Peter's chest felt strangely hollow, and even his lungs had frozen in fear. It took several long, awkward moments before he found the air to speak a few breathless, faint words.

"You can't be back."

Skip cupped a hand to his ear, pretending he hadn't heard him. "What was that, champ?"

Peter's heart hammered. He felt the years collapse around him as he stared at the man he'd hoped never to see again. God, Skip looked exactly the same. Same smug, toothy grin. Same cold eyes that saw everything and missed nothing. Peter's mouth went dry, his hands clammy. He didn't dare move a muscle, lest his legs buckle beneath him.

May's smile faltered as Peter struggled to find any polite, civil words. She came to stand next to him, rubbing a comforting hand on his back. "Bad day at school, sweetheart?"

Peter shrugged, face heating. He did not want Skip to hear anything about his day. Even having Skip close enough to look at him was far too invasive. Peter just wanted to hide in his room behind a locked door.

May smiled again, a little uncertainly, and tried to move the conversation along. "Mrs. Westcott, Skip's grandma, is moving to a care facility, so Skip is going to move back into the apartment. Remember when he used to live with his grandmother down the hall, Peter?"

Skip laughed, showing all his teeth like some absurd, smarmy shark caricature. "Oh, it's been years."

"Four years." Peter said quietly.

"Yeah, crazy, huh? I was just a carefree college kid back then, living rent-free with my Nana. She took good care of me. Now I'm here to take care of her." Skip's tone was smooth, oozing false sincerity. Peter couldn't understand how May didn't see through him. "Perfect timing, too," he added with a wide grin.

Peter wondered in what world sending your grandma away to a facility so you could take her apartment counted as caring for her.

May seemed to be eating it up, though. "Aw, it's lovely that you're back, Skip. I'm sure she missed her only grandson."

Skip's predatory grin stayed plastered to his face. How other people found him charming and not obviously creepy, Peter would never understand.

"So, it looks like we'll be neighbors again. Isn't that something? And look how much you've grown up. Little Petey, almost my height." Skip shook his head and raked his gaze up and down Peter, causing the teen's nausea to return full force. "And I bet you're still getting all A's."

May beamed. "Oh yes. Peter is still such a good student. He's always worked hard."

"Has he? I just remember him being naturally smart. A regular Einstein. Remember that, Peter? I used to always call you Einstein."

Yes. I remember.

Peter swallowed hard, fighting the memories that surged. He remembered how he'd idolized Skip back then, how he'd hung onto every word, eager to make him proud. He'd thought Skip was a friend. The feeling was now a burning shame that made his stomach churn.

May smiled warmly as she continued. "He's the smartest kid I know, but it's his hard work that will take him far." His aunt was always quick to point out Peter's work ethic, because she said he'd inherited it from Ben, and she was particularly proud of that. Peter's heart ached at the sudden guilt.

I'm not like Ben at all. And I'm not as smart as you think, May.

May nodded towards a stack of job applications on the table. "He's been filling out applications for seasonal jobs so he can work during the holidays and summer this year, on top of an internship he already has during the school year. Peter works very hard."

Skip's eyes flicked to the applications, and before Peter could react, Skip snatched them up, flipping through them like they were his to inspect. Peter clenched his teeth, feeling violated, though he forced himself to stay silent. May was watching, and he didn't want her to think he was being rude.

"Hmm, a few options here. Delmar's, huh? Can't imagine he pays much," Skip said dismissively.

"He pays fine." Peter ground out, feeling defensive of the bodega owner.

Skip tossed the papers back onto the table. "Well, I'm sure you'll do great, champ, no matter where you get hired. Any boss would love to have you. I remember how polite and obedient you were."

Peter hummed noncommittally and turned to leave. If he stayed any longer he really would throw up. Or cry.

"It was a long day, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go to my room." He made a hasty retreat and tried not to slam the door in a panic behind him. His senses still screamed that there was a threat. But there was nowhere to run and no way to fight, so Peter turned the lock and prayed Skip would leave soon.

