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Peter wished he stopped thinking about death.
Not death as in suicide, but death as in the what-ifs. What if today was the day Aunt May died? What if this was the last time he’ll hug Ned and next time the only thing he’s hugging is a cold body? What if he dies, who is he unable to save now and what achievements did he leave behind?
At first, he didn’t even realize these were thoughts he had. It was just a natural process that with every celebration, every close call, every “see you later”, death would linger in his mind. If he was with a loved one, his eyes would roam over their face, remember their smile, their firm touch, like tomorrow was going to be their funeral and this moment was already a memory he was looking back on.
Death was still a part of Gotham, something impossible to avoid with a city filled with heroes, villains, and everything in between. The citizens here don’t carry sunshine in their pockets, they carry secrets and knowing glances, melancholy and pride.
Yet there was one night when all he was doing was staring at the Gotham skyline, with that night the smog being lighter than normal and a harmless thought passing by,
If someone pushes me right now, and I die, who would be the first person to find me?
Then his entire body paused, only because this was the first pause he’d had in a long time, and he furrowed his eyebrows so deep that his eyes began to squint, where did that thought come from?
——
Peter is not unfamiliar with death. That word clung onto him before he could pronounce it, the meaning still unknown as he tried to understand why his parents were taking so long to come back. Later, it was explained and he thought he understood death, and the consequences to both the recipient and those around them.
Uncle Ben was his first true touch of how bruising a grip death will have on his life. He had cried himself to sleep so often that Aunt May had to change the pillowcase every night, his anguish only petering out because he could see how his devastation was wearing down Aunt May’s morale.
Some nights he can’t stomach the thought of Mr. Stark. Yet on those nights would be when The Fight played on repeat, his mind a broken vinyl player that looped the same scene until he forgot every emotion but grief. He couldn’t remember the weeks after the battle that well, just a brief cognitive moment here and there; Mr. Stark’s funeral, hugging Ned, finding MJ, staring at graffiti memorials of IronMan, crying to the point of vomiting, and other scattered pieces.
The thought of Natasha always sneaks up on him during the most unexpected times, befitting for an assassin. He wasn’t as close to her as Mr. Stark to call her family, but close enough to know she was a friend. Close enough to feel his stomach drop and knees quack at the mention of her, however brief it may be.
Peter thinking of Vision was sporadic, always during the little moments of joy; baking the perfect batch of cupcakes and knowing Vision would have loved the recipe, the sun shining during a chilly day and Vision not being there to tell him fun facts about the world, and other moments that don’t quite bring Peter to a stop, but his mind drifts for a bit.
There are nights where it all mixes in his head, paralyzes him to his bed, tears following the same salty path down his face from the past hour, gasping through his mouth as his nose was too stuffy, and staying silent as Aunt May needed her sleep from another 16-hour shift.
Peter thinks it only felt natural for him to prepare for death, to the point that he was readying his emotions every day in case today was the day that somebody else died.
——
His friends may joke and Aunt May may swat at him with the hand towel whenever he makes the comment, but the Peter Parker luck is real. If the death count in his life needs two hands to count, then there must be a pattern somewhere.
The investigation didn’t take long for him to solve as the red string all led back to him, wringing his neck and handcuffing his hands.
Now Gotham’s vigilantes want to team up with him and all he’s willing to give are witty remarks to avoid their sharp questions. He has nothing more to give as he’s afraid that if he does, it will result in a silent chest for both of them.
Deep down he knows though that in due time they’ll slither into his life and they’ll be added to the list of what-ifs.
In reality, he knows that they’ve already managed to do that.
——
“ Status ,” Oracle's voice cracks through the com, the rapid typing on a keyboard muffled.
“ Top five floors have been cleared by Spoiler and I. We found and disarmed three bombs. We’re moving down. ” Nightwing replied, voice hushed and airy.
