive, did May Parker become a widow. She never thought she’d ever have to decide what words to put on a grave, but she did. Every time she reads those words, she thinks they should’ve been something else. Maybe something more meaningful. Something even funny perhaps. Just a name. It was decided in a moment, and you can’t go back on those.
But, moments are odd. As it goes, they form from the collective million and thousand events and things that happen all at once. Just in the same moment that May Parker became a widow, she also became a mother of sorts. No longer did she bear the weight of an aunt. She now bore the infinitesimal task of a mother and ultimate caregiver.
It was a heavy crown she wore with dignity and strength. On a particular day, on a numerous date on the calendar, at a specific but vague time, a moment happens where May realizes she loves her nephew with her entire being and soul. She loves him to the point of unbearability, and her heart aches at the thought of loving another so much and being so glad to have this feeling. The moment grows with each passing day, month, year, second, that she is with him and learning from him.
And even from a child who has witnessed horrors and experienced loss that kills, does she learn compassion, kindness, vulnerability, and true strength. She would die for her nephew. She would kill for him. May Parker would do anything and everything to ensure her child’s happiness.
Peter Parker was hers.
And then, in a sole moment, Spider-Man came and intruded on May’s singular and growing moment. But, she learned from Spider-Man too. She learned of a side to her Peter that was amazing and scary to see. From then on, perhaps even right now, in another on-going and extensive moment, May was learning to be self-less, brave, and completely and foolishly giving.
It all comes back to one moment. A spectacular, timeless, and by chance moment. It’s fleeting and rare and so easy to let go of. It’s just one moment.
And yet, when her eyes meet those of someone perhaps another self-appointed mother loves with her entire being, she cannot look away. She cannot tear her gaze from the eyes of a child whom she does not know but decides she loves anyway. Which is why she turns back and runs from safety. From the line of people she’d gathered to help. Away from the window.
But no matter all the coaxing and cooing and compromising and begging she does, the child does not leave. May cries because she knows that it’s all amounting to a moment. That there’s a drum beating and counting and playing to a rhythm she cannot keep up with that’s leading a steadily marching inevitability. And when the building begins to dance and shake once more, and the tiles beneath her crack and split, May realizes that this moment, this exact and precise moment, was her resolution in the story that was her small life.
She had already peaked. Adopting Peter was her climax, her highest point in life. There had never been any falling action because she had loved every single moment and felt that it was impossible to fall from the crest she stood at.
And now, here in the hospital she had worked in her entire career, here in a strange hallway with flashing red emergency lights, here and stuck in her own hallucinations because she understands now that there was no child to begin with, May accepts that this is where her epilogue begins and ends. It is sad and horrifying and sharp and hard.
There is no soft landing.
Parkers had never been given a lovely epilogue to sleep away to, an endless supply of luck fueling their story and encompassing lives into catastrophe.
But, May forgets. She’s never had the best memory to begin with; leaving her keys behind, misplacing her phone, forgetting to eat or check the time. Yes, she’s always been bad with time. So, when she hears her name, a desperate call, and sees a lanky figure clad in bright red and blue spandex running towards her, she smiles.
How could she forget she wasn’t the only character in this story of hers? How could she forget that out of all the Parkers, out of all the heroes that existed, out of all the people in this world, her Peter deserved the best epilogue to end his story with?
Surely not her. He deserved the best there could be, and that did not include such a soon epilogue to end his story.
The universe was inherently cruel to dash those hopes away in one, singular moment.
The first thing he registers is that his tongue feels funny. Not a good kind of funny, like when he’s eaten too much sugar and the textures become wrong and strange in his mouth. It’s more of a numb kind of funny. Similar to when your leg “falls asleep” and it tingles and hurts before blood begins to flow through it again.
The second thing he registers is that he’s kneeling. Sort of. His knees are pressed deeply into the ground, but his back is arched as well, bringing his hands to rest on the ground too. Perhaps a crawling position is more accurate to how he is rather than kneeling.
Peter realizes that he’s supporting something; something heavy and cold and sharp. He can feel it jutting into his spine, poking at his legs, crushing him. Briefly, he struggles. Struggles to move, to see, to process the things around him. The world is hazy and blank, nothing to give him a sensation of being present.
