Chapter Text
He’s a part of the team. He is. Except, not really.
Maybe it’s that Peter is only sixteen. Maybe it’s that he’s the newest. Maybe it’s that he didn’t have his own suit—not a fancy one, at least—and Mr. Stark had to make one for him.
Maybe it’s that Spider-Man just isn’t good enough.
Wanda had been the newest, before Peter came along, and she seems to like him well enough. Mentioned once that he reminds her of someone she lost. Mr. Stark always lets him fiddle with their tech, often helping him. Or supervising. Babysitting? Peter can’t tell.
He can’t tell if he’s even wanted, here. Which is fine. Maybe Mr. Stark just feels bad for him, feels like Spider-Man can’t do it on his own.
Whatever. Even that is fine with him. Peter loves being around the Avengers, even if he’s not really one of them. He loves when Natasha ruffles his hair as she walks past (Teasing? Hazing?) or when Captain America tells him over and over to call him Steve.
Maybe Peter will even fit in with them, eventually.
It’s a weekend, which means May is working, which means Peter is spending the night at the tower. He loves it. Mr. Stark gave him his own room—he keeps telling Peter to decorate it, make it his own. Peter doesn’t really know what he means by that. Does he want Peter to like the room so he hangs around the main, group areas of the tower less?
In any case, Peter finds himself too intimidated to add anything to it permanently. He just packs a bag every weekend when he comes.
Usually during the week Peter is too busy with school, decathlon, and patrol. And he wasn’t, like, intentionally invited to come here anyways. He supposes Captain America gave him an ‘open invitation’ but, well, he’s Captain America. Of course he has to say that. Of course he has to be nice to the new Intern-Not-Avenger.
“Hey, kid,” Mr. Stark greets, as he enters the workshop. Peter had been alone for most of the afternoon, which he doesn’t mind much. He likes working on the tech, helping fix and upgrade everyone’s suits. After Mr. Stark found out he’d been messing with his own protocols, he’d asked, “what else can you do?” And here Peter is, lucky enough to be fixing Natasha’s wrist weapons. The Shocker, he calls it in his head. Not that he’d tell anyone else that.
“What’s going on in here?” Peter holds up the bracelet in answer, and sees Mr. Stark nod out of the corner of his eye.
“Just about done,” Peter answers absentmindedly.
“Do you wanna come up? We’re going to practice hand-to-hand?”
Peter read this as what it actually was—Mr. Stark thought he needed to practice. Maybe he did. Mr. Stark would know better, anyhow. Peter nods, smiles at his mentor.
“Sure, of course,” he agrees, abandoning his project.
“Have you eaten?” Mr. Stark asks on the way up to training level. Peter shook his head. He’d forgotten, as he often does when he’s in the workshop. Mr. Stark chuckles. “Thought as much. Geez kid, sometimes you remind me of me.”
Peter’s heart warms. Maybe Mr. Stark isn’t just putting up with him.
“Peter!” Wanda calls out to him upon arrival. He moves to stand beside her and she wraps a friendly arm around his shoulders. Maybe they do like him?
“Who wants to start?” Captain America—Steve—asks. Peter, fueled by the hope and the comfort of Wanda’s arm and Mr. Stark’s words, raises his hand.
“Okay, there, newbie,” Sam teases with a whistle. At least, Peter thinks it’s teasing.
Probably it’s teasing.
“Why don’t you step up to the plate, then, Wings?” Natasha asks Sam. “The kid is probably sick of saving your life anyway.”
The group seems to murmur their agreement. Peter feels conflicted—that’s not really how he remembers it. Sure, Sam’s wing had been torn that one time, and Peter was the only one in the area to grab him, but it had only ripped because Peter hadn’t put enough work into fixing it. Hadn’t chosen a stronger metal—he’d been worried that it would be too heavy, make for a slower flight.
