Peter may have succeeded, may have defeated the Vulture with nothing more than grit and determination, but everything still… hurts. He sits atop the white wooden frame of the rollercoaster, taking a moment to get his bearings as he watches the recovery crews arrive and begin searching the flaming beach.

It's not enough. Victory, vindication, isn't enough.

He feels very much like a scruffy stray dog, wanting nothing more than to curl up somewhere dark and quiet to lick his wounds. He can't even think of Tony Stark without feeling something dark and ugly gnaw at his insides.

No one ever listens to him.

With this in mind, he calls Aunt May on his miraculously-functional cell phone, leaving some bullshit, half-assed message in her voicemail about how he's not going to be coming home for a little while because everything went to shit. To be honest, he doesn't even remember what he said to her. Then he shuts off his phone and slowly, painfully crawls across the city to the top of his favorite skyscraper, the one he only goes to when he really, truly doesn't want anyone to find him.

The stab wounds are bad. He's pretty sure Vulture broke a few ribs too, and possibly bruised some of his internal organs in the process. Basically, he's in shit condition and should probably get to the nearest hospital—or to the supersized first aid kit in his bedroom, at least. But that dark, ugly thing haunting his thoughts won't leave him alone, and even the thought of moving from his cool, quiet hiding place makes his chest constrict with panic.

He lays against an AC unit and stares up at the cloudy midnight sky, one hand pressed over the worst stab wound, too tired to move. At some point, he starts crying because what the actual Hell, but that doesn't last long. Mostly he just sits there, numb and growing number.

He wonders why he even tries when heroes like Ironman exist in the world. But then, there was no Ironman to stop the Vulture, was there? There was only Spiderman, a baby vigilante with no resources, no support, and no training. Alone, because no one would stop for a second and listen to him.

But he won, didn't he? He won, so why does he still feel like he lost?

The answer is as obvious as it is infuriating: Tony Stark.

Peter very much wants to punch something as he realizes why he feels like such shit, staring deliriously up at the now-clear sky. How long has he been up here? Maybe he should be concerned by the fact that the worst stab wound is still sluggishly bleeding despite the (minutes, hours?) he has been sitting out in the open. But no, his health seems utterly inconsequential as he contemplates his relationship with Tony Stark.

Peter wants to be mad. He wants to be able to scream at the man. He wants to be able to block him out, to never see him again. But he can't. He can't be angry at Mr. Stark, because he feels too empty. Too disappointing. Too childish.

Why did he ever think he could impress an honest-to-goodness superhero? Why did he even try?

Peter's eyes drift shut, a shuddering exhale escaping his bruised, split lips. He's still bleeding. God, I'm so stupid, he realizes.

Then he thinks of Uncle Ben, and some of the emptiness is filled in by—

By what?

Love, maybe.

Peter didn't start going out as Spiderman for Tony Stark. He's forgotten that, after everything that happened in Germany. Spiderman was born for, lives for, Uncle Ben—not Tony Stark.

Spiderman matters because of Uncle Ben, not Tony Stark.

Peter's crying again, this time slow, shuddering sobs that make his abused insides spike with pain. He thinks of what Uncle Ben would say to him, if he could.

You did what was right, Peter, he might say, with a fond smile and a ruffle of his nephew's hair. It hurt. It was hard. But you did what was right, and that's what matters. Not other people's approval, not other people's gadgets. And if Stark doesn't realize that... well, it's his loss. Remember what matters, Petey, and you'll be the best of them one day.

I'm so proud of you.

Peter blinks back to awareness, the sensation of a warm hand on his forehead fading like morning dew in the sun. His body aches in a way that implies more time has passed than a mere few seconds. Did he fall asleep, thinking about Uncle Ben?

He feels oddly at peace as he twists his head to look down at the stab wound that has finally stopped bleeding. His hand is glued over it with dried blood.

"Ugh," he mutters, voice rasping horribly. Carefully, he peels his hand away, making a face at the thick red flakes that peel from his skin. He contemplates pulling his phone back out and checking the time. He thinks it's pretty late by now, judging by the muted sounds of the city below. Maybe three or four in the morning, which would mean he's been sitting up here for a few hours. He decides that retrieving his phone is just too much effort, and frankly he doesn't want to deal with the messages that May and Ned have undoubtedly bombarded his phone with.