He crossed to his bed and wrapped himself tightly in the blankets, pulling them over his head and curling in on himself. He felt like he was coming apart at the seams, and all he could do was wrap his arms around his chest, willing himself to keep it together. He pressed his face into the pillow, fighting tears, and stayed still, waiting for the feeling of safety to return.

Peter stared at his wall until the little nicks and cracks of the paint's texture blurred under a sheen of silent tears, and he waited.

Eventually, he heard the front door close. He waited until he was certain Skip was gone, then finally closed his eyes, sinking into an uneasy sleep.

By 4AM Peter was suited up and waiting, ready to make a quick exit through the window. He slipped on his mask and was greeted by Karen.

"Good morning, Peter. You're up early. Do we have a mission?" Karen asked.

"Nope. Just an early morning patrol. No need to inform anyone, okay?"

"Understood."

Peter had learned that if he came home by his curfew time, took off the suit, and waited for 4am, he could go back out without triggering the suit's babysitting protocols.

So, when he woke up in a cold sweat from a nightmare just after midnight, Peter knew he only needed to while away the time for a few hours before he could safely slip away for some web-slinging stress relief.

In that wait time he had quietly showered, nuked a frozen breakfast burrito, and did what little work he could on his laptop, since everything else was in his locker. He would need to get to the school extra early to finish his Calculus and Spanish assignments.

After some searching, Peter found an old backpack at the bottom of his closet. This bag was also ripped, but it would do for now. Peter stuck his fingers through the holes and frowned. How was he so rough on his backpacks? He stuffed it with a change of clothes and then he waited quietly in his room to hear May wake up and get ready for a long shift at the hospital.

When she left, Peter came out of his room to find some cash and note on the table.

Hey Sweetie,
Today will be better, you'll see! Buy a really good lunch. There's extra for gummy worms or whatever you're feeling like. Don't bring back any change, mister.
I'll try to be home by 6 for dinner and we can talk.
Love you lots,

May

Peter's chest had constricted painfully when he read it. May didn't deserve any of this.

So he had suited up and climbed out the window, eager to put distance between himself and the apartment and all his worries. Yesterday had been rough on so many levels, and he needed space to think about it. What should he do? What was the next step? Do nothing? Do something?

When Peter first met Skip, he'd trusted him. He'd wanted to make Skip proud, to impress him. How could he have been so foolish? He should have known better.

His stomach cramped with anxiety. Peter knew he had just been a child. He knew it with the rational part of his mind. He understood what Skip did hadn't been his fault. But Peter felt, deep down, that he could have done things differently. He could have run. He could have screamed. He could've refused to go back. But he hadn't done any of those things because he didn't even recognize what was happening until it was too late. He'd been such an idiot.

If people found out… Peter couldn't handle if people found out.

He spent an hour slinging his way through Queens, letting the rhythm calm his thoughts. But he was no closer to clarity by the time he stopped at a 24 hour convenience store for a quick snack. School breakfast was still a couple hours away, so he grabbed a bag of chips.

The cashier smiled and waved him on. "No charge, Spiderman!"

He thanked her and swung away, narrowly missing some street lights as he opened the bag to start eating mid-air. Peter landed lightly on a nearby rooftop to eat without being in danger of splatting against any poles or buildings. It was a quiet morning, dark and chilly. Not that Peter was actively looking for criminals. But the distraction might've been nice.

"Time, Karen?"

"It is 5:50 am, Peter. Will we be going home now?"

"Nah, quick alley change and I'm heading to school early. I've got a few assignments I need to do before classes."

Karen highlighted a few promising alleys where he wasn't likely to be disturbed. Between Karen and his spidey senses, Peter had never been caught mid-change. But no point tempting fate by dallying. Once he dropped behind the shadows of a dumpster, Peter slipped his fingers under the fabric edge of his mask, about to pull it off, when he heard shouting about a block away.

"Someone on Linden Boulevard and 197th Street in St. Albans just called 911 about a fight in the alley below their apartment window." Karen provided through the mask just as he'd been about to lift it off.

"I hear them. Headed there now." Peter was already swinging away again through the still-dark streets.
He quickly came upon a hijacking. Two men already had a third on the ground, bloodied and battered as he struggled to stop them from taking his car.

