Peter hid a wince as he sat down, the chatter of other students droning on around him as they waited for first period to start.

Ned walked in only a minute later, his gaze immediately zeroing in on Peter, who raised a brow.

"Good morning?" Peter tried.

Ned squinted slightly, still staring.

"Not good morning?" Peter attempted again.

Ned was silent for a few more moments, then suddenly asked, "Remember that super cool project we worked on a while back?"

Peter tilted his head slightly, lip quirking, somewhat bemused. "Probably? I mean, could you maybe, ya know, elaborate?"

Ned looked around conspicuously. "The firewall one - in the SIM," he whispered loudly. Flash shot them a suspicious look but didn't bother investigating, much to Peter's relief.

He squinted at his friend. "No, you're right Ned, I don't remember," he deadpanned.

Ned huffed, waving him off impatiently and sparing a quick glance at the clock. There were still a couple of minutes left until the bell rang. "Okay, okay, I get it. But I got an alert from it yesterday - someone broke through it."

Peter winced.

"You already knew!" Ned accused.

Peter raised a hand placatingly, hiding another grimace as his side twinged. "I-" The bell rang, cutting him off, and he leaned over to promise Ned he'd explain later.

.

Later ended up being lunch, by which time Peter had gotten progressively worse, showing in the beads of sweat that dotted his temple and his pale complexion that highlighted the bruise-like bags under his eyes. Ned commented on as much as he plonked down across from his friend.

"You look terrible," he said.

"Thanks," Peter sighed, resisting the urge to smack his forehead down against the table. A few seats away, MJ had her notebook out, pencil scritching against it as she sketched something out. Probably him. Peter ducked his head a bit and morosely poked at his lasagna with a fork at that thought.

"Any particular reason why?" Ned asked slowly. Then his eyes widened in alarm. "Wait - someone didn't actually track you down, did they? We put in a bunch of fail safes for that; it's basically impossible unless you're like, Tony Stark or something - but, did someone do it? Are you okay? Did they hurt you? What'd they do? Is that why you look sick?! Oh my -"

"Ned!" Peter hissed, interrupting his friend's rambling. The other teen blinked wide eyed at him, and Peter sighed again, holding his head up with both hands. "I… kinda got hurt-" Peter rushed to continue when he saw Ned opening his mouth to interrupt, "-but I'm totally fine now! I just ended up calling the wrong number and the guy who picked up was apparently super good with coding and stuff cause he almost caught on to where I actually was, but the safety lock kicked in and cut off the call."

Ned's eyes flickered down to his own phone, and he gnawed on his lip. "And you're sure he didn't actually get a pin?" he checked.

Peter took in a breath but then just let it right back out, shoulders slumping. He shrugged helplessly. "Pretty sure?" he tried. "If anything, New York's a big city - I could be anyone, right?" he placated.

Ned nodded, if somewhat reluctantly, and then squinted closer at Peter. "How'd you get hurt?"

Peter shrugged, hiding another wince and still resting his chin on both hands. "The usual. Kicking names, taking ass. That whole shebang," he replied - his attempt at a light tone being thrown off by the slight gravely sound of his voice layered on top of the exhaustion in it. Ned stared at him, unamused, and Peter pouted. "Where'd all that hero worship go, Ned? Huh?" he sighed dramatically, slumping forward and stretching his arm straight out on the table before resting the side of his head against it. "It used to be all, 'that's so cool' and 'woahhh that's awesome Peter' and 'I can't believe you're Spider-Man!" he exaggeratedly reminisced as he complained, frowning up at Ned.

"That was before you slapped up against my window from the fire escape at two AM like some kind of eldritch horror abomination because you got stabbed three times Peter. Three times!

Peter pursed his lips. "It wasn't that bad,'' he muttered, mulish.

"Wasn't that bad - wasn't 'that bad?'" Ned echoed disbelievingly, setting down his fork. "We had to watch, like, a bajillion YouTube videos on stitching 101, and by the time we used my Gran's needle and thread to do it, you'd basically bled out already!" he exclaimed. "And guess what I realized in the morning, Peter. Guess."

Peter wisely didn't guess, having already heard the retelling, the memory just flitting back to his sluggish mind.