He gives up very quickly though, agony enriching his body as he breathes. There’s something shifting inside of him, moving with each breath he takes, each thought he thinks. Peter wants to move, to see exactly what it is that is splitting him in half, but he can’t move enough to even begin to guess.
The weight on top of him is just shy of completely flattening him, even in his half conscious state he can tell that his limbs are stiff and stock still on purpose. If he even thought of bending his arms or just shuffling his knees, he’d lose and fall to the burden that rested so heavily upon his back.
Even as he attempts to take all of it in, to register some of the things around him, Peter can feel his heart rate skyrocket. He’s panicking, feeling for the first time the direness of the situation he’s in. The all consuming dread that is slowly pooling into his stomach, contracting and twisting and spreading inside of him. The pain is dizzying, he’s surprised he’s even awake, and his entire body just aches. If he had to guess, it’s his bone structure that’s holding the weight around him. His skeleton that is supporting the tons of concrete and metal that rest so lovingly against him.
Suddenly, Peter wants to cry. True and honest sobbing. He wants to scream and weep and let this frustration and fear and sadness pour out of him like a waterfall. Because he is scared. He’s terrified. And he’s alone.
He opens his mouth to fulfill this desire of his, to release himself, but he can’t make a sound. Nothing comes out. His throat is convulsing, his mind is screaming, his tongue is flexing and moving, but nothing comes out.
Just breathy wheezes. There aren’t even any tears to compensate for the nothing that escapes him.
Something slick and wet and warm is slowly trickling down his side, down his face, down down down, and all Peter can think is that he might be dying. That the reason he can’t speak is because he might be dying. That the reason he can’t move, much less breathe, is because he’s dying.
All his life, Peter has thought about death. At a very early age, he’s had to learn what it is and how cruel it could be, even at a distance. And then, he got to experience it up close. Truly see how terrifying it was to watch the light slowly fade away from someone’s eyes, even as they reassure you over and over and over again that,
‘It’s fine, Pete. I’m okay. I’m okay.’
Is this what death feels like? Agonizing? Crushingly hopeless and desolate? He always thought, more like hoped, that his death would be peaceful. That maybe someday he would die surrounded by the people he loved, knowing that they and Queens would be safe and cared for without him.
He’d hoped that the end to his life would be good. He’d hoped he had somehow earned a good ending.
In a strange and twisted way, Peter thinks this is a sort of retribution for all his mistakes. How much of a rightfully deserving death this was for him. In the beginning of his dream as Spider-Man, he helped people. He saved lives and was happy doing so. It had been a hobby at first, something to do with these super-natural powers of his, but then it had turned into a responsibility. A job almost.
When had this hero work of his become an obligation? When had it stopped being just something he did to help others?
This was how he was going to die. It was poetic in a way. To be crushed to death by the very building he’d sworn to protect and save. To be crushed by the ever so numerous people that hadn’t been able to make it out at all. They were dead. It was only fitting he died with them too.
He deserved it.
There’s a screeching sound, metal sliding against concrete, and Peter feels the pressure resting on top of him shift slightly. The noise itself is enough to make him want to vomit, loud and blaring in his head, but he knows he cannot risk it. If he were to even attempt to gag, to allow his body to convulse and expel the nothing that rests inside of him, it would spell disaster.
That selfish part of him, that fragment of his mind that placed finding May above saving the possible hundreds from being demolished, is telling him not to die. That he is scared of dying. That he does not want to die, no matter how much he knows he deserves it. That part of his mind screams at him to listen to his instincts, to not move at all, to barely breathe, to stay put and just exist.
But what if he no longer wants to exist? His sole purpose for entering was to find May. To rescue her and get her out before their entire world imploded on them. Here, in the dark, refined in glorifying agony, Peter wonders if his efforts had always been in vain. He’d been born a Parker. The blood that coursed through his veins, the DNA that encoded him to make him a Parker was sealed inside of him. The Luck that came with his existence was something he could never escape from. Try as he might, running away did nothing and his feet stayed in place.
And maybe it’s not even Parker Luck. The tragedies only began when he was thrown into the mix. Perhaps it was just him. Peter Luck, that brought about all the horror and pain that inflicted itself onto whomever was nearest. On some twisted level, it made complete sense.
He had attended every funeral of those that mattered to him. Watched them be buried and never released from their graves of dirt and tears. Maybe now was the time he had his own.
It hurts, Peter thinks idly, to think no one will be there. They’re all dead.