“Look who’s talking!” Sam answers as he stands, and Peter readies his suit, “You’re the one who nearly missed that sniper—”
“—I would have got him—”
“And the bug webbed him just in time!”
Peter just sort of ignores this, unsure what to do with it.
The arena they’re in is enormous, large enough to accommodate everyone’s abilities—except perhaps the Hulk, because Dr. Banner refuses to practice—so they can have an accurate training experience.
“Ready?” Sam asks. Peter nods, moving to his fighting stance that Natasha taught him.
Sam activates his wings, but doesn’t take flight yet, and they start exchanging punches. Well, Sam tries to start that way. Mostly Peter just dodges, flipping and rolling away.
“Can’t keep dodging forever,” Sam reminds him.
“I can try!” Peter answers with a smile. There’s something about being in his suit, moving, and the adrenaline kicks in. He feels more confident, more comfortable. Sassy, Wanda calls him. Peter always just shrugs.
It was a mistake for Sam to activate his wings so early in the fight, because now Peter has two huge targets to hit with his webs. When he’s far enough back, he does so, webbing and pulling just one wing, enough so that Sam trips forward, off-balance. He manages to catch himself, and fires a non-lethal rocket strong enough to break the webbing between them, then flies forward with a kick to Peter’s stomach that he doesn’t have to dodge.
Clint lets out a teasing whoop, but Wanda calls out, “Get him, Peter!”
Peter is blasted backward with the power of the kick—thanks to the strength of the wings and the insane leg mechanisms Mr. Stark and Peter built for Sam. He lands on his back, which, ow, but then fires a web at the ceiling, pulling himself upward to get out of Sam’s immediate line of fire, sticking upside down instinctively.
“I love it when he does that,” Bucky says quietly. He’s not the most talkative of the group, but when he does speak, it’s either adorable or hilarious.
Peter is about to swing down, try to flip into Sam, maybe, but mid-move Peter sees Mr. Stark get up from his seat and leave.
Halfway through the fight?
Had Peter done something wrong?
His momentary distraction is all Sam needs, and he sends him to the ground within the minute.
“You alright, bug?” Sam asks, reaching out his hand to help Peter off the floor. Peter pastes on his biggest smile.
“Of course,” he answers. Inwardly, he’s desperate to know if he disappointed Mr. Stark in some way. But outwardly, he says, “Just thought I’d take it easy on you today.”
“Oh-ho, so that’s how it is!” Sam laughs. Peter shrugs. Natasha ruffles his hair.
“Who’s next?”
Peter takes his seat as Clint and Natasha have a familiar, almost practiced, spar. It takes much longer for either to gain the upper-hand, although Peter is personally guessing that Black Widow would win. He’s enjoying the watch, and the shouting—“kick him!”—and is almost able to forget that Mr. Stark left.
That is, until Peter feels a tap on his shoulder. He looks up to see his mentor, eyes on the faux battle, holding a plate with a single sandwich.
“Eat,” he says quietly, for only Peter’s listening ears, “or your aunt will kill me.” He passes along the plate without waiting for a response, and Peter sees that it’s his favorite—tuna fish salad, poppy bagel, squished down real flat. His eyes shine. He doesn’t even remember telling Mr. Stark that he likes this.
“Thank—thank you,” he answers.
“‘Course, kid.” Mr. Stark looks down at him at last, and perhaps he sees the surprise is Peter’s face, because he runs a hand absentmindedly through Peter’s hair. “And don’t talk with your mouth full.”
Peter rolls his eyes playfully, picking up his sandwich to take a bite—
And the Avenger Alarm is ringing.
Everyone knows it’s go go go at the sound of that signal, and the sandwich lies forgotten on Peter’s chair as he abandons the room alongside the others.
“FRIDAY?” Mr. Stark asks as they ready themselves for combat.
“Incoming from East Main Street outside of Queens. Multiple unknown attackers, unfamiliar alien technology,” FRIDAY informs them quickly.