"Spiderman! Help!" The bloodied man shouted.

Peter webbed one burly guy to the ground and leapt down to street level to yank the other equally large man from the driver seat. It was quick, simple work, so Peter held onto his chips the whole time. The two guys had been surprisingly easy to pin down. In fact, they were a little taken aback that Spiderman seemed to be stopping them at all.

Until one shouted, "No, wait! It's our car!"

Peter paused. "What?"

His spidey senses flared intensely, spurring him to drop his chips and leap into the air just as the battered "victim" on the ground sprung up with a knife. Peter swore as he felt the knife's white hot tip carve a trail across his lower belly. He landed on the wall of building, sucking in air through clenched teeth as he shot a web at the real criminal's hand, knocking the knife away, and then tripped him up with a second web to the ankles.

"Okay, you got me." Peter puffed painfully through his mask. "Real clever. I wasn't expecting to be bamboozled by a lowlife hijacker first thing in the morning. But the joke is on you, sir. You could've used that ruse to get away."

Blood was soaking into his shredded suit. "Peter, you may need medical attention in the Med Bay. You have plenty of time to make your way there before school."

"Thanks Karen, but it's just a scratch, I'll take care of it later. I already feel it healing." Peter lied through gritted teeth.

Irritated that his day was already starting off on such a low note, Peter picked up his crushed bag of chips and turned back to the hijacker. "You know, I probably wouldn't have even chased you, no harm no foul. Instead, you decided to ruin my suit and ruin my morning. And you crushed my chips!"

Peter winced as he pressed one hand to his bleeding stomach. He dragged the would-be hijacker upright with his other hand, shoving him against a light pole and scattering all the pigeons who were watching the scuffle from above.

Peter roped him securely to the pole with extra layers of webbing. "Now I'm going to cocoon you up really tight to this post so it'll take a few hours to get you down. Sound good?" Peter dumped the chip crumbs on the ground around the man's feet and the pigeons returned.

The thief watched with bewildered, angry eyes as a pigeon landed boldly on his shoulder. "What the hell are you doing?"

"How does that saying go? Something about the early bird gets the worm, but the early knife-wielding thief gets crapped on by birds?" Peter shrugged. "Close enough."

The laceration was low on his belly, just under where the waist of his jeans would sit if he wasn't wearing the suit. It stretched straight across to his right hip bone. The cut was long enough and deep enough that he probably needed stitches, but it wasn't so deep to be life-threatening. It would heal on its own, eventually.

If he could just stitch it, the cut would probably heal in a matter of hours. But if he didn't stitch it and kept walking around like nothing happened, a cut that size might still be healing tomorrow.

Ugh, of all the dumb, foolish things. How could I be so stupid?

That was the equivalent of being duped by a, "Hey look over there!" And now instead of a relaxing head start to the day, Peter was going to be pressed for time trying to deal with the consequences of his own stupidity.

The worst part was he didn't have materials to stitch himself up anymore. May had confiscated the lidocaine and packets of pre-loaded suture needles weeks ago when she found them in his room. She'd been pretty mad and told him that if he ever got hurt badly enough to warrant stitches, he had better go to her or Tony for help.

But he couldn't go to May unless he wanted her to know that he had snuck out in the early morning hours without telling her. And there was no way he was going to go to Tony. Freaking out in front of him the day before was mortifying enough. He didn't want to explain being out at 4am to him, either.

There was nowhere for Peter to go without raising alarm bells. He would just have to go to school and clean himself up the best he could in the restrooms.

So stupid. Beyond idiotic.

Peter gingerly swung himself to the closest subway station and found a suitable place to change a wipe off some of the blood.

When he finally arrived at MidTown Tech, the bleeding had mostly stopped, but the cut wasn't quite knitting together.

His stomach grumbled hollowly. When had he even eaten a full meal? The tiny breakfast burrito probably didn't count. Yesterday's cafeteria lunch, perhaps?" Peter knew his poor eating habits were likely another factor slowing the cut's progress. He would need to get something to eat if he hoped for the wound to knit together properly.

First stop was the woodshop room, where Peter slipped in and borrowed the first aid kit before the teacher arrived to prepare for the day. The woodshop class could always be relied on to have a fully stocked first aid kit.