Batman’s com came on suddenly and instead of his gravelly voice coming through, the distant rant of the new villain, Explosive Arms, floated by, “– it’s going to play; you transfer the money from that computer and no one gets hurt. If you– ”
With the cut-off, Spider-Man takes it as his cue, “Hostages on the third floor, seven guards in total, five down–” He grunts as he’s forced to duck down from a spray of bullets. Using the new position, he shoots at the goons’ ankles and both shout as they lose balance. Before either could hit the ground, Spider-Man pounces them to the floor and webs them tight.
“I’ve secured the hostages, taking them out now.” He plucks the knife from his utility belt and makes quick work of slicing all the restraints off the people. Despite the circumstances, none of them look on the brink of panic, though the tear tracks are expected. One man is unconscious, however, with some dried blood near his hairline.
Putting some pep in his voice to give them hope, he whispers, “Get in a line and stay quiet. Two people will carry that man and stay in the middle. I’ll be up on the ceiling scouting out if you don’t hear me giving you the clear, hide and don’t engage. If all goes well, you should be back home by dinner time.” The last line gave Spider-Man a hardened nod from everyone, and with a nod back, they got into motion.
The goons travel in large groups, making it exceptionally easy for Peter to throw in a sticky bomb and have the area cleared in five seconds flat. By the time they arrive on the ground floor of the ruined apartment complex and he sees the Police force waiting outside, Spider-Man is sure of the win.
The rest of the group must have thought so too as they surged through the busted doors, not before Spider-Man cleared the outside of course, and the medics swarmed around the victims to get them checked.
Spider-Man clicks on the com, “The hostages are outside and so am I. If anyone needs princess saving, I have some time to spare.” He hops on top of the ambulance, watching as the unconscious man is welcomed back to the land of the living, and promptly starts to freak out.
“ We’re good Spider-Man, stay with the hostages and make sure no one is too close to the building. We’ve been finding a lot of bombs– are you kidding me? ” Nightwing hisses at the end, air swooshing in the coms suddenly.
Before someone could ask what’s wrong, Spoiler pops in, “ We just located a fuckton of explosives and we hear the beeping of a countdown, but it’s stuck somewhere within the pile of explosives.”
Spider-Man was half paying attention when all of a sudden the now-conscious man spotted him and began shouting pleas, resisting the paramedics to get closer to Spider-Man. Deciding to save a headache for everyone, Peter went to the man.
If the medics weren’t there, Peter thinks the man would have gotten to his knees and begged. His face was contorted with grief, a reflection of Peter each time death struck him, “Please, please my-my daughter is in there, I hid her on the second floor in a closet, I need you to–” the man choked on his own words, babbles of pleas.
To Peter, it wasn’t much of a choice of what he was going to do. Grief that deep, the one that drags your heart down into the grave and the world loses the glimmer it once had, shouldn’t happen to anyone.
“Don’t worry, I’ll find her.” Without another moment's notice, he shoots a web to the third floor and flies through the building to find a closet. He ignores the scattered bombs, not having the time to waste precious seconds.
“I’m heading–” Peter clamps his mouth shut, his ears slaughtered by the sudden ruckhouse from his earpiece.
“ We need backup! We got thirty goons –” bullets and grunts came through, the thick concrete walls breaking connection for a moment, “ and they don’t seem to care about stray bullets! ”
“ All units, leave the building immediately. I have Explosive Arms secured and he has another mine of explosives on the upper floor. ” Batman’s voice cuts through the chaos, and with it brings order. Everyone affirms the order, even Spider-Man because he just located the daughter.
Scooping her up, he bounces her in his arms lightly to calm down her squirming, sprinting through obstacles. It’s at the end of the fourth hallway that he finally sees a slice of sky, the night skies almost blending in with the concrete surrounding him.
“ Nightwing and I are out with– ” Spider-Man feet get swept from under him, and only because of the brief DANGER! that his spidey sense screamed did he manage to rotate so that his shoulder slammed into the ground and not the kid’s head.
DANG — the ceiling falls, and with a speed that left Peter’s eyes blurry, he heaved the slab up with the arm that wasn’t holding the kid.
DANG — lights flash against his eyelids, his body curving around a trembling body, his body scratched and hit by unknown objects.
