I actually wrote this when Homecoming first came out and somehow never uploaded it? This literally does nothing to advance any sort of plot it's literally just the fact that I wanted to see this scene that made me write it. It takes place right after Peter gets home after defeating Toomes (insert 'you're doing amazing, sweetie' gif here). If you're into gratuitous emotional and physical whump, well, here u go frend. Give me a note and an idea for more Peter angsty whump when you're done.
oOoOo
May's asleep when he gets home.
Which is good, because his hands are shaking too hard to shut the window quietly, and the sound of the resulting "thump" ricochets through his brain. He pauses, one burned hand tenuously grasping the ceiling and one hand gripping the side of his head as he grits his teeth and wills his ears to stop ringing—
—plane hits sand head hits ground ringing ringing muffled muffled metal hitting his chest—
He gasps in a breath and breathes out raggedly, his lungs constricting too tight to breathe, and, as though to wipe away the images bombarding his mind, he flings out his free hand. The movement jars him and he slips, tumbling to the ground and hitting his floorboards. He wheezes, the wind knocked out of him, and everything hurts for a solid thirty seconds. He curls inward, vaguely feeling something seeping through his hoodie. Shit. That's going to stain. Something. His carpet? Does he have carpets?
Door. Open. May. He musters the strength to lift up his head, peering at the open door and the light shining through the crack. She's going to know he's been out tonight, but right now he doesn't really care. He slides his hand forward, trembling hand dragging along behind it, and manages to shoot the edge of the door with the last bedraggled remnants of his web fluid. Thankfully, it has just enough momentum to move the door shut, and with the sound of his handle clicking he sags his forehead to the ground again.
Hard wood never felt so good.
His eyes droop closed and he feels the black tendrils of sleep start to steal away his consciousness. Yes. Good. Sleep. He hasn't been getting enough of it, not since becoming Spiderman and—
Suit. Off. Spiderman. May.
No, his mind tells him, stubbornly clinging to sleep and sweet oblivion. Stay on floor.
Bed is that way, he reminds himself, and I am wearing bloody clothes. So he props himself up on his arm, wincing as it pulls at the tears the skin of his chest and back, and somehow maneuvers himself into a sitting position. The process takes something out of him, and he finds himself almost falling asleep right then and there. But he's still in his bloody suit—oh God, his blood—so he grabs his dresser and pulls himself upright. Grinding his teeth, he reaches up and pulls the zipper of his hoodie down to expose his chest. Except that it opens and doesn't move, because congealed blood has sealed the fabric to him. Dreading what he knows has to follow, he staggers to his bed to grab the first-aid kit he stashed under it after the first time he got beat up.
Drawing in a deep, terrified breath, he reaches up and gently tugs on the red cloth. A hot, searing pain immediately blinds him and a strangled yell tears through his teeth. Casting a hasty glance at the door, he lets go, blowing out shaky air and trying not to cry. He glances across his desk, eyes alighting on a leather strap keychain given to him by May years ago, never used. Offering a hasty, silence apology, he slowly grabs it, then lifts it to his mouth and bites down on it. Turning once more to his hoodie, he steels himself, sucking in uneven, quick breaths, and with a quick motion he didn't even realize he had the energy for, he rips off the front of his hoodie.
He screams into the leather, doubling over and fumbling for support—something, anything to keep him off the floor. One knee buckles and he hits the wood, black spots floating in front of his vision. His chest is heaving for breath because holy shit that hurt. He pauses for a moment, sweat dripping down his nose as he waits for May to bust down the door and ask what's wrong.
Except she doesn't, and he doesn't know whether to be relieved or disappointed.
He manages to stand again, puts the leather between his teeth again, and after carefully sliding his arms out the hoodie, he jerks the polyester away from the stiff blood on his back. He repeats the process—scream as loud as he dares, stumble and fall, almost pass out. But thankfully there's no more of that, and after some careful maneuvering and frequent pausing to let the pain stop bombarding him, he's left in nothing but his boxers and sticky blood.
He looks up, and sees himself reflected in the full-length mirror across from him. He looks like shit. His skin is all messed up, black-and blue bruises already turning green mottling his torso, chest and back; there's blood all over his face, and a quick hand touch to the back of his head reveals more there too; there's probably a rib sprained, and the gouges where Toomes' metal claws had dug into him still hadn't quite stopped bleeding. His skin is pale—loss of blood, probably, he thinks vaguely—and the bags under his eyes are so swollen he almost wonders if he could pop them with a pin.
He probes the gash on his right pec carefully, and a white-hot pain flashes. He stops, hissing. Reluctantly, tiredly, slowly, he reaches for his first-aid kit. One cleaning alcohol wipe. One dab of antiseptic cream. Three of his biggest band-aids. One, two, three, he counts, and places the wipe on the cut.