He took the little blue box into a restroom and cleaned the wound up a second time. All the moving around had ruptured some of the tenuously healed spots just under his navel. The skin around the wound was red and inflamed, but Peter doubted it was infected. It was probably just irritated from the constant movement and friction from the waist of his jeans. The slice crossed such a wide expanse of abdomen, it made it difficult to bend or twist without repeatedly reopening the wound, slowing its progress. It was going to be a long, annoying day.

Peter used a little box of adhesive butterfly closures to try to pull the edges of the cut together again and then he wrapped the whole area in gauze. It was agony, and he got blood all over the waist of his jeans, but it was the best he could do. At least his shirt was long enough to cover the stains.

The cafeteria wasn't open yet for breakfast, but after a quick stop to his locker for his things, and then to another vending machine, Peter was feeling slightly better. He could do this. He could endure the next 8 hours until he could go home.

He was only halfway through his Calculus homework when he heard Ned arrive.

"Oh my God, Peter! Where the hell have you been? I texted you a hundred times at least!"

"Oh, sorry man, my phone was with all my stuff in my locker. I went home without anything." Peter looked sheepishly at his friend. He forgot Ned would probably be freaking out.

Ned hesitated, brow furrowed in concern. "Are you okay? You kind of had me worried yesterday."

"I'm fine, really." Peter grimaced, "Or, I mean, I was fine. I may have gotten a little sliced up this morning. But I think it's healing now."

"Dude! What the hell? It's not even 8am!"

Peter shrugged. "I was up early."

Ned just sighed and pulled up a seat next to Peter. He took out his Calc homework and slid it over. "I've got the Spanish homework, too, if you want that. And a phone charger."

"You're a lifesaver, Ned. I could hug you, if you know, I weren't oozing blood from a knife wound."

"Oh my God."

With a charged phone, Peter was finally able to check his messages. There was already one from May to let him know she'd be late for dinner and to not expect her until 8. There were a lot from Ned, a couple from Mr. Stark last night, and even one from Happy sent that morning.

Mr. Stark: Hey, since you missed a lab day, I thought you might want to come tomorrow instead.

Let Happy know

Well that explained the message from Happy, who had never actually sent him anything before, despite Peter texting him regularly for months.

Happy: Am I picking you up today?

Crap. He really wanted a lab day, but he also would appreciate more time for all of yesterday's weirdness to fade from memory a bit first. He couldn't believe Mr. Stark and Ned had to search for him in the school, only to find him shaking with terror in an art supply closet, of all things.

So stupid. Why couldn't you have just waited calmly, or found a way out?

Peter didn't want to even think about how he must've looked to Mr. Stark yesterday. It would be nice to have a few days so everyone involved could just forget it even happened.

On the other hand, the lab first aid kit might actually have suture needles. Mr. Stark wasn't known for visiting the Med Bay himself. There was probably better stuff in his kit. Peter could easily snag something without the man noticing.

Plus May was going to be home late. Peter didn't want to hang out at the apartment alone. Especially not anymore.

Peter sent a text to Happy to let him know he'd appreciate a ride to the tower.

Between that and a quick stop in the cafeteria for a muffin and orange juice, Peter was feeling pretty good by the time the first bell rang. He'd gotten all his homework done, with Ned's help, and the throbbing cut on his stomach felt like it might be healing for real now.

It wasn't until lunch that things took a downhill turn.

His phone buzzed and he casually glanced down at the message.

Unknown: Hey Champ

Peter's insides turned to ice. He felt the blood drain from his face.

"Dude, are you okay?" Ned glanced at him over his tray.

"Yeah, I'm good." Peter shoved the phone into his bag and ignored it. It could just be a wrong number, he thought weakly.

Peter looked at his cafeteria pizza and salad. Suddenly he didn't have the appetite for it.

Things got worse in final period. As soon as he was seated, the teacher, Mrs. Johnson, approached his desk with a pinched frown. She wordlessly placed a pink slip on his desk for all the class to see, and several rows erupted in "oohhs." He had detention. Peter's stomach dropped. He'd be missing the lab day again, after all.

