Disclaimer: Yes, I own Peter. That boi is mine. Just kidding. All characters belong to Marvel.
Chapter 7: Alive
All he knows is that he can't breath. Something is on his chest, crushing him. He begs for it to stop, but he has no mouth and cannot speak. He doesn't know why its dark, maybe his eyes have gone too. He tries to flail around, wave his arms but he feels nothing because oh God, everything is gone... Consumed in an endless, black abyss. He's there yet he's not there, all at the same time. The thing moves, slithering up his whole body inside out and hugging him so tightly he hears his bones creak in protest.
He falls and falls and when he stops, blinding white light robs him of consciousness but before he goes he hears a scream, a screech and then nothing.
Peter jolted awake, sweating. He drew in sharp, ragged breaths while his hands held the sheets tightly, knuckles deathly pale. Seeing that nothing was wrong—the curtains were closed, the lamp beside the horrendously colored armchair cast a dim but sufficient light for his enhanced eyesight and all was quiet—he fell back on the pillows and sighed. Easy there, Peter. You're overreacting.
Peter. His name was Peter.
His name was Peter and he was a student at Midtown Tech. He lived in New York. And this wasn't his bedroom.
The teen threw the sheets off of him and quietly lowered his feet to the floor. He felt the scratchy carpet and sighed. He was undeniably, in a hospital. He just wondered what kind of hospital was this quiet in New York. Maybe a private one? His dad always insisted— his dad. Where was he?
Slowly opening the door, he poked his head out and relieved there was nobody in the corridor, he set off. He didn't know where he was going, but he wanted to get out of that room. Something had urgently screamed at him this fact from the moment he'd woken up.
Halfway through his senseless wanderings, he tried to figure out an excuse as to why he, a patient, had departed from his room without a doctor's order or assistance. He was tired of sleeping? Thirsty? Hungry? Any of those would work, if not at all, he thought. But he was hungry. Starving, actually. He better find some food. He was actually surprised he encountered nobody. Doctors ought to be walking around, right? Half tempted to believe this was an apocalypse and everybody had already been evacuated except him who had somehow, been forgotten by the staff, he desperately tried to find a clue as to where he currently was.
If he had been Ned, he would've been knee-deep in conspiracies right now. Ned. Ned was his friend. Of course he was his friend! His best! He furrowed his brows. Then why did his brain have a hard time picturing his face?
"Excuse me," a highly nasal voice called out in slight annoyance, "you aren't supposed to be out of your room."
Busted. Peter sharply turned to face the speaker. It was a short woman in light blue scrubs, hands placed on her waist and a deep scowl etched all over her face. Her black curly hair fell onto her broad forehead rather well. She looked up at him crossly.
"Oh. I was just hungry and thirsty, and I wanted to get some fresh air—"
She cut him off. "No excuses. You could've just dialled the nurse." She deftly took his wrist where a tag read, 'P. Parker. Room 67, Second Floor. Ward 5."
"Come on, now. You're down here on when you should be in bed—"
"Peter?"
"Dad?"
-Line Break-
The man who called him was dark-haired and brown eyed, wearing a hoodie which read 'AC/DC" and black jeans. His goatee had a salt-and-pepper color and he looked much, much older than the last time he'd seen him. Last time. When had that been again? Despite the uncertainty of that particular question, he knew who this was.
"Dad?" He replied.
"Peter!" In four short strides he was engulfed in a squeezing bear hug, a large hand carding through his hair while the other rubbed his back, much to the disapproval of the short nurse. But the action was comforting and the boy melted into it. God, how long? Why did he feel so starved of such affection?
His dad released him and took his face in his hands. "What are you doing here? You're supposed to be resting."
"A point I was trying to make," the nurse grumbled under her breath.
"I just... I wanted to get out of there. And find you."
His father's eyes were moist with unshed tears. He swept his hair from his forehead. "I missed you."
"I missed you too."
Short nurse cleared her throat. "He needs to get back to his room."
"And food?"
His dad nodded. "And food."
Minutes later, he was wolfing down his fourth sandwich in a row. Tony (that was his dad's name, Happy called him that) kept staring at him in either surprise, shock or disgust. He was eating rather quickly. He slowed down and looked at the half eaten sandwich in distaste.
"What's wrong?" Tony asked in worry.
"Nothing," he mumbled. He didn't feel hungry anymore.
"Do you want another sandwich?"
He shook his head and pushed the tray away from him. "I'm full."
"The doctor said you'll feel nauseous after eating; your body isn't used to take such large quantities of food at the same time. So don't feel guilty, okay?"
"Sure," Peter said unconvincingly and looked around. The light curtain moved a little, making a rustling sound.
"So, where are we? It doesn't sound like New York."
Tony smiled. "Yeah. We're in Wyoming."
"Wyoming?" He was taken aback. "What are we doing in Wyoming? Was I visiting Ned's aunt? She's nice. Please don't tell me I got sick and threw up in her house! Or were we in that cabin we went to when I was ten?"
If anything, Tony thought, Peter's incessant ramblings hadn't disappeared. He seemed almost like the boy he knew five months ago—just taller, paler, skinnier... and alive. He repeated the word to himself. Peter was here. He was alright. He was breathing. He remembered him.