He can’t even begin to deal with the fact that May was dead. He could hope and wish and dream all he wanted, but that didn’t change the fact that a building had fallen on top of her.
He had been so close. So fucking close.
Just a few more strides, a little further, and he would have reached her. He would have grabbed her and hugged her and cried. His hands were open, reaching. Her hands were open, accepting. They were both finally free, hearts ready to flee and fly away from the humiliation that was their circumstances. They would have finally been together.
The thought breaks Peter, crumbles his already shaky resolve of continuing to hold firm. For a mere second, his arms bend, elbows tipping just slightly, as the heaviness of his contemplation outweighs the burden that lounges on his spine.
For one euphoric moment, the sensation of releasing the weight, of giving into it, is blinding. There is relief in that one second, his joints groaning with the slight alleviation of the concrete and steel that hinders him. His shoulders relax, the exhilaration of giving up and letting it consume him so tasteful and wondrous that he readies his arms to collapse. To just- let go. To see what true freedom feels like.
Just a little further. A little further, and he’d be with May. Uncle Ben. His parents. He’d be with them all.
“Peter? Can you hear me?”
And Peter wants to weep at hearing that voice because he was so close. He was nearly there. He could practically see the light everyone spoke of, the darkness around him lifting. And yet. And yet. And yet.
“Peter, please, answer me. Say something. Anything! Are you okay? Shit, of course you’re not, but, kid, you gotta say something. Where are you? Let me help you, and after that we’ll have a nice chat on why you don’t go into falling buildings, alright?”
Of course it’s Mister Stark. It’s always Mister Stark, coming to save the day and offer aid. It conflicts Peter, this immense desire of his to abandon this place overwhelming, but the call of his mentor keeping him still.
“FRIDAY, why isn’t he answering? I can see his heartbeat on the screen; I know he’s alive. Why won’t he say anything?”
“It appears he has bitten off a portion of his tongue. That may be why, Boss.”
Mister Stark curses and says something else, but Peter can feel his arms shaking, his elbows creaking, and knows that now is the time for that final decision. He’s only got two options. 50/50. A toss of a coin. He’s got a choice to make. He doesn’t know what to choose.
Isn’t that awful? He’s lost everything and everyone he’s ever held dear. He’s let down Queens. He’s failed as a superhero. He might even be a murderer. He’s a disappointment. He-
“Hey, Pete, I know you can’t talk right now, and it’s gotta suck being under all that, but hang in there, alright? Hold on a little longer. We’re coming to get you out. Hold on.”
Peter’s eyes sting from their lack of moisture, the emotion pulling at his sockets singing desperately for a way out. He has no tears and no voice to provide an escape, the breathy wheezes that fall from his open mouth all that leaves him, but he knows. He knows.
He doesn’t have a choice, does he? Spider-Man never really did after all.
Peter’s arms tremble and strain, the enormous effort he’s giving exploding white and black spots in his head, but he does it. He straightens his arms and locks them, his elbows protesting, the euphoria dissipating. He is well aware of the consequences of his actions, the object that had decided to make its home in his lower abdomen shifting and twisting.
It is agonizingly beautiful, this brief reprise of feeling. His mind is torn at the thought process he’s gone through in the span of a few seconds, ready to give it all up for a possibility that may not even exist and then right back to wanting to live again. It might not even be his urge to live, but his intense need to not let anyone else down.
If Mister Stark wanted him to ‘Hold on’, he would. It feels as if he is holding up the entire world on his shoulders and back, but if Mister Stark told him to stay here and hold it above his head, Peter would only ask for how long.
He did not deserve this chance, but he was going to take it.
It’s a mountain. A literal mountain.
He doesn’t really understand why, or for that matter how, but the deconstructed building before him has accumulated into one enormous pile. It’s as high as it is wide, the tons upon tons of rubble and broken materials almost stacked like jenga. It should have dispersed, should’ve spread as it collapsed, but it fell as if there was an empty space below ground, a hole just waiting for it to succumb into.
Somewhere in the mess, somewhere beneath the weight of at least four stories, was Peter. Trapped. Being crushed. Maybe even dying.
Tony’s heart stutters at the thought, his own claustrophobia clawing its way up his throat, and there’s a phantom pain in his chest as if the shrapnel is still lodged in there. Just looking at the destruction before him makes his mouth dry, beads of sweat trickling down his face as his AI assesses the damage. It’s pure. Complete. Total destruction. There is not one portion of the hospital that is left standing or unscathed. Even the parking garages have been demolished, the security gates left in twisted and deformed states.