He texted Happy, "never mind, I got detention," and felt embarrassment curl in his stomach. But before he could hit send, his phone buzzed with another text from an unknown number.

He dropped his phone with a clatter, prompting Johnson to scold him for having his phone out. Peter picked his phone up off the floor with shaking hands. He could see the unknown texter was typing a new message, but he couldn't read it while under Johnson's watchful glare. He slipped the phone into his pocket, feeling like he was stashing a venomous snake.

It buzzed in his pocket again, sending chills up Peter's spine.

No. There was no way. How could he have Peter's number? May wouldn't have given it to him. She didn't do that sort of thing, even if she was duped into thinking Skip was a great guy.

But then it dawned on Peter.

Oh God, you idiot. You should've been more careful.

The job applications. His phone number was all over those applications. He'd let Skip just rifle through them yesterday.

He felt sick to his stomach and hunched over in his seat, but that pulled at his cut and made him wince.

"Got a tummy ache, Parker?" Flash hissed from somewhere behind him, and he felt a balled-up paper hit his back, causing him to jump.

Flash and a couple of his buddies laughed. He heard one of them mutter, "Idiot."

Peter agreed with the sentiment, and didn't even bother turning in his seat to face them. Not that he could. The cut burned so badly.

The phone buzzed again from his pocket, another venomous strike from the snake.

Peter wanted to go home. He wanted to hide. He wanted to throw his phone out the window. He definitely did not want to look at it. But he needed to know.

Peter drew in a shaky breath and slid his phone out again.

Uknown: I'd like to talk.

Do you have time today? We can grab a bite to eat. You can tell me about this mysterious internship of yours.

Peter blocked the number before sliding the phone back into his pocket.

After class, Johnson had him help carry stacks of old, obsolete textbooks to her car in the parking lot. Where she was taking them, Peter had no idea. He didn't complain, though. This detention was better than sitting at a desk, bored. He piled the books tightly in her trunk, wincing as he had to stretch at odd angles. The cut was definitely not healed all the way.

Peter's senses buzzed in alarm as Flash and his buddies came down the sidewalk.

Flash's tallest crony was carrying a basketball, looking completely innocent, but Peter sensed he was planning to be an ass at the very least.

"Still got a tummy ache, Parker?" Flash asked just as his friend shouted, "Think fast!" He threw the ball hard into Peter's gut, dropping him to the ground. He'd had just enough time to decide not to dodge or catch the ball and regretted his choice as he groaned on the sidewalk. Pain radiated from his stomach.

"Shit, Alex, what did you do?" Flash and his friends were backing away with wary looks.

"Nothing! He can't take a little ball being tossed his way? I didn't do anything to him."

The tall guy, Alex, turned to Peter, anger and disgust on his face. "I didn't hurt you. There's no way that hurt you, you little pussy."

Peter couldn't breathe through the blinding pain. A wet trickle of blood started to flow again. Damn it.

"Hey! What the hell is going on here?"

Happy was barreling across the parking lot. Peter was confused for a moment until he realized he had never actually sent that text to cancel lab day. Finally some good luck, Peter thought as he rolled onto his side, eyes watering.

Happy placed himself between Peter and Flash's group, glaring daggers. "Step away from him." He grabbed Peter gently by the shoulders and hoisted him up. "What's wrong, kid? Are you hurt?"

Peter unwrapped his arms from his gut, trying to straighten up all the way, when he heard a shocked hiss from everyone gathered.

A bloodstain was blossoming at the bottom of his shirt.

Happy swore and whirled on the group who had already started to scatter.

"It's okay, Happy, it wasn't them," Peter spoke tightly through stabs of pain.

Mrs. Johnson came out of the building again and looked wide-eyed at Peter's bloody shirt. "You're excused, Mr. Parker! Is this your ride?"

"Yep, thanks Mrs. Johnson," Peter groaned as the woman went inside, probably to write an incident report that glaringly lacked Flash's name.

Happy looked over Peter doubtfully. "Am I going to have to carry you, or can you walk?"

"I can walk. It's really not as bad as it looks, I think it just reopened a little."