“So, the usual,” Clint murmurs. Captain America barks orders, sparing a quick glance at Mr. Stark to confirm his agreement. There’s more than enough Avengers to deal with the threat, it seems, and Peter—friendly, neighborhood, Spider-Man—is happy to take border control. Make sure that the civilians are clear of the area, even more-so if it’s near his city.
Plus, it keeps him out of the way of the real Avengers. But no-one says that part.
No-one bothers with the Jet. Flyers just carry those who can’t, and Peter swings beside them. Upon arrival, they rush into action, chaos everywhere. Whoever these guys are, they really wanted to get the attention of the Avengers. Dummies.
Peter leaves the safety of Mr. Stark’s left side, swinging up and down streets in an effort to find stragglers that had not run with the others. He carries as many children and little old ladies as he can at once, circling back for heavier grabs. Clearing the perimeter. He mostly ignores the sounds on his comms, whether it be banter or instructions. He listens for updates, or for anyone to, impossibly, need his help. But overall Peter tunes it out, focusing on the task at hand, and has himself on mute.
It’s his spidey senses that give him enough warning to duck, and he’s grateful that does when he sees a huge green beam fire where his head had been, straight into the tall, ten-story apartment building behind him.
“Woooah,” Peter says, “…overcompensating?”
The man seems to have a strange looking sort of gas mask on, but isn’t hesitant to answer.
“You’re the one in the neon costume.”
“Fair enough.” Peter jumps to his feet. “What’dya say we put down the weapons and go shopping?” The man fires again, but Peter is ready. He dodges easily, and takes down the bad guy as quickly as he can in response. With his left hand he webs the strange, glowing gun, pulling it from the man’s grasp. With the right, Peter rapid-fires webs strong enough the push the man against the wall only a few feet behind him, effectively trapping him there.
But, because Spider-Man never does anything perfectly, that building behind him? It starts to make a funny noise. Or, well, it would be funny, if he didn’t catch the screaming coming from the inside. It’s so soft, Peter almost doesn’t catch it, and it’s only thanks to his superhuman hearing that he turns at all.
The building is going to come down. It’s a fact. Whatever that gun hit, it must have destroyed some important part of the structure.
“Karen,” Peter asks, rushing toward the soon-to-be toppling cement and bricks. “How long I got on that building?”
“Approximately 81 seconds, Peter. It is not advisable—”
But Peter hears that cry, again, close enough this time to be sure that it’s a child, and ignores any warning his AI tries to offer.
“I can make it.”
And he does. The property is practically crumbling beneath his feet. Luckily he didn’t need to jump high, the screaming is definitely coming from the second floor. Peter knows there’s a time limit, knows the slower he goes, the worse his situation becomes, but he can’t risk the building toppling before he’s reached the kid. He can’t risk running.
So he walks. Slowly, one foot in front of the other, the floor practically swaying beneath him.
“Hello?” Peter call. “Anyone up here?”
“Help!” Peter follows the voice, finding its owner easily enough.
“Forty-five seconds, Peter,” Karen reminds him.
“Okay, okay.” Peter kneels in front of the kid. “Hi. I’m—“
“Spider-Man!”
“Perfect.” Without another word, Peter scoops the kid into his arms, and runs toward the window he’d climbed through. But the building’s shakes are getting worse and he’s not fast enough, and all at once he realizes he’s not gonna make it.
“Karen, dial in,” he says quickly, rejoining the comms, “Guys, I’m not—”
A huge piece of the ceiling crumbles just in front of him, crashing, blocking his way. There’s space to get through, just. Not big enough for him.
“Underoos? You alright?”