DANG — he shoots an arm and both knees up, grunting at the sudden force he was holding up, all while laying on an uneven surface.
It took several moments to reorient himself, his ears ringing and he had to figure out whether his eyes were just closed or if they were suddenly in a pitch-black room. Once his eyes adjusted, his body stilled.
Not again. Please, anything but this again.
Memories rise from the dead, the terror from then amplified by the terror that coursing through his heaving chest. The helplessness as he tries to figure out how he’s getting out of this one alive. The strain being exerted on his body as he holds up a building from crushing him again.
Wailed cries, ones that require the full chest to release all the distraught feelings a child has, breaks him out of his panic. He slightly turns his head, the back of his head scraping against the concrete, and shame takes root. He’s been through this before, but this child hasn’t even hit double digits and is experiencing this trauma.
Sucking in his panic, he gently coos, “Hey, hey, everything is alright—”
“We’re going to be crushed!” The girl sobs, from the sound of her voice, her nose is clogged with snot.
“No we won’t, I’m holding up the building and I’m as strong as Superman–” a lie, but he doesn’t have much to work with here, “I can keep holding this for hours. All we need to do is calm down and wait for help, alright? Nothing bad will happen to us with me around.”
The cries don’t stop despite his reassurance, and with the concrete surrounding them on all sides, the sounds are only amplified. He ruffles through all his experiences with kids and prays that this one would work.
“Hey, while we’re waiting, do you want to help me?” That gets her attention. Tears are still falling, but the wails tampered down.
“H-how? I’m not as strong as you.” She shuffles towards his voice, the floating dust settling on her dreads.
“Oh, I’m sure you are. Can you help me hold up the slab real quick, I think I might need your strong muscles.” The girl’s face scrunches up but does as she’s told and raises her arms to put pressure against the slab that’s trying to kill them.
Peter forces his vocal cords to loosen up, “Thanks so much, I really needed that. Can’t believe I got lucky enough to have you as my helping hands. Whoever is taking care of you must be so proud to have a strong girl like you.” In reality, her help did nothing to lighten the weight, his muscles screaming at him. But her entire face brightened up and a determined scowl set in her jaw, the few muscles on her forearms straining as she applied more force.
“I’ll keep holding it as long as you want me to!” Peter smiles at that and focuses on their situation, determined to get out of here.
As his body staved off the panic, pain replaced it tenfold. Craning his head to peer at his legs, blood drains from his face as he notices a metal rod protruding through the flesh part of his thigh. As his knees were up to support the building up, the blood trickled down and was starting to pool near his butt.
His head falls back as he attempts and mostly succeeds at muffling his hysteria at being trapped like a bug. Any plans to create a tunnel for them crumbles down and his options narrow down significantly.
His com won’t be of use either as static is the only answer that’s coming through the earpiece, the tons of concrete making it impossible for a signal to come through. None of the Bats are enhanced either, so either they contact someone to lift this rumble off of him or Peter beats them to it.
“Hey, what’s your name? I’m Spider-Man.” The girl giggles, however pathetically it may be given the circumstances.
“I know who you are, everyone in Gotham does, silly. I’m Jasmine.” Peter pauses as he doesn’t think his name could have spread that far, right? The girl must be from Crime Alley and have seen him.
Storing that info for later, he gets on with it, “Nice to meet you, Jasmine. Could you do me another favor? Can you grab the thin box from my utility belt and turn it on? I need to call a friend.” Jasmine hesitates, her arms shaking from how much strain she’s putting herself through.
Peter softens, his voice naturally soothing her, “Don’t worry about holding it up anymore, you gave me a good break, I can hold onto it now. I promise I can do it.” The last line was directed at her, but it hit Peter instead.
He can do this. He won’t let her die.
With great reluctance, she lets go and shuffles to him. He guides her through the darkness and debris, trying to make her avoid the growing pool of blood without her knowing, “Don’t go any further, there’s debris there. Use my stomach as support and you should find a thin box on my belt. Don't forget to turn it on.” She does as she’s told, maneuvering past the blood.