Happy swore again but came over to walk closely by Peter's side as he inched his way to the car. "I'm taking you to the Med Bay." The man pulled open the back door and ushered Peter in.

Of course. Peter sighed in resignation as he sank into the back seat.

Bruce washed his hands in the sink and glanced over at Peter with a small, sympathetic smile.

"Let's take a look at it, and then I can get you some of your super pain pills, how does that sound?"

"It's really not that bad. It feels better already."

"That's good, but it might still need stitches to help hold it all together and heal faster. And I'm a little concerned about how deep it might be if it's been bothering you all day."

Bruce was all calm patience, but Mr. Stark sighed frustratedly from across the room. "Hop up on the bed, kid, let's get this over with."

The man had looked mad since Peter arrived to find him waiting in the Med Bay. Happy must've texted him during the drive. His tension and anger were putting Peter on edge. He didn't want to do anything else to make Mr. Stark mad, so he slowly climbed up onto the bed. As he lay back on the bed, his stomach immediately growled.

Mr. Stark looked at him sharply, and even Bruce paused to ask with a frown, "When did you last eat, Peter?"

Peter winced, remembering that he had skipped lunch. "Uh...this morning."

Mr. Stark threw his hands up in the air, his frustration boiling over. "You can't just skip meals, kid." Tony shook his head. "You need twice as much food as a typical teenager—don't you get that?"

Peter nodded, feeling foolish and chastised, hating how he always seemed to disappoint his mentor lately.

Bruce sighed "Tony, I know you think you're helping, but can you help silently from over there, please?" Bruce gestured vaguely towards the hallway. Mr. Stark stayed but quieted down, his jaw clenched tight.

Bruce continued kindly, "Peter, your healing is heavily dependent on your metabolism. Your body simply can't heal at super-speed if you don't eat regularly."

"I know that." God, he felt so stupid.

Mr. Stark rounded on him again, unable to keep quiet. "Do you? You have enhanced healing, not the ability to defy the laws of thermodynamics. Where do you think all the energy for your healing comes from? The sun? You need calories, and lots of them. And if you're going to heal sliced body parts and replace all the blood you've lost, you're going to need the protein and iron necessary to rebuild all that tissue."

Peter's face burned with embarrassment. "I understand."

Mr. Stark's face softened and he let out a long sigh. "FRIDAY, order some burgers from our favorite place. He can eat after he gets patched up."

Dr. Banner took this as his cue to proceed. He approached slowly, clearly sensing Peter was nervous. Peter gripped the edges of the bed, wanting it to be over with already. The man's looming figure was painfully present in his periphery and Peter instinctively crept backwards up the bed a few inches, making Bruce halt.

"Let's start with some medicine to help ease the pain, okay?" His voice was calm and reassuring, but Peter's pulse still raced.

Peter took a shaky breath, willing himself to hold steady. What the hell was wrong with him? He was so jumpy and sensitive today, even the phone buzzing in his pocket felt like it was attacking him. It was probably just Ned. Peter hoped it was just Ned.

Bruce handed him two white pills and a small paper cup of water. Peter took them quickly, tipping his head back and swallowing in one go, as if the meds would even numb the sort of pain Peter was feeling.

The effects were not instantaneous, so Bruce gave the drugs a few minutes to start working. In that time Mr. Stark remained against the far wall, arms crossed and face tense with an unreadable expression.

Peter felt a cool numbness start to spread.

After a few minutes, Banner looked at his watch and seemed satisfied that enough time had passed. "Okay, let's see what we're working with."

Peter tensed. He did not want to unbutton his pants and lower them even the half inch necessary to show them. His fingers twisted in the blood stained hem of his shirt. "It's probably fine now. I think it stopped bleeding." He looked at both of them, pleading silently.

Tony stared at him incredulously. "You think it's fine? How about we take a look and then we'll know for sure?"

"It's kind of … low on my stomach." Peter shrugged uncomfortably. It was just such a vulnerable location.

"You can keep your pants on," Bruce said, catching onto his discomfort.