“Dial out,” he says to Karen, muting himself again so he can speak with the child in his arms. He ignores the protests on his comms, placing the kid on his feet and bending to eye level. “Okay, I need you to be really, really brave,” he says. The kid shakes his head. “You can do it. I know you can.” More of the building is coming apart around them. Peter can’t risk moving this piece to make room for himself, shaking the floor or leaving the ceiling unattended. He uses one of his web shooters out the window, spraying over and over in a way he knows has made a soft enough landing. “You need to climb through this gap. When you get to the window, you jump,” Peter instructs.
“But…but what about you, Spider-Man?” The boy asks.
“I’ll find another way out,” Peter promises. “When you jump, it’ll feel like you land on the softest pillow in the world. Then you need to run as far from here as you can. Deal?”
The boy hesitates. The building groans, and a metal pipe above them is cut in half by falling rock.
“Twenty seconds,” Karen warns in his ear.
“You can do this,” he says forcefully. The kid nods at last, turns, and begins to squeeze through the opening in the piled up cement, then heads to the window. Peter knows he should be getting out, knows he has to find a path, or a set of stairs, or something, but he can’t leave yet. Not until he’s sure the kid is safe. He watches the kid jump from the window, hears a “wahoo!” Upon a seemingly safe landing.
It’s enough.
Peter turns away, takes a single step in a different direction, and promptly falls through the floor, then through the floor below that, landing on his back with a thud.
“Dial in,” he repeats, because the other Avengers are screaming in his ear asking for a report.
“Sorry, sorry, I’m here.” Peter tries to catch his breath, the wind having been knocked out of him. He taps his chest once, and his mask recedes, so that he could take gulps of huge air.
“What the hell, kid?” Clint scolds.
“It’s okay—I thought I wouldn’t get to him in time, but I did. This building, off Second Street, it’s gonna collapse. But it’s vacated, everyone’s safe—”
“Steve, on your left!”
“Got it, check your fours—”
“What is that thing!?”
Peter goes quiet. The temporary fill-in distracted him, he needs to get out of here, and no-one needs his silly report anyway—
He dials out of the comms again, ready to push to his feet and climb up from the basement.
“Five seconds,” Karen warns in his ear.
And she’s right. Exactly five seconds later, before he has any chance at all to escape, the building collapses.
The ceiling comes down around him, exposed metal and pipe—a huge piece of cement lands on his collarbone, and as he bends his knees to attempt to sit up, an old, rusty metal pipe slams through his thigh.
He screams out in pain, fully unable to move, but the building doesn’t seem to care. What used to be some sort of metal transition slip, usually positioned between floors, is hit by falling rock, and digs vertically into Peter’s left side. His lung? His ribs? He can’t tell. The onslaught is too much. Before he can pass out, though, that horrible broken pipe from earlier—-the one from above the second floor? Well, it comes back to visit. It sails directly for Peter’s forehead, attached on either side to large pieces of the concrete. Peter instinctively holds up his arms, and the thing is heavy—-ridiculously, impossibly heavy—but to drop it is to die. So he holds his arms upward as outstretched as possible.
“Dial in, dial in, dial in,” he mutters to Karen, voice scratchy, that first falling stone still caught on his collarbone.
“The building collapsed,” Peter informs the team, trying to make his breath even. “Could someone come—ugg—could someone get me? The building is evacuated, everyone’s safe, this was the last stop on the perimeter,” he trails off, trying to swallow a groan. He has to be strong. He has to sound strong.
“Can’t you swing here?” Mr. Stark asks.
“Not—Not really.” The weight on his palms becomes heavier and Peter fights to keep his arms straight. The rubble surrounds him, piles on top of him, swallowing him whole…
“Left side!”
“I see it. Wanda?”
“Yes, I’m almost there,” she responds.
“Oh, good,” Peter breathes, before he realizes just how much that hurts. “That was fast.”
“No, sorry, kid,” Captain America corrects. “She’s grabbing the amulet. You said the building was evacuated, right?” Amulet? Peter figures it’s not important right now.
“Uh…yeah.”
“And the perimeter is done?”