Peter sucks in when she presses down on a blooming bruise, but she’s none the wiser as she swipes through his utility belt. With some luck and error, she gets a hold of the box and brings it to his face. He takes a deep breath in, tries not to think of Mr. Stark, and powers through.
“Karen, contact Wanda and tell her I need her help immediately. Update her on the situation.” Peter’s voice cracks on Karen’s name, the first time he’s used her since Mr. Stark’s death. Still, safety over trauma, and he’s made sure to carry her around.
The box flickers on, the tiny blue light illuminating the heavy dust, “Currently contacting Wanda, would you like me to contact anyone else?” Her peppy voice brings tears to Peter’s eyes. He missed her.
“No, everyone else is either too far away or won’t be able to help. Could you also connect me to Oracle’s network? You’ll be able to tell which one it is right away.” He stared up at the concrete, the thing less than a foot away from his face. The pool of blood was starting to cool down, causing goosebumps up his arms.
“Of course, it should only take me three minutes to get you in touch with Oracle.” He smiled at her ease, knowing he could count on her.
“Thanks Karen, you’re the best.”
“Of course I’m the best, I have to be. I should also advise you to start communicating with me again, I’ve missed you dearly.” Karen might be a program, but she was a program designed by Mr. Stark. He always worried about Peter so he designed him a friend, one that Peter has been ignoring.
Not anymore, he can’t disregard Mr. Stark’s gift this easily, “I missed you too, Karen. I’ll be sure to have you with me from now on.” The blue lights vrmmped in satisfaction and powered down.
——
Nightwing swung low, releasing the grappling hook, and using the rest of the momentum to jog to Red Hood. The man was crouched on the edge of the building, overlooking the chaos; firefighters hosing down the fires from the explosion, Gordon shouting orders to anyone nearby, police trying to disperse the crowd of onlookers, and the medics attempting to quell the hysteria with the hostages.
“Well, that was a shit show,” Red gruffed, his eyes roaming while rotating his right wrist.
Nightwing stepped next to him, keeping an eye on the hostages, “Could have gone worse. Thankfully Spider-Man got the hostages out in time and we captured the villain. Do you need that iced?” Nightwing eyed the wrist Red Hood was nursing, complaints ready to be spilled.
“Nah, I didn’t let go of the grappling hook in time before the explosion fucking threw me. Should be peachy by tomorrow.” Nightwing pursed his lips but didn’t comment further.
The two sat in silence, watching as the chaos embed away. Well, mostly.
“Those hostages are really on something,” Red Hood muttered and Nightwing agreed, the situation with the hostages seeming to only escalate as more time passed by. The medics have already needed to sedate half of them, the other half either trying to run to the ruined building or shouting for help.
“Shouldn’t Spider-Man be with them or something? They weren’t kicking and screaming with him,” Red grumbled and stood up, readying his grappling hook.
“Where you going?” Nightwing clutched his hook, raising it in the general direction Red was about to shoot.
“I’m bored, might as well kill time by figuring out what the fuck’s going on down there.” His hook shot out and a moment later he was soaring through the night, Nightwing a beat behind.
“Red Hood and I are heading to the hostages, keep me updated.” Oracle hummed in affirmation and Nightwing left his com on.
Before their hooks could fully retract, they were swarmed. The hostages clung onto them, pleas mixing with sobbing, incoherent babbling with strong demands. Red Hood and he were overwhelmed, unable to subdue them without harming, until one lady slammed her way to them.
Her ruined makeup should have made her look like a maniac, which it did, but it also brought out the determination pulsing in her. Digging her manicured nail into his chest, she yelled, “You need to go back! Spider-Man went in to get a girl and he didn’t come out when the building exploded!”
Fear— no, horror struck Dick. Jason and him made eye contact, and before either could com in, Batman’s tidal of a voice thundered through their earpiece.
“ Spider-Man, what’s your status? ”
The silence that followed was damning.