"Yes, that's right, you already know what I found," Ned told him scathingly. "Handprints, Peter. Handprints. Bloody handprints all over my window," Ned's voice dropped to a hiss as he gestured in front of him like it would make an image of the scene pop up between them. Peter winced, giving a sheepish smile that wilted under Ned's glare. "And then I had to lock my door and pretend I was puking my guts out so that I didn't have to go to school since I had to scrub my window down because you thought leaving full-on handprints of blood was a fantastic idea!" he exclaimed hysterically, now making frantic scrubbing motions as he vividly reminisced. Peter opened his mouth to say something, but Ned cut him off, on a roll. "And then, I had to drink Gran's potion," he said lowly, looking sick.

Peter just barely withheld a sympathetic gag, unwillingly recalling his own experience with the brew.

It'd happened when he was nine and Aunt May had an unavoidable work trip, so he'd stayed with the Leeds until she got back.

And, as was not too unusual for a weak, asthmatic kid, he'd gotten sick. Really, he'd been fine. He'd had a bit of a sore throat, a little cough, and a smidge of a runny nose. Nothing some medicine, soup, and a good rest couldn't fix right up.

Ned's Gran had a… different perspective.

She was more traditional, to put it nicely.

He hadn't thought much about it at first, thinking it'd just mean some herbal tea or something, at least until he saw the look on Ned's face. Like Peter was going off to war or something. Or was about to meet his maker. And oh was Ned right to make that face.

Gran had set the sludgy concoction in front of him, the green, brown, and - horrifyingly enough - bright orange potion was in a small glass cup which was filled just over three quarters of the way. It looked like death. It smelled like death. He'd glanced pleadingly up at Ned's Gran, but she'd been resolute.

And then Peter had what he'd thought was the most brilliant idea. He picked up the glass, held his breath, and threw his head back along with the drink in a vapid attempt to swallow it all down in one go.

Ned had made a horrified noise, Peter had promptly choked on the potion, and Gran had tsked, slapping at his back.

He'd managed to swallow about half of the concoction while the rest spattered out his mouth and shot through his nose onto his shirt, pants, the coffee table, and all over the marble tiles.

There had been a blessed moment of silence after that, but it was not to be.

Hardly a instant later, the rest of the brew revolted in his stomach and came right back up, and he'd heaved the entirety of it and the remains of his last meal or two directly onto his lap.

It was chaos after that, with Ned gagging sympathetically as he staggered out the room, the horrible smells of the potion alone beginning to mix with everything else he'd upchucked, him crying and generally making even more of a mess on himself, and Gran looking rather unfazed by the whole scene as she tutted about 'expelling the maladies' and puttered away to find a mop.

Suffice to say, Peter never, ever, even at the threat of intense pain or duress - not that he'd ever been under that, but still - NEVER, went over to the Leeds if he had even the faintest of sniffles.

Now, Peter came back to himself, blinking his eyes to get rid of the glazed hue they'd taken while he'd unwillingly relived the moment.

He looked back up at Ned, head still sideways and pillowed against his arm as it was, and winced sympathetically. "I am still really, really sorry about that," he acknowledged readily, face contorting into a nauseated grimace.

Ned huffed. "I know," he waved off, getting back on track. "But what happened this time, for you to call?" he pressed.

Peter tapped his fingers against the table, looking anywhere but at Ned. "I… may have, gotten…" he trailed off indistinctly, mumbling the last word under his breath.

Ned leaned in closer. "You got what?" he asked.

Peter reluctantly pulled himself upright, and he scratched nervously at the back of his neck. "shot," he muttered, eyes steadfastly on his now cold lunch.

Ned tilted his head. "What?" he repeated, looking confused.

"Shot!" Peter exclaimed loudly, causing MJ to peer up from her notebook and over at them with a raised brow, and a few other students from surrounding tables glanced towards them as well. Peter let out a nervous bleat of laughter. "Shots! Yes! I've got to take them! Yep! Doctors have them - which is where I'll be getting them and where I've got 'em. Exactly!"

Ned stared at him, agape, and then seemed to come back to himself, still staring at Peter in disbelief but now talking as well. "Yes, Peter. You go to Doctor for Shot," he said incredulously, leaving no room for misinterpretation with his clear emphasis on the two words, and Peter barely withheld a snort at the grammar of it.

"Yeah well, Spiders can't go to doctors," he hissed back pointedly, glancing to the side to make sure nobody was close by.

Ned threw his hands up. "So, what? You're just gonna put a Band-Aid on it and hope it gets better?" he retorted sarcastically.