Overhead, he can hear helicopters circling, the blades loud and annoying. In the distance, there’s a multitude of different alarms and sirens, all converging onto the hospital. He may be imagining it, but he thinks he might be hearing screams. Wails. Shrieks. Cries. It’s all possible, it might not be even there, not even real, but Tony doesn’t see why it shouldn’t be.
There’s a certain taste in the air. A flavor. An almost dark sweetness. It’s thick and heavy on his tongue, and even as Tony licks his lips, he can feel the residue of it. It’s grainy. Dry. Dusty. Maybe it’s all the concrete around him. It’s somehow seeped into his suit, through his face plate, and it’s all accumulating into his mouth to leave a layer of desolation.
It’s a combination of salty grief, tears barreling down peoples’ cheeks as they say goodbye. A mix of copper and tang, the blood that drips down their foreheads a splash of color in the dull atmosphere, gray and blank. It’s the taste of words that are left laying in their throats, stuck behind the shrouded and dark chasms of minds that are trying to process what’s going on around them, bodies and hearts stopped in time.
Suddenly, Tony is desperate for water to wash it all away.
There’s shuffling behind him, subtle lilts in stumbling footsteps, and Tony knows it’s Clint behind him. He comes to a stop just behind the suit, most likely aware of the simmering anger that’s inside the metal barrier. His legs are still sore, his entire body still begging for rest, but Clint knows that there is no time for that. Especially since they’ve run out of it.
“Tony,” he says, coming to stand beside him instead of behind, “I’m sorry.”
There’s no answer for a moment, the lifeless face of armor betraying nothing for the man inside it. The mechanical glow of the eye slits don’t waver, staring straight out as if not seeing anything at all.
“Me too.”
And, isn’t that the truth? A part of Tony recognizes that even if he’d never gotten involved with Peter, the kid would’ve still found a way to get himself involved in the mess that was the Avengers. That he would probably still be stuck under a hospital, dying, and probably worse off if he didn’t have the suit he did now. But Tony, ever the self-destructing and self-blaming person he has always been, still holds himself responsible for the situation. Still takes all the fault without a second thought.
He is sorry he ever met Peter Parker.
“Boss, scanning is complete.”
“Lay it on me, Fri. Tell me what you see.”
“Emlhurst is comprised of nine floors, all of which have been decimated. All water and electricity running through the building was cut off shortly before complete collapse, so there aren’t any explosions or pipe bursts to worry about.”
“Did you get that?” Tony asks into the comms, well aware that everyone can hear what his AI says.
“Yeah, no dramatics to worry about to sum it up,” Sam chimes in, still somewhere in the sky. “I never saw the suspect Spider-Man mentioned, but the cops have a couple people detained. I’m going to land to check it out.”
“Tony, are there any survivors in your sector?” Steve questions. “We’ve pulled out a few over here, but it’s not looking good.”
Tony is afraid to say that yes, there is a survivor, but he doesn’t know how much longer until he has a corpse instead.
“I have detected about seven heat signatures, although most are buried underneath rubble in the upper floors. There is another on the fourth floor, but the signature is weak and-”
“Yep, got it, Fri. Thanks. Barton, you up for some lifting?”
His voice is out of place, far too cheerful and high for the situation, but Clint takes it in stride.
“Only if you do most of it,” he says easily enough, looping an arm around the shoulders of the suit as it takes off and brings them to the top of the mountain of broken hospital. “This isn’t going to collapse again, right? No intense shifting while we’re up here?”
“FRIDAY?”
“The structure is stable for now, so no, there should be ‘no intense shifting’ that you could create with your combined weight. I will let you know of any weakness in the areas you move towards.”
“Alright, where do we start?”
“There are two heat signatures directly below you, about five feet down. Remove anything you need to get out the way very carefully. Though it is unlikely you will encounter instability, it is better to remain cautious.”
“Right, gotcha. Barton, stand back.”
His repulsors whine and a laser bursts out from his gauntlet, slowly cutting away the slabs of stone and metal. Tony is trying his best to keep his hands steady, but the gnawing guilt and worry inside of him has his mind preoccupied. Desperately, he wants to go search for the kid. It’s almost an instinct to seek him out first, but Tony knows it would be fruitless. He can’t just get to the fourth floor without going through the rest, and the thought forces him to increase his frantic cutting.
