Summary: During a mission with the Avengers, Peter takes a nasty hit, slipping in and out of consciousness.
“Where’s the kid? Where’s the kid?”
“What the hell is that thing?”
Peter rubbed his forehead with the back of his hand, not registering that his mask had been blown off somehow. He groaned and rolled to his side, clutching his belly as he trembled. His entire body felt as if it were too easy to break and bend, his head pounded intensely.
His hearing returned first, he could faintly make out the team shouting behind him. Loud explosions, cursing from either side, a repulsor going on and off and on again. Pete winced, his ears quaking as all the sounds began to crescendo. Everything seemed to build, multiplying at an impossible rate.
Until silence. Pete hadn’t realized that he was in a fetal position, his still shaky hands clamped over his ears. He managed to open an eye, and then another.
Beneath him was silver cloth, pizza stains, and popcorn kernels beneath and around him. The floor was an old tile, shoes and socks littered over it.
Peter widened his eyes and sat up immediately. He blinked rapidly, and looked over his shoulder. A familiar face shared the couch, eating straight from a popcorn bag, a smirk on his face, shades hanging from the collar of his “May the Fourth be with You” tee.
“Uncle Ben?” the tears couldn’t help but be shed. “H-how? How are you here?” Peter embraced him, ignoring the pain in his head and body. Ben’s gentle hand rubbed Pete’s aching back.
“What happened to you, kiddo? You’ve got some nasty licks on you,” Ben held Pete by his chin, turning it side to side, and examined the bruised and bloodied profile of his nephew.
Peter couldn’t care less. He simply held Ben as long as he could, his weeping turned into a weak laugh as he looked up at his uncle.
“Is that Flash kid messing with you?” Ben sternly said. He frowned and took off his glasses, rubbing them clean. “I never liked him or his father.” He admitted, before placing his glasses back on.
“Come home,” Peter said in a single breath. “May misses you. I showed her a picture I found of you as a kid the other day and she went on about you for the rest of the night.” He explained, looking down for an instance. He hated seeing her in so much pain. He hated that even when he shared it, none of them seemed to get better.
“I’m already here, Peter.”
“Uncle Ben, you’re not. That’s the problem. You left too soon,” Peter croaked. “You never got to see how much everything changed around here.” He wiped his eyes. His lip quivered.
Ben got close to Peter. Inches apart.
“Pete,” Ben began. “I’m here.”
Peter gasped as his eyes flew open, his vision settled on a figure looming over him. He shook his head, the pain returning in a powerful wave. His stomach felt as if something had been forcefully ripped from within him. He held his hand up, dodging the bright light that shone over his eyes.
“Uncle Ben?” Peter slurred, leaning forward, squinting his eyes. He fell back and groaned in pain. He held his side and clenched his fist, the burning sensation only seemed to build higher and higher. The figure before him pushed him down gently by the shoulder.
“Easy kid, we’re taking you home. You just stay with me now. Can you do that?” Tony responded, trying to find the severity of the kid’s condition out. He scanned using the device in his wrist and read the projection and bit his lip, before getting ready to lift Peter.
“C-come home,” Peter whispered. His eyesight began to fail him once more. He blinked sluggishly. A meek groan escaped his lips as his body went limp. He watched as the collateral seemed to lose focus all around him. Even the sound of Tony begging him to keep his eyes open slipped further and further from Peter’s grasp.
Peter lifted his head from his pillow. He was met with May and Ben’s gentle smiles, a cake in their hands. Peter looked at the melted frosting which dripped onto May’s palms. Words etched into the cake read “Happy Birthday, Peter!”
“Oh, look at him. He’s all beaten and bruised, oh my boy!” May exclaimed. She dropped the cake onto Ben’s hands and shooed him out. “Go on, let me talk to him. Go on!”
Uncle Ben shrugged and stood up. He jokingly nearly slipped, pretending as if he were going to drop the cake on the ground. After May delivered a sour expression, Ben winked at Peter, before finally making his way out and shutting the door to his room. All that was left was a trail of red frosting on the less than clean floors.
“May it’s nothing,” he began. He sat upright, facing her directly. The weight of the bed felt lighter without both Ben and May sitting there… a feeling he knew all too well.
“Honey, you need to fight,” May spoke softly. She grabbed Peter’s hand, completely glossing over the suit he was wearing. “You have to fight because you’re a Parker. Parker’s get hit a lot. We get the worst luck, you know this.” She explained, eyes glued onto her nephew.
“But damn it, if we don’t quit,” she shook her head before pulling Peter into a hug. “Promise me you’ll keep fighting, sweetheart. You won’t let anything hold you back. Come home to me.”
Peter held her, hugging her only half as tight. He was lost for words. He shut his eyes, tears welling again. “Ben’s not coming back,” was all he could manage. He buried his face in May’s shoulders, letting it all out.
“I know,” May hushed him. “Just keep fighting.”