Peter looked away guiltily, fidgeting with the corner of his lunch tray, and, after a moment, he risked a glance up at Ned, wincing at the look on his friend's face. "I disinfected it too," he added defensively.

"You 'disinfected it,'" Ned echoed in mocking disbelief. "It's a bullet wound, Peter!"

Peter groaned, finally giving in to the urge and thunking his head against the table. "What was I supposed to do," Peter said, resolutely ignoring how it came out as something of a whine.

"Oh, I dunno, not get shot?" Ned suggested.

"Thanks Ned, I'll try that next time," Peter intoned dryly.

"Did you at least stitch it up or something?" Ned pushed.

Peter remained tellingly silent.

"Peter!" Ned exclaimed. "We both know how - I mean, you get stabbed a disturbingly frequent amount of times, so mind explaining why you didn't stitch a freaking bullet hole?" Ned demanded, voice dropping to a harsh whisper.

Peter hummed noncommittally.

"Peter!" Ned hissed.

Peter groaned again, forcing his head back up so he could look at Ned, giving his best sheepish and completely not-at-fault expression. "Um. It's… still in me?" he said nervously, giving a guileless grimace of a smile.

Ned was silent for a few moments, staring into space just left of Peter's head. "I… am going to pretend I didn't hear that," he said slowly, voice deceptively light. "I am going to pretend I didn't hear that," he repeated, "because if I did hear that, then that means I heard you say that you didn't take the bullet that's apparently inside of you, out. Which would also mean that you're here at school , with a bullet in you."

Peter nodded cautiously. "You do that," he agreed unblinkingly, eyeing Ned warily from where he was still gazing at the wall behind Peter. "You are… totally right to do that. That is a… super good idea."

One of the cafeteria monitors strolled by, and Ned's hand raised unwaveringly, catching their attention. Peter shot him a frantic look, shaking his head surreptitiously. Ned ignored him.

The teacher, their chemistry professor from freshman year, nodded his head in acknowledgement to Ned, head tilted questioningly.

"Peter just got a shot yesterday, and he's not feeling well; is it alright if I walk him to the nurse's office to make sure he's okay?" Ned said smoothly, and Peter stared at him, agape.

Their former teacher - Mr. Rauch - made a noise of sympathy, giving Peter an understanding look before responding to Ned. "Of course, Mr. Leeds; take all the time you need," he affirmed, and turned to continue his trek away.

Peter's eyes had yet to leave Ned's face. "You - you just lied, like that!" he finally spluttered.

Ned squinted at him, rising to his feet and Peter, swaying slightly, followed easily. "No, really," Ned deadpanned.

Peter rolled his eyes, picking up his own tray as the duo walked towards the exit. "You know what I mean, Mr. 'I'm watching porn,'" Peter shot back, laughing and ducking away from the half-hearted swipe Ned made at his head, the other teen's face flushing tellingly.

"Well, this time it didn't really feel like a lie - more like a really stupid play on words," Ned admitted, shucking his tray on the rack alongside Peter's before the two of them headed towards the exit.

"Fair," Peter agreed easily.

Ned nodded, then gave him a look. "I'm coming over to your place right after school, alright? And if you can't get the nurse to let you go home, at least stay in the office in one of the beds or something, alright? You… kinda look like you're about to pass out," Ned admitted uneasily.

Peter nodded along. He certainly felt like he was about to pass out. Which was. Not great. "I'll see you later, then," he said, coming to a stop outside the nurse's office alongside Ned.

His friend waved to him, but not without one final, warning glance. "You will," he promised. It sounded more than a little bit like a threat.

Ned used to be such a sweet, innocent child, Peter inwardly mourned, staring forlornly at his friend's retreating back, waiting until the other disappeared around the corner before turning into the office.

.

The nurse had readily agreed to let him head home, barely even giving him a once over before resolutely deciding as much, and he said he'd already contacted his aunt. Which. He hadn't, but. Uber.

He sat on the cot as he waited for his temporary Aunt Uber to arrive and clicked on the 'contacts' icon on his phone, scrolling down to Ned's. As he read through the digits, he was quick to realize his mistake in the numbers he'd entered the other day. It was only a one number difference really - an '8' for the second to last digit instead of a '3.'

His head tilted curiously, and his lips pursed in thought. He knew the guy's number, and he did have a couple of burner phones stashed in his room…

His phone chimed, letting him know his Uber had arrived, and Peter set his previous thoughts to the side. For now.