Running out of time
Peter sat in the back seat of the car, staring straight ahead as Adrian Toomes drove, his heart pounding in his ears as the buildings outside the window seemed to fly by. Toomes. Liz's dad. He felt as though he'd stepped into a nightmare, one that had started the moment the man had opened his front door, and that he couldn't seem to escape. Once the man had let Liz out of the car, he'd pulled out the gun, and then, pointing it at Peter, he'd held out a hand. "Phone. Unlock it."
Peter had handed it over, eyes glued to the cold steel of the gun, and all he'd been able to think about was his uncle. And then, as the man had scrolled through his phone, his mind had flashed to May. May coming through the hospital doors to find him sitting in the waiting room, blood speckled on his t-shirt. May pulling him into her arms and sobbing into his hair. The warmth of her body making him too hot, his sweat running down his back. But he hadn't moved away. Hadn't let her go.
Who would hold her now?
Once Toomes had typed something, he dropped the phone into the passenger's seat and glanced at Peter in the rear view mirror, a smirk on his lips as he pulled away from the school and began to drive through the city. "Who did you text?" Peter had asked, voice weak. Too soft.
"You just told Liz that you had a family emergency, and that you had to run home. I offered you a ride, of course. But you said no...said you'd take the bus. It's not fair, of course. She's been looking forward to this dance. But she'll still have fun with her friends." Peter had swallowed hard, feeling sick, mind racing as he'd struggled to think of a plan. The gun was still in his hands, though, and so Peter had told himself to wait. To think it through. That is, until Toomes began to speak again. "I'll do anything to protect my family, Pete. Anything," he told him suddenly, winding through the city streets.
Peter opened his mouth, but Toomes went on before he could try to argue. Before he could talk the man out of this.
"I know what you're like, Spider-Man." Toomes said his name mockingly, a sneer on his lips. "Like your buddy Stark and those so-called superheroes. You've seen my face. You aren't going to let it go. You can't. You don't have it in you. And I respect that. Really, I do." He nodded to himself, almost smiling before turning abruptly serious. "But I also can't have you ruining everything. Not now. Not when I'm almost done."
"Almost done what? Stealing from Mr. Stark? Hurting innocent people?"
The man barked out a laugh. "Stealing? That technology doesn't belong to Stark! You think a man like that deserves all this?" Toomes waved a hand as if indicating the whole city and went on about Mr. Stark and his money and all of his crimes but all Peter could think about was getting out. He could jump out of the car...but what if a stray bullet hit someone else? What if Toomes crashed the car and hit someone? No, he decided. He would wait. Tuning back in, he realized Toomes was saying something about Mr. Stark's plane. And that's when it clicked. Moving day. Happy had been telling him about moving day. The Vulture was going to try and hijack Mr. Stark's plane.
All of the Avengers tech was on that plane. He couldn't let Toomes steal it! Not without warning Mr. Stark!
And just as that knowledge hit him, the car pulled onto a side street and Peter decided to take his chance. It was now or never. Reaching out in a flash, he grabbed the seat in front of him, then found himself slammed against the back seat, ears ringing before he could get to the front. In the driver's seat, Toomes sighed, then pulled the car over. "Try not to get blood on the seat, would you?" he groused a little, climbing out of the front seat as Peter gasped, hand pressed to his chest where the pain was slowly ratcheting up to unbearable.
Toomes had shot him. He'd shot him!
"I...I…" he started, blood flowing from between his fingers where his hand was pressed to his chest. "No!" He jerked away from the hands that were reaching for him, grabbing him by his suit jacket and dragging him out of the car. A cry escaped when his body twisted, and it was like he could feel the bullet in his body, so close to his lung. Or...or maybe it had hit his lung...it hurt enough. "Stop!" He screamed, kicking and throwing weak punches that didn't connect. Breathing felt impossible but he couldn't die! Not out here! Not alone in an alley, dragged behind a dumpster and left on the cold concrete.
"It's nothing personal, kid. Hell, my daughter really seemed to like you. But it's business. You understand." And drawing back a foot, Toomes slammed it into Peter's head once, then twice, until the world went black.
Peter clawed his way back to consciousness, hand over fist, until he was staring up at the night sky, shivering in the cold evening air, his hand pressed to his chest as he gasped. He couldn't move….couldn't do anything other than clamp a hand to the place where his suit jacket was crusted over with what he knew was blood. His new suit. It was ruined. As soon as the thought flashed through his mind, frustrated, pained tears escaped to run down his cheeks.
He didn't want to die. Not like this. Not alone. But he couldn't sit up. So he listened, closing his eyes and focusing until, after what felt like hours, he heard voices. "Help!" he cried, but the words refused to carry. "Please! Please, I…". Before he could finish he was forced to stop, panting for air. Reaching up, he slammed a fist into the side of the dumpster, the impact making a weak 'clang.' "Please."