“Keep fighting, Pete, we’re almost home,” Mr. Stark’s voice was taut. He held down the wounds on Peter’s stomach with one hand, propped the back of his head with another.
Peter felt much weaker than before. He was fading quickly and he knew it. He lifted his hand, reaching for Tony, a tiny smile formed.
“There you are,” Tony sighed. Relief flooded over him. He wasn’t doing too well either. He looked as if he had taken on a pissed off raccoon in a fight and lost. Cuts and deep purple spots covered his face. He had a black eye and his nose had dried blood at its base.
It appeared as though they’d made it to the back of some vehicle. It was too bumpy, too muggy, too cramped, to be the jet. A large figure sat in the driver’s seat, a smaller figure in the passenger.
“Jesus, Steve, you trying to go over every pot hole?”
“There’s no road, Clint. Sorry this isn’t a luxury route,” Steve retorted, looking away from wherever it was they were driving through.
Tony rubbed the back of Peter’s head with his thumb, playing with the soft brown curls. The motion helped Peter relax some, despite the feeling that he was slipping, the pain had only grown worse.
“Everything h-hurts, Mr. Stark,” Peter whimpered softly. Each time he blinked, his eyes stayed shut for a moment longer.
“I know kid, but you’re doing great. Just give me all you got,” Tony reassured him. “Give me all you got.”
Peter closed his eyes to blink again, but did not find the strength to open them again.
Ben put his hands in the air. He turned slowly, peering over his shoulder cautiously. He dropped his bags, and slowly stepped away from the man who held him at gunpoint.
Peter stood behind him. He looked at the brick walls, the cold alley. The dumpster with spray paint splashed on its molded exterior. It was all the same. Peter knew this place. He looked at his Uncle.
“I said give me all you got! I-I won’t repeat myself, man!” The mugger cried out. He shook his revolver at Ben, panic pulled his voice thin.
Peter tugged on Ben. “Go.” He pleaded. Ben didn’t respond. Peter’s heart sank. His Uncle Ben couldn’t see him. He couldn’t hear him.
“Listen, I’ve got a kid. It’s his birthday. Let’s save us both the trouble,” Ben began. He flinched at the sound of the revolver cocking itself. He sighed and opened the jacket, reaching for his wallet.
A sharp shrill broke through, a woman witnessing the crime taking place.
Her panic was enough to make the mugger instinctively pull the trigger, not completely understanding what was taking place.
Peter fell to his knees as he tried catch Uncle Ben. He shook his head, shaking him and sobbing. Crying out his name.
“Don’t let me! Don’t leave, please!” Pete cried out, half shouting. “Don’t leave! You can’t leave!”
Peter shakily laid over the limp body of Ben. He knew it was too late. The red stain spreading quickly over the Star Wars shirt, his shades reflecting the empty alley, where he’d breathe his last breath alone. Ben was dead the instant he hit the ground, the coroner promised. But here he was, still gasping for breath, believing that of all things, he had just ruined his nephew’s birthday. His kid’s birthday.
Peter lifted his head, still gripping his uncle by the shirt. His eyes red with tears, face still carrying the weight of the battle his body was fighting in the real world. He inhaled sloppily, the type of inhale he’d breathe if he were in the midst of a break down. The type of inhale he would take in if he had forgotten what it meant to breathe.
“Pete, you’re okay,” Ben said, playing with his nephew’s curls. “You gotta keep fighting, champ. May’s right. It’s in your blood.”
“I’m so alone,” Pete whispered, covering his face as he held onto Ben tighter than before. “I don’t want to do this without you.”
“Wake up, Pete.” Ben gently prompted.
“Pete, it’s time,” Ben said, his eyes shutting.
“You told me to fight! Why can’t you fight? Why didn’t you?” Peter cried, refusing to listen to anything else. He couldn’t leave. He couldn’t stand this. He couldn’t bare to leave his uncle again. No. Not again.
“Peter. It’s time to wake up.”
Peter felt light. Weightless even. He went to touch his face when he noticed the IV in his hand. Floored, he looked to see pale blue sheets and an even paler room surrounding him. He winced as he attempted to sit upwards.
Peter turned and nearly broke from the sight of seeing Tony. The mentor smiled gently at Pete. He clearly had the worst cuts on his face stitched, the broken nose had been tended to, but the black eye remained.
Peter looked further down. Tony was wearing an old shirt. Pete could recognize the “May the Fourth be with You” tee anywhere.
“You dork. You scared me half to death,” Mr. Stark scolded, unable to hide the joy from his eyes. He shook his head and leaned back in the chair. “May’s on her way. I’m probably grounded.” Tony shrugged, earning a laugh from Peter.
“Mr. Stark?” Peter whispered.
Tony leaned forward, eyebrows up, ready to listen. The shades on the collar of his shirt clicked as he was closer to the kid.
“I like your shirt,” he managed, before letting the idea of rest take him into a deep, an most-needed, sleep.
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