"No. You were very sick," he chose his words carefully, "but that doesn't matter now. You need to rest to fully recover. Then I'll tell you everything, okay?"
Peter blinked. "Okay."
Tony didn't need anyone to tell him his son saw right through the deflection. But because he was Peter, he didn't push the matter and politely backed out of the conversation. God, what had he done to deserve him?
Wyatt, in all her redheaded glory, saved both of them from the sudden silence. Tony was surprised she was still here. Working overtime, perhaps?
"Evening, Peter!" She greeted the kid cheerily. "I'm your doctor, Lee Wyatt. I don't think you remember me."
Peter pursed his lips. "No."
"You thought my head was on fire. You were experiencing some heavy hallucinations when you were brought in. How do your legs feel?"
He stretched them. "Fine."
"Are you experiencing pain anywhere else?" She prodded him carefully.
"My sides and chest hurt. Not a lot but..." The sentence trailed off.
"You had some broken ribs, so that's a given. Anywhere else?"
"No. I'm good. Just tired."
Wyatt stepped back from him. "You've made astounding progress, and in just a few days. Its a miracle, really. Astonishing," the last part was said quietly, as if she was speaking to herself. Tony uncomfortably shifted in his seat.
"What do you remember before waking up?"
Peter creased his forehead in concentration. Was it decathlon practice? Who was in the team again? His dad said he was sick. He doesn't remember that. Maybe an accident? He might've gotten stabbed on patrol. Patrol. What was that again? Pieces of memories flashed by but they were all mixed up in a weird salad. He couldn't recall his last birthday party. He knew he was sixteen, but his birthday... he didn't know when it was. He only knew Ned had black hair and liked Star Wars tees, but his face still didn't come to him as well as he hoped. His aunt was May and her cooking was... He didn't know. He had a sister. Tessa. With curly hair. And his mom. He couldnt—
"Mom," he blurted out and turned to Tony. "I can't remember her. I can't remember Mom's face. Why can't I—"
Wyatt shushed him, gently pushing him back on the bed. "Its okay. Its just a common side effect of amnesia. You'll remember in time, you hear?"
"Just relax, okay? Its okay." His dad was saying, casting a cold sideways glance to the doctor.
After a few minutes of both adults trying to reassure him, he pulled in a sharp breath. "Can I go to the bathroom, please?"
"Of course. On your left."
He nodded and quietly slipped out of bed. As the door clicked shut, he heard his father say in what he thought was supposed to be a quiet voice. "What the fuck did you think you were doing?" It was angry, laced with irritation.
"I needed to know how deep his amnesia is! That's my job, remember?" Wyatt responded.
"You did it without the knowledge that he could be triggered?! What kind of doctor does that?"
"Oh, excuse me!" She snapped furiously, "when did you get a medical degree?"
Silence. Then, the sound of fabric rustling. "He can hear us." His dad seemed to be holding Wyatt by the arm, leading her out of the room. So much for eavesdropping. Peter walked away from his position at the door and made his way to the mirror. His hair had become a faded brown color, skin pallid. There were bags under his eyes, his flesh seemed to hang on a gangly skeleton barely able to support itself. In a nutshell, he looked like absolute shit. He closed his eyes and tried to search the furthest depths of his mind for his mother's face. Anything. Nothing surfaced. It disturbed him. He was missing something and her face was part of it.
He was here, with ruptured memories and no recollection of how or why he was here. His dad was hiding something, the doctor didn't look like she was gonna share something with him anytime soon and he was far from home. What happened? He didn't know the answer but he knew that someone was unmistakably watching him right now. With terrifying clarity.
-Line Break-
The man in the van looked at the three story building in vague disinterest. He was far enough to not be suspected by patrolling policemen but close enough to spy on room 27 on the second floor. The curtain was closed. The light was still on. He couldn't see anything. But he could hear. So, it had worked. At least partially. It was alive and couldn't remember. One thing out of the way, then.
Regardless of this, he had still failed. Asset X63 was still alive. He had underestimated its precognitive abilities. And the fact that Stark was present did not help him. He might be enhanced but he was no match for Iron Man. He knew where to draw his lone. The engineer would defend it to the death. The Council would not be pleased. Except for the Madame. She would be relieved it is still alive. Her sister would be furious but she has no power there.
His orders had been curt. Exterminate the asset unless an intervention reveals itself. The intervention was Stark. They were already treading on thin ice as it was. They didn't need another mess. But then again, why the bother to kill the organization's most expensive project yet when they could snatch it away again like the first time?
He suddenly sat ramrod straight, tensing. It had heard him. Fuck. Again, he decided to remind himself that the asset was not to be underestimated. If it had had its memories intact...his stomach would've been slashed open and his intestines splayed over the car seat by now. He had to leave. Turning on ignition, he spared the building one last glance and drove off, the van disappearing in the darkness.
A/N: Yay! Another chapter, though delivered late. Sorry. I seem to be saying that a lot lately. And overusing the word 'remember'. Hehe. Now, who are these new players? *rubs hands together* I have A LOT of plans for Peter. Again, sorry if this chapter was meh. It's pretty mediocre at best. Now, I don't know if a real doctor would do what Wyatt did but I'm no professional. I promise to upload as soon as I can. Lots of love 3 and plz, R & R!