Batman didn’t skip a beat, “ Oracle, what was his last location? ”
Oracle’s suck of air felt like condemnation, “ His last location was inside the building, near the South Gate. It says that his com is on but something is blocking the signal, only static is coming through. ” It didn’t take a genius to put two and two together.
Batman started directing orders (“ Contact Superman and tell him we need him immediately— ”) and Nightwing focused his attention back to the hostages.
Setting a heavy hand on the woman's shoulder, he nodded his thanks, “We’re working on getting Spider-Man out, Superman is currently on his way. For now, go treat your wounds so Spider-Man doesn’t have more to worry about when he gets out,” Nightwing stressed the word and it seemed to appease the hostages, the medics giving a sigh of relief.
“What are you waiting for, pretty boy? We got a spider to find.” Red Hood slapped the back of his shoulder and jerked his chin toward the ruined building. Dick’s heart squeezed imagining Spider-Man under all of that rubble.
Nodding at Red Hood, the two swung to the collapsed building.
——
“Mr. Spider, what’s that smell?” Jasmine’s voice questioned, her voice muffled behind the makeshift mask so her little lungs won’t be clogged by the dust.
That smell was his blood, the flow going down to a trickle as his flesh healed itself around the rod. Something which he isn’t looking forward to getting rid of.
Pushing through the dizziness and general exhaustion, he mumbled, “Just rusted iron, the building was pretty old.” Which fuck him if the metal rod in him is rusted.
“Oh, okay.”
Peter couldn’t compel himself to make her feel better, as all his depleting energy was going into making sure they don’t die. He tried switching arms, but he thinks he might have dislocated his shoulder and heavily bruised his ribs during the blast, putting him down to two functional limbs.
If he were to die now, that would be unfortunate. Jasmine would most certainly die and Peter would die with a guilty conscious. He can already see the articles Jameson would publish, partially because Peter has already seen some of them.
Aunt May and Ned would cry for weeks, blaming themselves for his death one way or another. But Ms. Potts would take care of Aunt May and Ned has his girlfriend, so they'll be okay. They've already dealt with his death once, and though Peter doesn't want them to deal with it a second time, he knows they'll be able to do it.
Jasmine’s death would be a tragedy. He can already imagine the tiny coffin being lowered, her teachers softly sobbing, her classmates confused about why she wouldn’t be coming back, and the emptiness her guardians would be feeling when her birthday passes.
Blue light flickered to life, and with that, so did Peter’s hope, “Wanda has been contacted and she has just teleported. You should notice her help soon. In the meantime, it’s taking longer than expected to connect with Oracle, would you like—”
Crimson seeped into their collapsed cave and swallowed the blue, tendrils of red slithering their way in and wrapping around the rubble. Peter thinks Jasmine started shrieking, blubbered cries rising in a heartbeat, but everything was… out there. He knew it was happening but the acknowledgement of it kept slipping his mind.
Something to do with malnourishment probably. Blood loss and extreme exertion make the list too, he thinks.
Fresh air wafted in, and after that, everything occurred at once; his comm blasted to life with voices overlapping one another, his arms gave out as the weight disappeared, screams, and white-hot pain blackening his vision as the metal rod slid out of his thigh. The barbs on the rod caught on his flesh, shredding the muscles once more and Peter's world was reduced to nothing but pain.
It ebbed away, as most pain does, and he was left reeling from the past few minutes? Hours? All he knows is that if somebody told him it's been two days since he's been trapped under the building, he would believe them.
Peter, wake up
Peter paused at the feminine voice in his head, praying that he wasn't starting to hear voices as a coping mechanism.
Fortunately, not a coping mechanism. I think I'll make you crazy instead.
The inky night sky breached Peter's eyes, yet the onslaught of pain that he was expecting didn't even pinch his body. The general sense of gravity was also gone with wisps of red entering his vision.
I'm holding off your pain until your healing can repair most of you. Also we're currently in the sky with about a hundred people looking at us.
“We're fuckin’ what…?” Peter shook himself awake, glancing down because apparently from almost being squashed to the ground, he was now floating six stories high in the air.