He bites down on his free knuckle, eyes screwed up and almost choking on the pain. He wipes away the blood as best he can, smears cream over it, and his fingers are shaking too badly to place the band-aids anything better than 'messily'. Finally he relaxes, the first of too many cuts to take care of done. It takes him the better part of half an hour to complete, but he manages to do the rest of them, even though the ones on his back look even worse than his chest and his left knuckle is bloody and raw by the end of it.
He looks at himself in the mirror, in the dark and alone and little, and maybe it's just the exhaustion and blood-loss taking over but he puts his face in his hand, staggers to the side, hits the floor and starts to cry.
He doesn't want to do this by himself. And even though he should be proud that he took down a bad guy today, all by himself—Peter Parker the Nerd brought down a weapons dealer by himself—Toomes bearing down on him and ceilings caving in and planes burning and wings exploding and powerlessness taking control of him fill his brain with no room for anything else.
He sobs into his hands, tears mixing with the blood and grime caking his lips, and he curls into a ball on the floor because somehow that's the safest place for him right now.
His phone suddenly lights up off to the side, and even though he's still sobbing he reaches out to throw it away, throw it off to the side and shatter it so he'll never see it again, but the contact is Tony Stark's debonair face and he can't make himself refuse the call. So he presses the green button with his thumb, smearing blood and dirt on the screen, sucks in a shaky breath, and stammers out "H-hello?"
"Peter?" Tony's voice is high and tight, something very rare for the normally always-at-ease billionaire.
"H-hi, Mr. Stark," Peter says between uneven breaths as he tries to steady his breathing. He sniffs and scrubs a hand over his face and tries not to think.
"God, Peter. I saw on the news—"
"I really don't want a lecture right now, Mr. Stark," Peter sighs and tries to wipe away whatever liquid is on his face.
"I just called to see if you were okay," Tony says, and Peter freezes.
"…What?"
"You looked like you took quite a beating out there, and I wanted to make sure you weren't bleeding out alone on your carpet." Tony's voice is quite and soft, soothing. Peter's brain can't really work with that right now, so he freezes, then covers his eyes with his hand, shoves the phone speaker to his chest, and sobs like a baby for a good twenty seconds.
Tony's still on the other end of the line when Peter manages to gather his wits together and puts the phone back to his ear. "Mr. Stark?" he asks dully through dry, puffy lips.
"How you doing, Peter?" Tony asks gently, and Peter gives a watery half-laugh, half-sob.
"Just, uh, a lot," he says in a strained voice. "You know?"
"I know," Tony says. "Have you showered?"
"Huh?" Peter asks. His brain is struggling to keep up.
"A shower. You were dirty and bloody. Have you showered?"
"I don't think I can," Peter says.
"That's okay. There's a bot coming to your window in about fifteen seconds. Let it do its thing, then I want you to get in bed while I hack your phone to text May you've been puking and you aren't going to school tomorrow, and then sleep. You aren't gonna wake up for a while."
Peter thinks about nightmares of metal wings and glowing green eyes and huffs a pained laugh. "I-I don't know about that, Mr. Stark."
"Trust me. Prudence is good at what she does."
"Okay," Peter says, because he's too tired to fight it, and there's a gentle tap at his window. A white, conical robot about a foot tall carefully slides the glass upwards. On her side reads PRUD-3NS in grey letters, and she chitters to him softly as a blue laser scans his body. His eyes feel vapid as he watches her, like the world is going in slow motion.
"Is that Prudence?"
"Yeah," he says dully.
"She'll patch you up, okay?"
"Okay."
He stays still as she continues her menstruations, spritzing him with some spray that leaves him numb and tingly for the most part, only wincing a little as she tends to the deeper cuts and the gash on his head. Tony stays on the other end of the line, talking about everything and nothing to distract Peter from whatever monster wants to kidnap his brain. And soon enough, Prudence has scrubbed away most of the blood and grime of the day's events, stitched up what needs to be stitched, and with one last chitter vanished through the window.
"Take your pill," Tony says, and Peter pries open his hand to reveal the blue and white pill Prudence had given him.
"Do I have to?" Peter asks, his eyes drooping.
"Trust me. You're going to want it." Peter doesn't question how Tony knows this.
Peter drops it onto his tongue and somehow manages to swallow it. He reaches out and grasps the side of his bed, pulling himself up to his knees and managing to flop on the mattress. His aching muscles pull the covers up over him, and if he was tired before, he is beyond exhausted now.
"You in bed?"
"Mmmm-hmmm," Peter hums drowsily.
"Good. Stay out of trouble for a few days, okay?"
"'Kay."
"We'll be in touch within the next few days. Good night, Peter."
"G'night Mstr Strk," Peter mumbles, and as his eyes shut and sleep hits him, his phone tumbles from his fingers to the floor.
"You did good, kid."