“Yeah.” Peter’s brain feels sort of fuzzy. Sort of like he’s underwater.
“If you’re out of webs, just leg it,” Mr. Stark interrupts.
“No, I’m sort of grounded, here,” Peter answers, then coughs, which turns out to be a horrible idea because his arms drop a half-inch and that sharp pipe inches closer to his face.
“Okay. Wait there and we’ll get you,” Steve assures him. Peter blinks up at the rusty pipe, maybe a half foot from his face.
“Any timeline on that?” He asks with a grunt.
“Phew, someone’s bossy today,” Clint says. That’s the only answer he receives. Everyone else just sort of…moves on.
Which is fine.
Peter is fine.
They’ll come for him. They’re just busy. Fighting. All of them. They’ll send someone his way.
They will.
Peter takes this time, which he’s sure will be short, to run diagnostics on his injuries. He could ask Karen, but he has time to pass.
He can take stock in his head.
He starts at his toes, decides to work his way up. His toes, his feet, his ankles are okay. There’s a huge piece of metal through one knee, bending it in what seems to be the wrong direction. His hip hurts, maybe from his fall? There’s something in his stomach, too. Peter felt it impale him, but so much had happened at once he’d nearly forgotten. He can’t tell without looking if it hit any of his important bits, all he knows is that it hurts.
Well. Everything hurts. So that’s a little unhelpful.
Next up is the crushing rock on his collarbone. Peter could probably lift it off, if his hands were free, but as it stands he is impossibly stuck under all the rubble.
The razor edged pipe is his biggest concern, the way it towers, heavy and menacing, pointing right between his eyes…he’s strong, but the thing is heavy, and Peter doesn’t know how long he can hold his arms straight up to keep it off of him. His brain feels foggy, too, and his ears are ringing. Concussion, maybe. Could be the surprise. Maybe the blood loss. Peter supposes that part doesn’t actually matter so much. He blinks, and dust falls into his eyes.
Deep breaths. In and out.
“How are we, uh, how we doing over there?” He asks eventually, desperately searching for a distraction from the pain.
“Left side almost clear,” Natasha responds, when no-one else does.
“So maybe, er,” he inhales a shaky breath, wondering if the others can hear it, “maybe you’ve got someone free now?”
“Not yet. Sorry, Pete. Soon as possible, alright?” Captain America answers. Peter’s eyes flutter closed.
“Right. Okay. Yeah—yeah, no, no worries.”
Peter wonders if they misunderstood—if they heard the severity of his situation. At least, it feels severe. But what if they do know, and they think he’s being weak? It is just a couple of rocks, after all. Any regular, proper Avenger could hold a couple of rocks.
He can wait.
He can wait.
Peter puts himself on mute.
The thing about blood loss, he thinks absentmindedly, is that it doesn’t hurt much. The parts of things impaling him, or the heavy things sitting on him, those hurt. But the blood is quiet, seeping out of him without warning, refusing to stay put or settle down.
And the longer he lies there, the more his arms shake, the more forgetful he becomes.
Peter knows there’s something wrong. But his eyes close, once, and when he opens them it’s like he's in a different, worse building.
Was it worse? It felt worse at the time.
He’s trapped, and not in a fancy suit, like the one he has now. Mr. Stark had taken it—Peter hadn’t deserved to have it—and he was drowning in rubble…Toomes. Scared, scared, scared, he can’t do it he can’t do it he can’t breathe—
Ever since that first building crushed him…well. Peter did get out. He was strong and he was brave and he got out, and alright, fine, he gets panic attacks sometimes now. He can’t breathe, couldn’t then, can’t now. And yes, okay, Peter gets nightmares. Only sometimes, but they’re unpredictable and they’re loud and he wakes up gasping and sweating and he can’t fall asleep around people anymore in case they find out. And now he’s back, stuck again, and what if Toomes is coming for him? What if his friends—are they his friends?—what if they’re never coming? What if this is where Peter dies? This is where Spider-Man dies; alone, forgotten, and utterly unimportant.
