Mr. Stark did try, he really did. He just couldn't remember everything, and when he didn't come to pick up Peter after school and didn't send Mr. Happy, well, Peter took matters into his own hands.
Peter took a public bus to the Avengers Tower, going through all of the extensive security measures Mr. Stark had set up before going off in search of the inventor.
When Mr. Stark's AI informed him that his mentor was in the med lab, to the med labs he went.
Pushing open the door, he caught a glimpse of the scene inside. Short red hair spilling across a table, more red spread everywhere.
Mr. Stark and Mr. Banner rushing around, finding things, using things, shouting things.
Mr. Barton standing in the corner, hands clenched into fists and looking like he could snap from tension at any moment.
Mr. Rogers standing near the door, 'Captain America' expression fully employed and in use. His arms crossed over his chest, the man also covered in red.
Peter's stomach lurches when he realizes what the red on him is, where his Auntie Nat is, and what happened to the woman on the table. Who the woman is.
Natalia Alianovna Romanova.
Natasha Romanoff.
The Black Widow.
His Auntie Nat.
His Auntie Nat is bleeding on the table, too much life-giving red seeping from her body.
What happened to her? Why is she bleeding? Who did this to her? Who was able to do this to her?
When he catches sight of the neat, precise cuts on her arms, he very nearly loses his stomach.
His questions are answered, but he really wishes they hadn't been.
Because the one who caused those cuts, the one who hurt his Auntie Nat... was his Auntie Nat.
What happened? Just this morning she had been winking at him over her 'World's Cutest Assassin' coffee mug while Mr. Stark ran around frantically trying to find the thief of the coffee he had just made.
Just this morning she had ruffled his hair and gave him one of her trademark smirks as he headed off to school.
Just this morning she had whispered conspiratorially to him that she would be in the Training Rooms when he came back if he wanted to learn some good fighting moves.
Just this morning she had been there, been alive, been his lively, smirking, awesome Auntie Nat.
Now she's still and cold and bleeding and pale.
Someone finally spots him, and Mr. Barton moves over toward him with purpose and speed in every step. He puts a calloused hand on his shoulder and moves to steer him out, but Peter won't move.
And if Peter won't move, he won't move. Nothing short of a military special grade tank could counter his enhanced, spider-induced strength.
Finally, finally, his voice comes to him. His Auntie Nat's name comes out as a croak.
Mr. Stark is shouting something and there's paddles and his Auntie Nat jolts.
It happens again.
And again.
And, finally, there's a beating that fills the space, albeit too fast, too weak.
There's needles and syringes and thread and bandages, machines and tubes and bags of fluid, all of them with only one thing in common.
They are trying to keep his Auntie Nat alive.
Mr. Barton isn't trying to move him anymore, just standing behind him with his hands on his shoulders. Something to keep Peter anchored in a world where things seem to be floating loose.
Things don't make sense anymore.
Auntie Nat? His Auntie Nat? His Auntie Nat who cooks with Mr. Rogers and pranks with Mr. Barton? His Auntie Nat who is always stealing Mr. Stark's coffee and Mr. Banner's tea? His Auntie Nat?
That can't be right.
That can't be his Auntie Nat on that table.
That just wouldn't make sense.
But it's going to have to.
Because that is his Auntie Nat on the table.
That's her red hair that is always flying, around corners, across sparring mats, through the air.
That's her pale skin, that she had complained about with a wink at him.
Those are her hands, capable and bloody but also painstakingly gentle and caring.
That's his Auntie Nat.
But her green eyes don't sparkle.
Her red hair doesn't shine.
Her skin doesn't glow with the life and essence and deadly serious mischievousness that is his Auntie Nat.
That's his Auntie Nat.
But it's not.
And he's oh-so-confused and Mr. Barton's hands are the only thing keeping him tethered to this world and he feels sick and confused and sad and angry and...
And he's never felt smaller, never felt more like the itsy-bitsy spider that he is.
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