Within a couple minutes, he’s managed to carve his way through four feet and stands back to allow Clint to finish the rest, watching as he pulls away pieces of debris until the first face appears. Their eyes are closed, there’s blood covering a portion of their face, but they seem to be breathing.
“There’s a kid down here too,” Clint says, struggling to maneuver the woman out of the hole. “A boy.”
Tony stoops down without being asked, shining a light directly into the hole as he looks around for the boy. When he finally spots him, the boy is curled up into a fetal position, arms wrapped securely around his head. He’s wearing a hospital gown, a plastic band wrapped around one if his skinny wrists as he shields himself away from the light. The boy is awake, eyes wide and betraying his fear. He has brown eyes.
It unnerves Tony, and he forces himself to flip up his face plate in a show of goodwill.
“Hey there, buddy. Let’s get you out of there and then you’ll get to tell all your friends you met Ironman. How does that sound?”
The boy doesn’t respond, but Tony takes his silence as a good thing when he doesn’t protest to being lifted out. There aren’t any visible injuries on him as far as Tony can tell, but he’s gentle anyhow, slowly handing him over to Clint when he returns. There are already cars and some people gathered at the base of the mound of the building, medical personnel on standby. As soon as Clint leaves, Tony fires up his repulsors once more and takes the chance to talk to Peter again.
A private link has been established with Spider-Man.
“Hey, bud,” he whispers into his comm. “I’m on my way. I know it must be scary down there, but you’re doing great, I promise. Hold on a little longer. Can you do that for me?”
His only response is silence followed by an occasional wheeze. Tony’s heart hurts. It feels like someone is squeezing it.
“How’s he doing, Fri? What’s… What’s the status?”
“I’m afraid it’s not good, Boss. Are you sure you want to hear it?”
“Will Pete be able to hear any of it?”
“Not if you don’t want him to.”
Tony debates for a second. Should the kid know? Will hearing his injuries aloud worsen his state? Is he already aware enough to assess the damage? Tony doesn’t know, the kid’s inability to talk impacting everything. No, he won’t take the chance. Not now, at least.
“Just keep it between us. It’s just not, yeah, just don’t, please.”
“Understood, Boss.”
She pauses, like she is also debating the decision to tell her creator the full extent of everything, but she is a good program. Tony designed her himself after all. FRIDAY has no faulty wiring; just programmed with emotion. A humanness, if you will. Which, looked at in the wrong way, could be faulty.
“When the building collapsed, Spider-Man’s suit took some damage. Currently there are no readings for the back portion of the suit, nor the lower half where the abdomen is located. However, it can be assumed because the suit is so severely damaged in those areas, those parts of the body are also impacted as well.”
“So, what are you saying? Peter’s back is hurt? Like, lacerated or-”
“His spine has most likely taken a detrimental blow and has the possibility of breaking. The rest of his skeletal structure is also likely compounded from supporting the immense amount of weight on top of him. The pressure, even if not entirely direct, has the potential to fracture and completely break Spider-Man’s skeleton.”
Tony halts, stumbling a bit as he processes what was just relayed to him. His repulsors die out, the suit going temporarily limp as he lets his arms fall in their efforts.
Peter’s bones are supporting this entire thing? His damn spine is breaking? God, what if, what if he becomes paralyzed? What if he’s not even functioning? Those are the best case scenarios though, and Tony thinks his head is splitting in half as he tries to calculate exactly how much weight is resting on top of the kid right now. When he can’t do it, he asks FRIDAY.
“On a rough estimate, Spider-Man is holding up about 56,000 tons. However, accounting for surface area and some of the support structures of the building, it may-”
Tony’s already drowned her out though, the number ringing in his head. He can’t even fathom how large that number is, the evidence of the volume and sheer size of it beneath his feet. Not to mention he couldn’t even begin to understand exactly how much that weighed, and yet the kid, his kid, was having it rest against his own spine. His spine.
“Stop. Stop,” he demands, wanting nothing more than to sit down and have a drink. “I get it. Is there anything else? Anything worse?”
Tony isn’t even sure how he can ask a question like that. Worse. How could the kid have anything worse happen to him? What even could be worse than having 56,000 tons on top of you?
