Spider-Son & Iron Dad two shots

When It Rains (It Pours)

Spooktober 04: Sweat

⚠️TW: Blood, Canon-Typical Gun Violence⚠️

So far, October's been breezy. Peter means this literally. New York has been welcoming autumn in for the year with crisp breezes and enough rain to clog up the drains with trash runoff from all different boroughs, and Peter is once again relearning the value of those little hot-packs that he can stuff in his socks.

As far as patrols go, he can't exactly complain. As the days get shorter, the sun setting sooner, he's used to an influx of crime in all the dark corners of his city. After all, New York never sleeps. It's in the tagline, and that old song by Frank Sinatra.

Peter deals with it as he always does-- patrols get a little longer, and he keeps his ear sharp for the police intercom, and he lingers around some of the more notorious places of violence, if for nothing else than to remind any baddies that he's still hanging around.

"Put your hands in the air! Do you hear me? Now! I'll shoot you! I've got a gun!"

Peter's night has, objectively, not been great. 

He's come to terms with the fact that sometimes, this is how the job just ends up working out. It's normal until it's not. It's fine until it's not. He's okay until he's not. There's not much he can do about it other than use the gazillion preventive measures Tony sets up in the suit itself, and the ones he's picked up solely from experience.

He'll dodge the punches he can, he'll jump over bullets when he's able, he'll- God, his head hurts. What was he talking about?

A shrill scream, torn out of the throat of a teenager that he doesn't know.

The gun goes off with a flash, a startled noise as the offender realizes his arm has been wrenched upwards. The bullet casing skidded across the brick wall above and clamored back down with the ringing sound of a bell. 

"Hey, buddy!" Spider-Man greeted pleasantly. "This is a big-boy weapon, so I'm gonna have to take this away from you, alright? Thank you!"

Peter coughed, stumbling. His hands reach out uselessly in front of him, trying to stabilize on something, anything, but his vision is swimming-- he ended up tripping into a pole. 

He probably looked drunk. He wasn't drunk. He doesn't even think he could get drunk, even if he wanted to, which he didn't, because he isn't old enough to drink. His face screwed up like he tasted something sour, remembering the brief meeting he had with Liz's parents nearly two years ago now.

And there was something, huh? That was forever ago it seemed like. 

He heaved a pained sigh, because he was getting distracted again and he knew that. It was just, his side was wet and sticky, and it sort of felt like his guts and other various innards were spilling out against his pressed hand, and he felt vaguely sick. As fun as stumbling down a street looking like a drunk sounds, it really would tarnish Spider-Man's reputation, so it's a good thing he left his--

Peter looked down, his head lopping over like a stuffed animal's. He sees only the rumpled fabric of his hoodie. "Oh no," he moaned.

"You little bastard," the offender spat out, saliva spritzing through his teeth and hitting the lenses of his mask. "You may be able to fight all those other guys, but not me. I don't have enough to lose. Say, how much do you think that suit is worth?"

"You can stop monologuing now, dude," Spider-Man sighed. He webbed him to the wall, rolling his eyes at the angered shouts resulting from it. He turned to the other teenager. "Hey, you okay? You hurt or anything, man?"

The teenager looked shellshocked. They were younger than he was, probably only a freshman. Spider-Man felt a rush of disgust at the man webbed up behind him. 

There was a special place in prison for guys that picked on what were essentially children, he thought distantly. Then he faltered on his feet. 

He's staring at the teenager in front of him, and for the first time, saw the youth for what it was. Saw himself, just as small, just as innocent, stepping up to things bigger than he was. With a crushing weight, he realized he was out here so there wouldn't be any more of himself. 

"Mr. Stark's gonna kill me," Peter sniffled, his face crumbled with guilt. "I don't have millions of dollars..."

His head lolled around as he looked around the empty street hopelessly. He made a despairing sound. "I don't even know where it is."

Actually, he doesn't even know why he's here in the first place. He must have had a purpose, a reason why he was walking. First he was swinging, and then he had to stop, and he must have had to black out or... or something... and... 

Well, now he's in Midtown, just around the block from his school, and his house seemed so far away. He probably wouldn't make it to Queens. He definitely wouldn't make it to Queens. He couldn't remember for the literal life of him why he's walking to school.

A wave of nausea hit him again, and he became acutely aware of the layers of cold sweat dripping down the back of his neck. He's so tired. He wanted to go to bed. He just wanted to not be a superhero for the night, and then he would be okay, maybe.

"You just saved my life," the teenager gasped. Their chest was heaving, and they leaned over on their knees, draping their head down. "Oh my god. I almost just died, and you just saved my life. I almost just died."

"Breathe," Spider-Man instructed calmly. "I know, that must have been pretty scary. But you're okay now, right? I'm gonna walk you home, or I can walk you to the police station, whichever you want."

The teen nodded frantically, continuing to look down and catch their breath. Peter understood, letting them take a second to process. The first time he'd escaped death had him on an adrenaline kick so bad he pulled an all-nighter, and he spent the entirety of it shaking under a blanket and staring at a wall.

Peter walked over to crouch next to them, and just as he stepped, his senses went on the fritz. He moved without thinking then, pulling the teenager out of the way from the incoming threat.

So, funny story. Turns out baddie number one had a best friend. Figures.

Spider-Man shot the web first, knocking the other guy to the ground from the impact of it, and then realized the conundrum he had gotten himself into.

Conundrum being: a giant freaking pocketknife in his freaking left side.

Peter wiped the sweat from his forehead and trudged forward. He should probably be doing something right now. His arms and legs are shaking so badly he's wondering why he isn't falling over with every step. He needed to find help. He needed to call help.

He patted down his pockets, and found a distinctive lack of phone. Which made sense. Somewhere in his blood-loss-addled brain, he could understand that surely before-Peter would have called someone earlier if he had the option. That just meant now-Peter he was frankly shit out of luck. 

He's just outside the school though, wasn't he? He could break in, theoretically. Use the phone inside. Mix his apologies with his pleads for help and just wager his life that Tony will show up in time. 

Peter's eyes flicker, his vision twisting and turning in patterns of black and white. He made a sound of displeasure, and made toward the front doors. It was all he had. He could ask Ned to wipe the footage later.

Even with his weakened strength, he's able to shove the door open, the lock breaking off to the floor. The jolt the movement took made him dizzy, and he's...

...

The phone is...

No, his ears  are ringing, and he's...

...

He's called someone by now, right? There's blood on his fingers, on the desk, on the...

...

His body is so heavy. His eyelashes are so heavy. The phone is so...