He must have blacked out, because it felt like he blinked, and then someone was kneeling at his side, a hand touching his chest where his white shirt was surely stained with blood. "Son? I need you to stay with me. Okay? Try and talk to me."
Peter opened his mouth to answer, shaking from the cold and the pain in his chest, and the man ripped his shirt open, hesitating when he must have been met with intact skin. It had healed over the bullet...but Peter was shaking, his mind feeling strange and disconnected, and he knew that that meant. Fever. It was infected. He tried to tell the man that but his voice was little more than a wheeze and he couldn't form the words through the pain and the weakness and the confusion.
"Son? Can you tell me what happened?" The man pressed, looking up at him, and Peter tried to focus on his face, but the world was hazy and he couldn't remember why he would know this guy.
"Shot...he shot…"
"You were shot? How long ago?"
"Don't...know. Fast. Heal. Heal. Fast." Just that had him too exhausted to keep his eyes open but the man was shaking him and it hurt and he gasped in pain.
"Okay, I'm going to…"
"Mr. Stark?" Was Mr. Stark helping him? Didn't he know Mr. Stark?
The man hesitated. "What?"
"Mr. Stark? Your...your plane. He's going…". Peter gasped for air, taking giant gulps of it. "Steal it. Mr…."
Peter didn't know if he managed to say anything else, or if the man responded, but the next thing he knew was pain that made him scream and an oxygen mask on his face and arms holding him down and then finally a prick in his arm that made his head swim and his eyes droop until he was swimming in darkness.
And then the man was beside him again, something cool on his forehead. "Son? Are you with me?"
That's when it clicked. "Captain?"
"You can call me Steve. Your fever is still pretty high. How are you feeling?"
"Mr. Stark...his plane…"
"I sent Sam and Wanda to take care of it," the man, Steve Rogers, assured him. It took what felt like a long time for that to make sense. Sam and Wanda. Captain America. He was with the Rogue Avengers. "How did you know?"
How did he know? How...how did he know? "Mr. Stark…"
The man nodded, patient. "How do you know Tony?"
"Spider…". The word was out of his mouth before he abruptly remembered that he wasn't supposed to tell. "Secret," he muttered, shaking his head, and Captain America nodded.
"Okay. I won't tell. Don't worry."
"May?"
The man narrowed his eyes. "Who is that?"
"May...she's...she's my aunt."
"Okay. We're going to call Tony."
Peter shook his head. "No...he doesn't...I messed up...doesn't want me…". Peter tried to finish but he felt so strange. So cold and hot all at once that it was hard to think.
Captain America pursed his lips and adjusted the cold rag on Peter's head. "Rest up, kid. It's gonna be fine."
Peter lifted a hand, giving a clumsy salute, and the older man chuckled as Peter drifted back into sleep for what felt like the thousandth time. Even as he slept he felt too hot. Stuffy and pained and achy, and he threw off the blanket covering him, trying to roll over and failing when hands caught him.
"What the hell happened to him?" a familiar voice asked. Peter frowned, trying to roll over again, but a new hand stopped him, gripping his shoulder.
"I found him in an alley. Said he'd been shot and told me that someone was going after your plane. That someone calls himself the Vulture."
"Yeah, I know. Adrian Toomes." The man sighed. "I told him to leave it alone."
"I did," Peter grumbled, and the man beside him sighed. He knew that sigh...opening his eyes, he squinted up at the man kneeling at his side. "I didn't know."
"You didn't know what?" Mr. Stark asked, placing something cold on his forehead. "You're burning up, kid. What the hell?"
"The bullet was still in him when I found him. There was an infection. He needs antibiotics, but we don't have any."
"I didn't know."
"What didn't you know?" Mr. Stark asked, voice surprisingly soft as he frowned down at Peter.
"I was going to the dance."
"Explains the getup. Nice suit, by the way." There was nothing teasing in his voice. In fact, the man's brief smile was almost gentle.
"Her dad...it was her dad. Toomes. Vulture."
The man took a moment, then nodded to himself. "Your date's dad?"
Peter nodded.
"And he found out who you were."
Peter nodded again.
"And then…"
"He shot me. In his car." The words came out soft and shaky, and the man beside him frowned, then stood up, removing the wet rag.
"Alright, kid. We're going to get you back to the Compound. Happy's waiting with the car."
"Mr. Stark?"
"Yeah?"
"I promise...I didn't know."
The man paused, then nodded, reaching down and squeezing Peter's shoulder. "I believe you, Pete. Let's get you some of the good drugs and then we can talk more. Okay?"
"He took my phone."
"I'll get you a new phone." And with that, the man climbed into his Iron Man suit, reaching down and, with a gentleness that he hadn't expected from the suit, picked him up, cradling him in his arms and resting one hand on the back of his head. "Thanks, Capsicle. I owe you one."