Tony rolled his eyes and Peter winced. He knew he was being stupid, but that still stung. Slowly, hands shaking, he unbuttoned his pants and lay back so they could see the knife wound. His throat was suddenly so tight he couldn't swallow, and didn't dare try to draw a breath lest he choke on it.

Bruce whistled. "That's a long cut. And pretty deep, too. Looks like it reached muscle. No wonder you're having so much trouble with it healing. Without it being properly stitched, you're aggravating it whenever you move."

Tony ground his teeth and exhaled forcefully. "A little deeper and you'd be pushing your intestines back in. What were you thinking, walking around with that? And why didn't I get an alert that you were injured on patrol last night? I thought you stayed in?"

Peter couldn't open his mouth to explain, so he just stared at his feet at the end of the bed.

Bruce gathered bottles of antiseptic and sterile swabs and started cleaning the wound. It was torture. Peter had to force himself to stay still and not crawl up the back of the bed and run. He bit his tongue to keep from whimpering.

"Does it hurt?" Dr. Banner asked, misreading the tension.

"Didn't you give him the full dose, Bruce?" Tony crept up by Peter's side, brow furrowed. The anger faded from his tone and was replaced by concern. "Are you still in pain, Underoos? You've got to tell us so we can adjust the meds."

Peter shook his head, feeling bile rise into his throat. He just wanted Dr. Banner to get this over with. He trusted Banner with his life, but his body felt the ghost of another's touch, making his heart pound in fear and his stomach churn. Too late he realized it wasn't just his typical nauseous response to the memories. He was actually about to throw up.

Peter clamped a hand over his mouth and shot a terrified look at his mentor, who was fast on the uptake. In one smooth movement, Tony lunged for a plastic bin, almost getting it under Peter's chin before Peter lurched forward and vomited. Almost.

"Christ..."

Peter groaned, his face burning in shame as he realized Tony was on the receiving end of some of that splatter. Mortification washed over him. Not only had he lost control in front of his mentor, but he'd actually thrown up on him. He gasped between heaves, barely able to get out the words, "I'm sorry, I'm so, so sorry…"

Tony just shushed him, his voice low and calming as his hand found Peter's back, rubbing gentle, steady circles. "Hey, hey, you're fine, kid. Really, it's okay," he murmured, voice softening as he kept his hand moving in soothing circles. "Just take it easy."

Peter shuddered, bile rising again, but this time he managed to direct it all into the bin. The nausea seemed endless, leaving him feeling raw and hollow. He wished he could disappear, dissolve into thin air and escape this moment entirely.

Tony's hand never left his back. "Bruce, what's going on?" Tony's voice was tense, and Peter felt him stiffen beside him. "Why is he sick? Is there internal damage?"

"It's not deep enough. Peter, are you hurt anywhere else?"

"FRIDAY, scan him."

Peter couldn't answer through the flurry of activity. It was all he could do to aim for the bin as he continued to strain and heave, though he barely had anything to bring up. It was mostly bile.

At some point, the activity around him subdued. FRIDAY said something, Peter caught snippets of "anxiety" and "heart rate,"

Amid the chaos, he felt Tony's hand shift, fingers brushing his sweaty hair back from his forehead. "Hey, Pete, look at me," Tony's voice was warm, laced with concern. "Take it slow, just breathe."

As Mr. Stark's hand carded soothingly through his hair, a feeling of safety began to wash over him. He slowed his shallow panting and his heartrate resumed a more natural pace. He realized Dr. Banner had retreated completely out of the room, giving Peter space to calm down.

"How's your stomach? Feeling any better?"

It didn't. It hurt horribly from the strain of vomiting practically nothing. But Peter nodded tightly, his face red. "I'm so sorry, Mr. Stark. I didn't mean to..."

"Don't worry about it kid, I've had worse, trust me," he said with a faint, reassuring smile.

The man's gaze flicked upward. "Hey, FRIDAY? Send something lighter, like soup and sandwiches, please?"

"Got it boss," FRIDAY answered helpfully.

His voice turned soft, hesitant. "Listen, kiddo. Bruce is going to come back over here and stitch you up. I promise you won't feel it, and he's going to be so quick it'll be over before you know it, okay?"