“No, there is nothing worse.”
“You, fuck, you said the lower half of his suit wasn’t working either. Why?”
“As mentioned earlier, it’s hard to say specifically because of the fact that the suit is not working. However, I believe something has pierced through it. It is not currently life threatening as there is no immediate concern of extreme blood loss, but if not removed, there is a possibility of fatality.”
“Something is i nside of him? He’s been impaled?”
“That is what I believe, Boss. There may be internal bleeding, but for now, he should be stable. Other than that, his other injuries are not as severe. Spider-Man has bitten through a portion of his tongue, but that can be healed. Additionally, he has minor lacerations on his legs and may have a concussion.”
God, the list just kept getting longer. There seemed to be no end to the amount of wounds and hurt the kid seemed to be going through. It was a wonder he was even breathing at this point.
“How,” Tony swallows, the words lodged in place, “How much time do I have, Fri? How much longer can he hold on?”
“I’m sorry, Boss. I don’t know. Spider-Man’s healing process is helping him stay alive, but the rate at which it is working is slowing down significantly. He has not eaten in over fourteen hours, which damages the speed at which he can recover. In short, he has very little time left.”
“Shit.”
“Everything all right up there?” Clint shouts from below, cupping his hands around his mouth. “Why’d you stop?”
Startled, Tony turns his head to look down the pile he stands on, seeing the numerous amounts of people that now stood at the base. Vans, ambulances, police cars, news broadcasters; they were all looking at him. He’d forgotten he was supposed to be actively cutting through the steel, cutting downwards to free the trapped survivors. He was supposed to be doing something.
He turns away, gauntlet reforming as the laser shoots out once more.
“The next signature is approximately 13 feet down. You’ll need to clear a wider area in order to reach them.”
Tony grunts, knowing that getting through each floor was going to take a lot of time. More time than he’d like. More time than he had to spare.
“FRIDAY, I’m going to need you to call in a couple of the suits.”
“Which ones would you like?”
“The Big Ones.”
“Understood, Boss.”
“Hold on a little longer. Can you do that for me?”
Peter wants to answer. Desperately so. He wants to lie and say, “Yes, of course, Mister Stark!” But he also wants to tell the truth and say, “No, no, I’m sorry, I can’t. It feels like I’m dying. I think I’m dying.”
His mouth won’t work. No matter how hard he tries to form a word and force it out, it just won’t budge. When Mister Stark stops talking, Peter can feel his eyes straining again, yet another instance of the urge to cry breaking through.
Please, keep talking, he begs inside his head. Don’t stop; I’m listening, I swear.
He is in pain. So much pain. It was better when he was only half conscious, the unbearability of his situation not having sunk in. His arms and legs don’t even shake under the pressure, the weight that pushes him down keeping them straight and stiff. His shoulders feel like they’re breaking, his knees being splintered and shoved deeper and deeper into the ground. His wrists are on fire, the burning plague that keeps spreading farther and farther along his body killing him.
Peter can’t even feel his back, hasn’t been able to since he woke up, and he hasn’t decided if that was a good thing or an extremely bad thing. He can, however, feel the object currently wedged between where he guesses is his bladder and whatever else was down there. Something warm and wet soaks his crotch area, and Peter is mortified to think that he may have wet himself. At the moment, he’s having a hard time distinguishing smells, the pounding in his head and the overall aching agony that covers him distracting his other senses, so he can’t tell if the slick wetness that is trickingly up towards his chest is urine or blood.
He can’t decide which would be worse seeing as if he did wet himself, it was entirely involuntary and that might mean dealing with a punctured bladder. At the same time, bleeding out wasn’t exactly ideal. He can almost hear the obituary now;
‘Here lies Peter Parker, who died in his own piss. The smell will not be missed.’
The thought makes him giggle, the sound gravely and not at all like a laugh. He wonders if it’s at least a good thing he can still find humor in his situation or if it’s just an omen to how bad things truly were.
The mask is stifling, his own breath hot and gross inside it. The air he breathes in is stale, and although the layer of protection around his nose helps filter the worst of it, Peter still feels like dust is slowly piling up in his lungs. Each intake is a moment of his chest rising and falling, and each one of those movements is painful beyond words. His ribcage expands, and it feels like it explodes every time, his lungs becoming far too big and consuming for his chest.
