Summary: After Peter gets stabbed clean through, he knows he can’t let May see. His genius plan? Sneak into his best friend’s apartment and clean himself up. The problem?
It’s the wrong apartment.
Enter Tony Stark, the ex-CEO that disappeared off the face of the earth three years ago, armed with his handy little first aid kit, custom made coffee machine, and witty anecdotes.
Somehow, the breaking in becomes a habit.
Prompt: Hurt/Comfort ALSO AYYYYY I FINALLY GOT A BINGO
–o0o–
Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit.
Peter’s running, or trying to run, down an alley, fingers pressing into the bleeding gash in his leg. He winces with every step, the searing pain robbing him of any coherent thoughts. Behind him, he can hear the gang chasing him get closer. He pants harder, choking as he pushes himself further. He has to get out of here.
There are spots dancing around the edges of his vision.
Peter turns the corner. Stops for just a second, takes stock of his surroundings. He looks up, sees a familiar café and suddenly knows exactly where he is. Harry’s place is here. Just a block down. He can make that. He can make that block.
He knows it’s a bad idea as soon as he starts limping his way over. Harry’s only known he’s Spiderman for a month or so and he probably, totally, definitely isn’t ready for any of this. But Peter’s desperate and tired and hurt and Harry’s place is the only one without parents considering…well.
Peter grits his teeth. He can do this. He has to do this. Just until he regroups. He just needs a place to stitch himself up and just lie down for a bit. Just a bit.
Finally, The Juliana comes into view and Peter can almost cry with relief. He can’t be seen walking inside as Spiderman, especially not a bleeding mess of a Spiderman, so he sticks to the side, climbing his way up slowly. He tries to remember the inside of Harry’s apartment to pick out the view. He’s pretty sure it was south-facing and had a view of the Mill Crest towers from a slightly higher angle.
Peter groans, the wind wailing behind him. He crawls to what he thinks is the appropriate floor number, yeah, number forty-three, and just stares at the row of balconies before perking up. Yes! That one! Yes! With nothing in it.
He flips over the bannister, trying to land on his good leg. The blood pounds in his ears and he stumbles his way over to the glass door. God his head hurts. It pounds like soldiers marching over war-torn earth and he feels something sick bubble at the top of his throat. He presses his forehead against the glass, tries to take deep breaths. He just has to get inside. He just has to get in.
The door is locked but that’s pretty irrelevant considering he could pry it open with just his pinky. With one sharp tug, the door pulls free from its lock, sliding smoothly out of his way. The apartment looks as unsentimental and unlived in as it always does, though there’s something different about it. It’s like the orientation of everything’s been flipped. The kitchen’s at the wrong side, the couches facing the opposite way. But that makes no sense. That makes no sense at all.
Swaying now, the exhaustion creeps up on him and he falls, catching himself at the last second so he can land on the couch. His blood seeps into the fabric. It’s such a nice grey. But Peter feels bad for only a second before the pain steals all his thoughts away. He breathes hard. He can’t breathe. God he can’t breathe. He tugs off the mask, throwing it to the side. His eyelids flutter. He shouldn’t have done what he did tonight. That was dumb. So dumb.
He wishes he was with May.
Peter’s eyes shut. He can’t even say he fell asleep. He just lost all conscious thought.
When he wakes up, there’s a blanket thrown atop of him and the smell of coffee permeating the apartment. Peter’s nose scrunches, his eyes determined to stay shut but his mind urging him to wake. There’s a dull pain in his leg and his ribs are sore and there’s definitely a bruise on his face, but he feels better than he did before he knocked out. Feels alive. Not on the brink of dying a stupid, unnecessary death.
He groans, rubbing at his eye and moving the blanket to see that his thigh wound has been washed and dressed. Peter blinks. There’s no way Harry did this. Harry was a lot of things, but a healthcare connoisseur wasn’t one of them. Did he call Ned? MJ? Oh God he hopes he didn’t. But then who-
“Morning Spiderman.” an unfamiliar voice greets and Peter squeaks, gripping the blanket around him like he was in a PG-13 sex scene.
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