Peter nodded again. As long as Mr. Stark was combing through his hair like that, Peter thought he could ignore Banner's ministrations. But he didn't know how to ask him to stay up there at his shoulder and continue the gentle touch.

It turned out he didn't have to. As soon as Bruce set the little tray down next to his hip and peeled the top of his pants back a little, Peter buried his face in Mr. Stark's side.

He felt Mr. Stark freeze for a moment, and then gingerly resumed running his fingers through Peter's hair. "There we go, just breathe through it. You're doing good Underoos."

The specter of unwelcome touch on his skin and unwanted eyes on his body slowly dissipated. Peter stayed rooted firmly in the present, focused on Mr. Stark's soothing touch. He was safe here.

He could feel the regular, repetitive pull of suture thread. He felt light, quick hands pressing gauze to his skin and smoothing on strips of medical tape. It was all predictable. There was safety and reassurance in the predictability.

Mr. Stark was right, it really was done before he knew it. Dr. Banner pulled a blanket up to cover him and left, giving him space to adjust his clothes himself. Peter's fingers clutched the fabric, his mind still reeling from the vulnerability of it all.

Tony gave him a small, almost sheepish smile. "Look, kid, I, uh…I'm sorry for being so hard on you earlier. You gotta take care of yourself. Don't…don't follow my example," he said, his voice rough with something that sounded like regret. "Be better."

"It's okay, Mr. Stark. Peter Parker Makes Crap Decisions is the title of my life."

Mr. Stark frowned. "I didn't mean it like that, kid."

Peter shrugged, but Mr. Stark looked troubled.

Dr. Banner returned with a clear soda and instructed Peter to sip it slowly. "Your stomach will feel better with some food, but you need to go slowly. Sit here and take your time, but you need to eat."

Peter nodded, feeling abashed all over again.

The soup and sandwiches arrived and Mr. Stark joined him in companionable silence. He'd changed clothes quickly in one of the Medbay rooms, now wearing a t-shirt and jeans, instead of his ruined suit.

"Thanks, Mr. Stark, for...um, everything." Peter's face heated thinking about the past couple days. The man had now witnessed two anxiety attacks on back to back days, and had been vomited on. He wasn't sure he'd ever live that down. Anxiety attacks aside, Peter just felt like an idiot all the time now. When would he stop embarrassing himself? He always seemed to be doing something stupid or freaking out in front of Mr. Stark lately. The man couldn't possibly think as highly of him as he used to.

"No problem kid." Mr. Stark pushed another cup of soup towards him and checked the time. "I want you to take your time, rest and eat as much as you can. But afterward, if you're feeling up to it, we can still head up to the lab. I was hoping to pick that brilliant brain of yours real quick before I send you home. Nothing strenuous, I just want to get your opinion before you head out."

A slow smile spread across Peter's face. Okay, maybe Mr. Stark didn't think he was so stupid. "Sounds great, Mr. Stark."

"Good. I was hoping to show you how the nanites are progressing. Might cheer you up." Mr. stark hesitated. "And I wanted to talk to you a little, too."

Peter tensed, but Tony's voice was steady, gentle. "I want you to know you can come to me, okay?"

Was that all? Peter looked at his shoes and frowned a little. "I know that, Mr. Stark."

"Do you?" The man studied him quietly for a moment. "I mean it. Whatever happens. You get hurt, come to me. You have something bothering you, come to me."

Peter nodded. "Well, in that case, the body of my suit is almost a two-piece now, and I don't think duct tape is going to hack it."

He pressed his mouth into a thin, unamused line and nodded. "I figured as much. But I'm not talking to Spiderman right now. I'm talking to Peter Parker."

"I hear you Mr. Stark."

They went back to eating and Peter thought about what he said. He went to Mr. Stark for help all the time, didn't he? He didn't always hide injuries. It was a nice reminder, though. Mr. Stark was such a nice guy. Peter really didn't deserve him.

It had been a long day - well, a long few days - but he finally had some peace. Peter could feel the phone buzzing in his pocket again. But here in the Med Bay, having dinner with Mr. Stark, he felt safe. He felt beyond the reach of his past, if only for a little while.