His body aches in a fuzzy, distant way that should really be alarming. He's just begun to seriously consider finding medical help when a distinct sound reaches his ears. Repulsors, a la Ironman, and they're coming in his direction.

Shit, he thinks, slowly moving to get up and find a new hiding place. There is no part of him that wants to see Tony Stark right now, even though he's mostly come to terms with his own feelings. Then he smirks with a little bit of vindictive pleasure, because Mr. Stark must have spent a while tracking him down the old-fashioned way—he's not wearing the suit, and there's no way Mr. Stark could have tracked his phone.

Peter's knees buckle immediately upon standing, sending him right back to the ground. He sprawls in an aching heap, face smushed painfully into the cold, rough stone. "Ow," he wheezes, managing to roll over onto his back. The stab wound in his shoulder has started bleeding again. He supposes that this is the universe's way of telling him that he'll be speaking with Mr. Stark whether he likes it or not.

Ironman touches down on the roof a minute later. Peter half expects the suit to be empty (half hopes that it'll be empty), but Mr. Stark steps out almost as soon as his foot has touched the ground. Peter braces himself for a lecture.

"You told your Aunt you're Spiderman over a voicemail?" is what the man actually says, and oh boy that is not what Peter expected.

"Uh?" he croaks confusedly as Mr. Stark kneels at his side. The engineer's hands are quick but gentle as they flit over Peter's battered form, stopping at the deep wound in his shoulder. Peter's mushy brain spares just enough attention to note that Mr. Stark is dressed in pajama pants and a long-sleeved shirt.

"What the hell were you thinking, kid?" he says in a tone that sounds very much like superficial irritation covering deep concern. "Voicemail? C'mon, if you're not going to go my route and use a press conference, you at least have to come out face-to-face!"

"I did—I did what?" Peter manages weakly, ignoring Mr. Stark's muttering about his ribs. The world spins as Mr. Stark carefully sits him up, badly enough that he barely notices when the man pauses at his words.

"You don't even remember, do you," Mr. Stark says. It's not a question. Peter flinches and whines as long fingers find a painful knot on the side of his head. "That's a nasty concussion you've got there, kiddo. How'd you even get up here like this?"

"Determination," Peter mutters faintly, consumed with horror as he suddenly remembers the contents of the voicemail he left Aunt May. She's going to kill him. She's going to kill him and ground him until he's thirty.

Mr. Stark snorts. "Yeah. Ok, FRIDAY is sending a 'copter to come get us because I'm not carrying you with your ribs like that, so we'll just hang out here for a little bit, alright?" He pauses and looks at Peter, who blinks sluggishly back at him. "Do me a favor and don't remember this tomorrow."

Peter's tempted to ask why, but the words are stolen from him by shock when Mr. Stark turns and sits right beside him against the AC unit. The shock multiplies when the superhero wraps an arm around his shoulders and presses his free hand over Peter's, applying more pressure to the bleeding stab wound using both their hands. The young vigilante can only stare wide-eyed toward the skyline, hyperaware of the searing heat of Mr. Stark against his chilled skin.

He manages to speak after a long, awkward silence. "Did—did Aunt May call you?" he whispers questioningly.

"She yelled at me for twenty minutes," Mr. Stark says dryly. "Literally. FRIDAY timed it."

"Oh," Peter says quietly. He slumps tiredly into Mr. Stark's side, head going fuzzy again. "Sorry."

"Don't be," the man says with a hollow sort of flippancy, "I wouldn't have known to come looking for you unless she called."

You would have bled out alone, and I wouldn't even have known, is implied in the weighty silence.

"Sorry," Peter breathes. His head is resting against the burning heat of Mr. Stark's shoulder, but frankly he's too tired to move. Besides, the man hasn't pushed him away, so that must mean… something. Peter's not lucid enough to unravel that particular mystery, so he lets it go.

Mr. Stark shushes him, and his voice sounds like it's coming from underwater. "Don't apologize, Peter. Just… rest."

"…'kay," he manages. The hand over his presses down harder as Peter's eyes drift closed.

By the time the helicopter gets there, he's out cold.