Just like he was told, all the Bats that he was with were grouped on a roof, police officers were trying to maintain the situation but were distracted themselves as they stared at Peter, and dozens of civilians pointed their phones towards them.
Huh, that's not ideal.
No, it's not, so let's head out. You'll pass out soon either way.
At the reminder of the voice, Peter turned back around and remembered yes, he did ask for Wanda to come help.
Coming face to face with her, he paused at the edge lining her eyes, an emotionless scowl set firm. Something clearly happened in Westview for her to be acting like this.
But rational thought overcame and he shook his head, “It’s your first time here, good impressions,” Peter shook with coughs, the dust from the building agitating his lungs, “are important. What if I need your help again and they won't let you in?”
Realistically, they both knew Wanda couldn’t give a shit about permission to enter and leave. But she heard his plea, and with a heavy sigh, she floated the two of them near the Bats with Superman in the mix now.
Once the two groups were within listening distance, Wanda stopped. Both groups eyed each other down, not with hostility, but with suspicion of what the other wanted with Spider-Man.
“Spider-Man, are you safe with Scarlet Witch?” Batman, ever the vigilant protector, broke the standoff.
Though this was Peter’s idea to introduce Wanda to the Bats, the adrenaline crash was inevitable. But shaking his brain like a wet dog, he attempted to gain just enough energy to make it through this encounter, “Mmmm, I was the one to call her in. She’s good, won’t harm without reason.”
Currently, Peter was in a princess carry in Wanda’s hold, his head leaning heavily on her shoulder. Due to his position, he couldn’t see the fierce glare Wanda was shooting them, a clear message,
Spider-Man is the only reason why I haven’t harmed you all
“You should come to the Titan’s clinic, I can see that you’re heavily injured.” With Superman’s remark, the Bats eyed Spider-Man even more closely, wary of the red wisps circling around him like guard dogs. The wisps were especially concentrated around his thigh, so much so that they couldn’t see past it.
As Peter was losing his consciousness fast, partially due to Wanda forcing his stubbornness to go and rest, Wanda replied in a cool tone, “That’s alright, I’ll be able to heal him faster. Spider-Man will contact you once he’s better.” With that, Wanda and Spider-Man blinked out of existence.
Batman didn’t miss a beat and turned with a swish of his cape, “Since you’re here, Superman check if there are any more civilians under the rubble. Everyone else, patrol is over. Get your injuries sorted and do a check-in in one hour.”
The command rippled through and Batman disappeared with the night.
——
Wanda barely took a glance at the desolated apartment, going straight to the bed and lowering Peter on it. Tucking the blankets up to his chin and wiping his sweat-ridden hair off to the side, she checked over his body once more.
Bruised but not broken. His enchantments were already taking over Wanda’s work, mending the torn flesh and bones.
Nodding in satisfaction, she stood up and took a look around. Her lips lowered to a grimace, disapproving of the condition of everything. If it wasn’t for Peter’s memories that guided her to this dumpster, she would have thought this was an abandoned building.
But she can’t bend reality to make it better for Peter. Peter is stubborn to a fault, help simply not being in his dictionary. Though her magic spoke to her to fix it all up, she reframed as Peter wouldn’t approve.
Instead, she did the bare minimum; fixing the heater, eradicating any mold, sweeping off dust, and refreshing his clothes, all with a flick of her wrist. It wouldn’t change his circumstances, but it would lighten the load.
Knowing that the longer she remains here the longer she’s putting a target on Peter, she did one more preliminary check and teleported back where she was.
——
Peter waking up and feeling like shit was the norm for him, so much so that it took him a couple of minutes to realize that he was feeling especially shitty today. The moment he tried to sit up, he hacked out coughs, his throat parched and lungs on fire. Once the coughing fit subsided, he wiped away his tears and searched for his phone.
Clicking it on, he nearly went into another coughing fit seeing the time.
Fuck, he’s late to his internship!