No, stop, Peter tells himself. Can’t spiral. Think of other things. Things.
His thoughts are becoming jumbled, not exactly full sentences, but at least he’s aware. Yes, he’s still awake against all odds. That’s positive. All he has to do is think positive. Easy. It could be worse after all. Mister Stark could’ve never said anything at all and he really would’ve become a smushed spider.
No, Mister Stark said squashed. Like the vegetable. Squashed spider.
He giggles again, happy with this connection of his. He was doing it! He was thinking positive. Yes, optimism. Saving the day. Friendly Neighborhood Optimism.
Wait. He’s thinking like a four year old. God, he’s actually going insane. He can’t process his own head anymore. Nothing is making sense.
A wave of vertigo suddenly hits Peter, the dizzying effect sending his sense of direction spinning. For a moment, he’s lost, confused of which way is up and which way is down. The world becomes warped, no longer just pitch blackness, but a swirl of colors he never knew existed. He squeezes his eyes shut in an effort to block it out, but the wheels follow him, stars exploding and blinding him. There’s a fantastic moment where he thinks he might actually be screaming, raw and pure sound ripping from his throat, but even as he thinks this he knows it can’t be true. Try as he might, he can feel something seeping past his lips, dripping and rolling down his chin and falling onto his hands. His teeth, his jaw, his neck, his head, they all carry this throbbing acuteness that just won’t leave or go away.
When the twisting confusion ends, Peter wants to vomit. His stomach rolls and churns in agreement, a burning fire building, but he swallows it back. Mister Stark told him to hold on. He said he was coming. That he was on his way. Peter could wait just a bit longer. It was just a matter of who would win the waiting game. He could do this. He could do this.
Just a bit longer. Just a bit further.
Please, Mister Stark. I can’t do this.
When his other suits arrive, The Big Ones as he’s so lovingly named them, time goes by faster. They make quick work of dismantling any in the way structures, helping to dig deeper into the destroyed building. The heavier duty suits, one of them almost the size of the Hulk Buster, takes care of supporting the extra weight they encounter, setting up stabilizing beams.
Once in a while, FRIDAY will inform him of the weight they’ve alleviated from the floors downward. It slowly amasses, but it’s not enough. They are still well in the 40,000 range by the time they’ve reached the sixth floor, but it does bring Tony some small comfort to take away the tons he can.
Admittedly, his anxiety has only increased the further they’ve dug into the debris. He’s terrified of what he might find when he finally gets to Peter, not knowing if it will be a bashed but coherent spider or a paralyzed one. His head hurts thinking about that.
Tony’s kept an eye on the heart monitor on his screen, watching as it rises and falls, picking up pace occasionally and then dropping just as fast. The fluctuations worry him immensely, knowing just how bad heart problems could be. Once in a while, he’ll hear a noise come from Peter’s side of the comm link and his own heart will start beating rapidly, hoping beyond hope to hear the kid say something.
Each time though, it’s just the rattling wheeze from the poor boy’s lungs, hallucination induced spouts of nonsensical grunts and whines. Tony wonders if the kid’s even aware enough to realize he’s making these noises or if he’s just too out of it to even think about what he’s doing. KAREN, or whatever the AI’s name was, hasn’t been responding to FRIDAY’s repeated attempts at establishing a connection, so they can only assume the AI is completely out of commission.
Tony’s pissed to say the least. Pissed and stressed beyond words.
“There is another heat signature on the fourth floor. All other survivors in upper levels have been removed safely. Approximately 30 feet down will lead you to the fourth floor.”
“Nice, last one,” Clint chimes in, his smile more of a grimace as he watches the Ironman suit fire up once more. The accompanying suits around him creep the archer out, the lifelessness in their movements somewhat startling compared to the one with an actual person in it.
The suits, about eight of them, have done a good job of holding up and maintaining the hole they’ve dug for themselves. Literally. About 65 feet upwards are multiple lights, illuminating the rather large hole they stand at the bottom of. It’s claustrophobia inducing, but Clint has familiarized himself with small places over the years. Places like vents. A second home, as one would call it.
Tony doesn’t respond to his comment, and Clint can’t say he blames him for it. This last “target”, so to speak, is probably the most important one. The one the man in the suit has been so anxious to get to. He’s said very little about Spider-Man’s condition, only including the little details that he was alive, conscious, but injured. The status of all those variables, however, has not been updated recently.