The thought is so frightening, taunting him so deeply, that Peter wants to move. He can get out on his own. He can do this. Peter uses all of his strength—screaming out, pushing himself up, ignoring the refusal in his throbbing wounds and muscles, in his twisted leg and impaled stomach. If he can just get this ceiling chunk off his chest…But then that damned pole, that razor sharp break, slips from his grasp, and he barely regains his positioning in time. Peter is forced to lay back fully to catch it, and even as he does, the full specter of it falls closer to him by at least two inches. He has to cross his eyes to look at it, now. Another three and it’ll be dipping into his skin.
“Karen,” he whimpers, “how far is the nearest Avenger?”
“The nearest Avenger is 16.1 miles away. Would you like me to contact Mr. Stark with a distress signal?”
Peter thinks about last time. About how Mr. Stark thought he didn’t deserve the suit. And he thinks about now, where he is the unhelpful, annoying kid, the joke among the veteran Avengers.
“No,” he shudders at last.
“Peter, I don’t think you’re okay,” she responds in that rare, soft voice. “You are bleeding internally on your left side. Your lung has been punctured. You need immediate medical attention.”
“Internally, huh? That’s good—that’s where the blood is supposed to be.”
“Peter,” she scolds. Peter tries to laugh, but ends up coughing, then wheezing, then desperately holding the metal plank with the pipe, which he realizes is slowly sinking toward him.
“Dial in,” he answers at last, unmuting himself. It must have been at least fifteen minutes since his last check-in about their ETA.
(Maybe they’ve forgotten about him.)
“Hey, uh,” Peter swallows hard, trying to hold back a grunt, “any updates for me?”
“Look, bug, we know you want to join the fight, but just relax. If you’re grounded, maybe it’s for the best.” Sam answers, then Peter hears a huge crash.
“I—uh—I really don’t think so,” he answers softly. He didn’t expect his voice from gruff to breathy so quickly, but maybe that’s what happens when fifty pound rocks sit on your windpipe for too long.
“Jealous?” Clint teases. “Kid always wants to get in on the action.”
“Sit this one out, okay, kid?” Mr. Stark says at last. “We can handle it, and you’ve done a lot already. We'll come get you when we're done.”
Peter nods, a little, brokenly, even though no-one can see him.
“Sure,” he says weakly, “I can do that. I can wait.”
He closes his eyes. Breathing feels harder. His arms burn from being held upward for such a long time. But to move is to die. To ask for help is to admit that he needs it.
He can wait.
He can wait.
(He realizes quietly that he is scared to be alone. He is scared to die alone.)
Peter loses track of time. He tries to count, for a while, the time that passes by. But the admission of abandonment, accidental or not, is depressing, and the rest of his situation is depressing enough. He starts to fall asleep, miraculously, but when the pipe falls even closer to him, he flings his eyes back open. He can’t see the end of it anymore. It’s too close to his head.
But he can wait.
Peter thinks about his life, the choices that led him here. What might he have been, without all this? Would he have been happier? Safer, maybe. Would he have had a long, simple life?
Would Uncle Ben be alive?
Then again, how many people would have died without him? How many lives has Peter saved, in the end? Maybe it all balances out.
“We save people,” he murmurs to himself, his eyes fluttering closed without his permission.
“What was that, kid?”
Oh. He hadn’t realized he was still on the comms. He hadn't dialed out.
“Hm?” Peter answers, vision spotty when he forces his eyes open again.
“You cut out—everything okay over there?”
Inexplicably, Peter begins to laugh. It’s gaspy and quiet and is maybe a sign he’s going into shock or suffering hysteria but the question is so funny, and maybe an hour too late for it to matter.
“Mhm,” he responds softly, too tired to speak. His arms are shaking horribly, now, and holding them up is taking whatever is left of Peter’s quickly depleting energy. He knows he can’t last much longer. It’s just the truth.