Scrabbling out of bed, he dialed Mr. Wayne’s phone number, all while he nearly kneeled to the ground to the sudden pain in his thigh. Peter didn’t have a moment to recover as before the first dial went through, Mr. Wayne’s clear voice came through, “Peter, are you alright? You’ve been missing for three—”
“I’m so sorry Mr. Wayne, I slept in, I’ll be there,” Peter caught his breath, holding in another coughing fit, “in 30 minutes I promise.” He swiped at the mute button, coughs shaking his entire body so ferociously that he held on the side of his bed as support.
By the time it went down to a bearable amount, Peter realized he didn’t hear a single thing Mr. Wayne said. His embarrassment quickly rose to mortification, he unmuted and profusely apologized, excuses coming out so fast he couldn’t remember what they were.
“Peter, take a deep breath and let me talk for a moment.” Shutting his mouth with a click, he did as told.
“Before I begin, are you alright? You went silent on me for a moment.” Though Mr. Wayne’s voice had the usual non-judgmental atmosphere to it, there was an undertone of suspicion and concern.
“Ah sorry, someone knocked on my door. They got the wrong floor though.” Peter sat back down on his bed, taking a slow deep breath in to lessen the physical and social stress.
Mr. Wayne waited for a moment longer, but Peter wouldn’t budge. Even if the man knew he was lying, on what grounds would he have to call Peter out? Their relationship is boss and intern, nothing more, nothing less.
Getting the hint that Peter won’t elaborate, Mr. Wayne continued with what he wanted to say, “First of all, it’s alright that you slept in, you’re still a teenager. Second, there’s no need to force yourself to come when you’re sick. We give interns PTO days, as I hope you know. Third, do you have someone taking care of you?” It took a moment for Peter to understand what Mr. Wayne was saying.
“What do you mean—” Just as quickly as Peter started, he cut himself off. Blinking in surprise, he realized that his voice sounded like he was in the clutches of the flu.
However much he didn’t want to miss his internship, deep down he couldn’t be more thankful for having a break after the shit show that was yesterday.
“Sorry Mr. Wayne, I guess I’m more sick than I thought. Who do I need to tell that I’ll be taking a PTO day?” Peter rubbed his chest, the ache from the coughs still persisting.
“No need, telling me is enough. Is there somebody to take care of you? If need be, I have room at my manor and my butler can prepare you a meal. My boys will also be more than happy to have extra company.” It was more than tempting, it was ideal.
Peter loved hanging out with Tim and Duke, their humor matching with Peter’s to a t. Plus having a warm place to stay and not worry about having enough food would lessen the stress for Peter.
But— because there was always a but in Peter’s life when something good was about to happen— he couldn’t. Mr. Wayne is his employer and Peter can’t risk embarrassing him in the risk that he’ll take away his internship.
This internship is Peter’s only shot at living a life he wants, he can’t mess it up.
Plus, the mere idea of what this relationship could develop into was too much. He didn’t need another person added to his what-if list of deaths.
With a heavy heart, Peter whispered, “Thank you Mr. Wayne, but I’ll be alright. I have a friend in town who’ll be coming soon. I’ll see you tomorrow?” There was a pregnant pause, one that ate away at Peter’s heart.
Mr. Wayne didn’t sigh, but Peter felt like he did when he spoke, “Of course Peter, I’ll respect anything you want. I’ll see you next Monday, and take the Friday off too. Have a good rest.”
“Thank you, I will.” The call beeped to an end and Peter took a deep breath in.
Which promoted him to another, but not as severe, coughing fit. Once that passed and he wiped his face from all the tears, he softly groaned.
Bruises? Quick heal, doesn’t even take a day most times. Broken bones? Annoying but give him some food and he’ll be up and running in no time. Fuck, even bullet wounds that pierced through some vital organs? All he’ll need is a week at most.
But healing his lungs was an actual nightmare because the whole thing needed to regenerate. Sure, by the time he’s back with Mr. Wayne he won’t be having coughing fits anymore, but he definitely won’t be able to patrol for hours non-stop before he’s wheezing his heart out.
But like always, Peter picked himself up and kept going. He wished there was a hand to help him get back on his feet, but the only hand he’d be getting was a skeleton’s.