The team is aware that Spider-Man is young. They don’t know how young, and despite Steve’s urging to reveal his true nature and identity, Tony has remained tight lipped about it. Either way, all the Avengers, rogue and current, know that Spider-Man holds a very special place in the mechanic’s heart. They aren’t sure of the extent, whether it is more of a mentor mentee relationship or something deeper, but they all know not to poke at it.
“Any updates on the perps?” Clint asks into the comms, not keen on keeping the stoic silence.
“Yes and no,” Steve sighs. “The suspects were just some bystanders in the wrong place at the wrong time. The police are working on gathering some footage from other buildings in the area to see if they can spot whoever was on the roof before the collapse. They’re doubtful of seeing anything though.”
“What about casualties? Do we have a number on that yet?”
“So far, seven are dead and there are about twenty one injured,” Natasha recounts, voice monotone. “The staff are still taking a head count, the numbers are most likely inaccurate, but the damage isn’t as bad as it could’ve been. The five minute heads up from Spider-Man gave people extra time to spread the word.”
“Yeah, I'm still wrapping my head around that,” Sam says. “How’d he know? Is he, I don’t know, clairvoyant? Dude mentioned something about a ‘sense’ of his.”
“It’s a sixth sense. It goes off when there’s danger or something bad coming.”
Tony’s voice startles the team, not having heard a word from him since he began carving the hole. There’s an off lilt of pride in his voice, as if the mutant sense of the younger hero is something of his own design and creation.
“So, what? It’s like a danger beacon?” Sam continues, not one to be thrown easily.
“You could call it that,” Tony mumbles. “Kid calls it his ‘Spidey-Sense’.”
Sam barks out a laugh and it seems to ease the tension for the time being. Relaxed would be one word that wouldn’t describe their situation, but it does lessen the stress, if only but a fraction of it. In a place where laughter shouldn’t be found, it was nice to hear it. Nice to hear something other than shaky inhales and choked cries. They’ve all had enough of that. Enough to last a lifetime.
“Four more feet, Boss.”
“Barton, get ready,” Tony demands, his heart rate rising.
This was it. He was going to get the kid. The suits were holding up what they could and he had another that would take Peter’s place momentarily whilst Clint pulled him out. They would barely have a few seconds to do it, but if they could pull it off and switch them fast enough, all would be well. The suit would be crushed, reduced to nothing but twisted metal, but that would be the furthest thing from Tony’s mind.
He was going to get the kid. He was going to get Peter.
Peter would be safe.
“I’m coming, buddy,” Tony whispers into the private line. “I’m almost there. We’re going to pull you out of there, and we’ll get you taken care of. You’re going to be okay. Hold on, Peter. Hold on, I’m almost there.”
It’s supposed to reassure the kid, but Tony feels like he’s saying it more for himself.
“Two feet left, Boss. Be cautious in this area, as there is a steel beam that may hinder removing them.”
“Got it, got it,” Tony says, almost in a trance as he watches his laser cut through material. “Steel beam, got it. Barton?”
“Yeah, got it. I’m ready, don’t worry. We’ll get him out of there; it’s what we do.”
“Right, right, it’s what we do,” Tony repeats, his breath hitching. “It’s what we do.”
“Breaching in three, two, one-”
It happens like lightning, but suddenly there’s an opening and Clint is lunging forwards and Tony’s repulsor is dying out and one of the suits is compacting and getting ready to make the switch and everyone is holding their breaths as they wait and then…. nothing.
All Tony can do is stare at the dark opening where the archer and the suit disappeared into.
“What’s going on?” Steve urges. “Report.”
“It’s, um,” Clint replies shakily, “It’s a lady. It’s not Spider-Man.”
“What?” Tony breathes, his stomach plummeting. “What do you mean it’s not Spider-Man?”
“I, shit, I think I recognize her. I’m bringing her up. Her legs look broken and she’s unconscious, but I think she’s alive.”
“Barton,” Tony seethes, his irritation and constant uncertainty making him irrational. “What do you mean it’s not Spider-Man? Answer me! What do you-”
His next words die on his tongue though as Clint reappears, a blood and dust covered face appearing next to his shoulder. Their hair is disheveled, the glasses are missing, and the darkness shadowing her face obscures her identity. But there is no doubt in Tony’s mind.
He is staring into the face of May Parker.