“Okay, well, we seem wrapped up, here.” Captain America says, finally, too late, probably. Peter thinks he hears a question in his voice, worry, maybe? But he’s too tired to pick it apart like he usually would. “Who wants to grab Pete?”
“Depends on who’s closest,” Clint chimes in. “Where are you located, again?”
Peter registers slowly that they’re talking to him. Is he still bleeding? Surely his healing has clotted the blood, at least, even if he can’t heal with the objects still going right through him. He remembers that May taught him, if a person loses a certain amount of blood, then it’s too late. Peter sort of feels like he’s out of blood already. Like he’s a balloon out of air.
“I said it, uh, before…the building...on Second.”
“Oh, good,” Sam answers, “I’m just around the corner.”
Captain arranges clean-up tasks for the remaining Avengers. A moment passes.
“Bug, I don’t see you. Sure you got the street right?”
“Yeah.”
“I mean, I do see the building. Collapsed—nice mess, by the way.”
“Mhm,” Peter answers, and a tiny flicker of hope flashes behind his once again closed eyelids.
“Okay, so where are you?” He asks again. Peter scrunches his brows. He doesn’t understand the question.
“I’m underneath it,” Peter responds at last, although he thought that was pretty clear. Was Sam teasing again? Was Peter too tired to get the joke? He must be, because a nervous chuckle sounds over his comms that sounds a lot like Clint.
“Uh, ha, what do you mean?” He asks. The comms go dead quiet.
“The building,” Peter takes a shuddering breath, “I’m under it.”
“What.” Mr. Stark doesn’t really ask it like a question. He sounds mad. Why is he mad? Is it because Peter failed? Well, no, that can't be it, because Peter had saved the kid. So why is Mr. Stark mad at him? Peter had waited, hadn't he? He's almost too tired to care. He wants to sleep. His arms are tired. He can’t remember why they’re so tired. Or why it’s so important that they stay that way.
“What do you mean, you’re under it?” It sounds like Captain America—Steve? But it’s sort of fuzzy.
Can words be fuzzy?
“Fuzzy,” Peter mumbles in response, accidentally.
“Get to him, now." Peter can't be sure anymore but that sounds like Mr. Stark again.
“I can wait,” Peter answers in a horrible sort of promise.
“Oh, god.” Peter thinks maybe that was Bucky. It doesn’t matter.
He hears rubble shifting, weight being lifted, maybe, but not enough. Not enough.
“I found him!” Sam calls, and Peter hears it, not in his comms. Sam swears. “I can’t—he’s holding up this piece—no way I can lift it.”
“I’m almost there,” Mr. Stark says.
“Fuck, bug, it’ll be okay.” Sam can’t lift the pile and its plate from Peter’s hands, but that doesn’t stop him from digging Peter out. He pulls, grunting, lifting the rocks and stone off of Peter’s upper chest. Air rushes into Peter’s (admittedly punctured) lungs, which he hadn’t known he’d been missing. His breaths must have been so shallow. He hadn’t noticed. “It’s okay, bug,” Sam says, voice soft. “It’s okay, we’ve got you.” Peter realizes his eyes are closed again. He’s too tired to open them.
“Kid,” Mr. Stark breathes out, and when did he get here?
“I know,” Sam agrees.
“Okay. Okay. I’m gonna…” Peter hears a whooshing sound, and suddenly the rock that he’s been holding—oh, yeah, the pipe through his brain, that’s what he was holding his arms up for. The object is no longer heavy, the weight shifted from his shaky hands. They collapse, bloodless and drained, down at his sides, landing in a deep puddle. There must be a broken water pipe around. Peter hadn't noticed.
He opens his eyes briefly, has just enough time to look at Mr. Stark, apologize, then promptly blacks out.
He thinks maybe Mr. Stark is crying.