Chapter 1
The fist connects to Peter’s face with shocking force, sending the young vigilante careening backwards into a pile of garbage. He lands, sprawled among the waste of an overfilled alleyway dumpster. It’s soft and wet and the smell is reminiscent of that one time MJ’s miniature poodle mix had diarrhea in Peter’s Vans.
It’s thoroughly disgusting and Peter can feel the thick blood running down his chin underneath his mask. His nose is probably broken, and it’s tender, but Peter’s definitely had worse. Either way, he doesn’t have the luxury or the time to nurse his injuries when there’s a gun being fired inches above his head.
His eyes widen and he rolls out of the bullet’s path without a moment to spare. It hits him right above the ear. It’s hot and he can feel the skin splitting open and the mask tearing, but Karen is quick to reassure him it’s just a surface wound.
“You have a superficial graze on the side of your scalp,” She informs him, “The wound is relatively minor and not life threatening, although I recommend you abandon any physically intensive activity before blood loss inhibits your ability to fight.”
“Thanks, Karen.” He’s not going to abandon anything. Peter is a fighter, and he finishes what he starts. He snatches the gun before the guy can react, and throws it in with the garbage.
Already, there are three or four men webbed up in varying parts of the alleyway. They had been threatening a girl barely older than Peter himself, holding the gun to her head while they told her to strip.
The girl is long gone, she had run the moment Spider-Man dropped in, hopefully headed towards a police station or a busier street. The man that Peter is fighting now is the last guy standing, the ringleader.
“You know what’s sexier than guns and harassment?” Peter asks, as he prepares himself for a high kick towards the guy’s face. He’s going to make contact the moment he says “Consent,” but instead he finds his left leg twitching.
It’s completely unexpected, and the leg collapses under him. For obvious reasons, the kick doesn’t land it’s mark. Instead, Peter’s left on his probably-bruised tailbone, as his left leg continues to kick without him commanding it to.
He needs potassium- he’s never spasmed like this before and it’s entirely uncomfortable, but it’s not enough to keep him from standing back up.
And then, while he’s still trying to gain control of the seizing limb, the guy is lunging for him again. This time he’s holding a knife, and Peter is just a little bit too slow.
The blade pierces his shoulder. It doesn’t go far- he can feel it scraping between his ribs and his clavicle without enough force to punch through. Peter probably has way more experience with stab wounds than any fifteen year old should, but it means that he knows he’ll be okay. His shoulder will hurt like hell for a few days, but it’s not deep and he won’t bleed out, so that’s all fine.
He shouldn’t be losing a fight though, not against some low-level jackasses. But he’s starting to feel lightheaded and he’s bleeding too fast, and he has to end it. It takes one well-aimed hit to the groin to make the guy drop. He webs the last man up, and leaves a note for the police, trying to ignore the splattering of blood on paper.
Man, he’s dizzy. He needs to patch himself up, but if he goes to Mr. Stark, the man’ll call Aunt May. If he crawls in through his best friend’s window, Ned is going to freak out. And Ned freaking out is almost as bad as May freaking out, so Peter can’t go there either. It’s not bad enough that he has to break into MJ’s apartment and reveal his secret to her, so Peter really has no choice but to get himself home.
Swinging around is surprisingly painful, but then again there’s a stab wound in his chest. He grits his teeth and fights through it, ultimately landing next to his unlocked bedroom window with blood matting his hair and running down his side.
He has a first aid kit hidden under his bed, he’d learned how to use it early on in his career. The internet is insanely useful, and he still directs himself with YouTube videos when he’s out of practice in stitching.
He can’t stay in his room for this one though, he’s got to stitch up his own head, and there’s no way he can see that without a mirror. There’s no sign of May when he sneaks into the kitchen to grab paper towels, and there’s none when he locks himself in the bathroom.
“Ouch…” Peter hisses, more at the sight than the actual pain. It’s like somebody drew a quick, messy line in marker on the side of his head. The wound itself is ugly, raised and bumpy and dark red, but the surrounding area is worse. Clumps of his hair have been pulled out, and the bruising is colorful and large. There’s way more blood than he thought there would be, and it’s left a wide trail around and behind his ear, to his shoulder.
He’s sure it looks way worse than it actually is. Granted, it looks pretty bad. Peter grabs a washcloth, pours some isopropyl alcohol, and dabs at the wound. It stings, but by the time he’s done, it looks so much better. It’s probably only a centimeter or two thick, and it’s already begun scabbing over.
Which is really good. He won’t need to stitch it up after all. Gingerly, Peter rubs a dollop of neosporin over and around his temple. The bandage won’t adhere to his hair, so he has to grab a pair of scissors and trim it short. It’s not ideal, but it’s not the end of the world either. He’ll just have to wear a hat for a couple weeks.
The stab wound on his shoulder is way deeper. That one is definitely going to need some assistance. Peter, the wimp that he is, winces every time he pierces his own skin with the thin needle. This one isn’t long, just deep, and Peter closes it with only three sutures.
The rest of it is simple bruising and scrapes; superficial injuries that will probably be faded by morning.
All together, it’s not the worst night he’s ever had. It’s definitely not the best, and he certainly does not want to be awake at three in the morning on a Monday, but the vigilante life does require some trade-offs. He sets the alarm on his phone to six and crawls under his blankets.
He can feel his own blood staining the pillow as he falls asleep.