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The school bell rang, three hours later than it was supposed to.
The conflicting evacuation and shelter-in-place orders had turned Midtown’s usual end-of-day chaos into a solemn calamity. Through the school's front windows, Peter could see clusters of parents running up the steps, gathering their kids in hugs like the world might end — which, he supposed, had almost happened a few hours ago.
From the moment that cell signal had finally been restored roughly an hour ago, Peter kept checking his phone, willing it to show a message from May. He knew Queens was still locked down the same way Midtown had been, he knew the subways were closed due to the damage caused by the attack, and he knew she probably couldn’t get anywhere in Manhattan. Still, he wished the universe would give him some sign, any sign, that May was still alive, that the world hadn’t completely fallen off its axis.
“Hey, Peter,” someone said, and Peter spun around to face them. Ned’s voice was uncharacteristically gentle and quiet as he placed a hand on Peter’s shoulder. “It’ll be okay. We’ll… we’ll get through this.”
Peter nodded, swallowing the thick saliva that gathered in his mouth and threatened to silence him. “I know.” The words fell flat and hollow, lacking conviction.
Ned nodded, seeming to understand.
Peter wished he could be angry. He wished he could tell Ned, no, you don’t understand, but that wouldn’t be fair to Ned.
They’d both felt the same panic when the school had been suddenly placed under lockdown. They’d both felt the same primal fear when the lockdown was changed to earthquake procedures for shelter-in-place, which made no sense (New York wasn’t exactly a hotspot for earthquakes). Then, a spark of forbidden knowledge had gone off in the classroom’s powder keg of tension: Maria had secretly taken a call from her grandfather Gerald, a high-ranking scientist in the US Air Force. Through tears, she told everyone to call their loved ones. Aliens had invaded. A nuke was headed straight for the city to try blowing up the portal.
Peter’s spider-sense had been going off like a persistent spam caller throughout, overwhelming all of his senses. Even if he could have snuck out of class, he would have been useless — unable to suit up, much less go out and fight. Instead, he’d sat under a desk, curled up in a fetal position, wishing the world would stop for a moment and let him breathe.
The nuclear countdown came… and went. They hadn’t been vaporized. Peter’s senses had calmed significantly after that, though he couldn’t seem to untangle a deep-rooted knot that had taken up residence in his chest.
Breaking lockdown procedures, Mr Harrington had pulled up a news station broadcast on an old TV he found in a closet, setting it up with the help of the class. Though cell phones had stopped working not long after Maria’s revelation to the class, it appeared that old-style TV antennas were still able to pick up signals. The TV had played the grainy footage on loop, the sound of the old TV’s speakers too warped to make out what was being said. Iron Man, nuclear missile, wormhole. Static. No signal. Static again.
After that, everything had turned into a blur.
Peter felt the hand on his shoulder withdraw. Someone was saying something to him; he should listen, right? Why couldn’t he focus and listen? Then, someone (Ned) was no longer beside him, instead sprinting past, out the school doors and to the waiting arms of his father. Peter tried to feel happy for his friend, but he didn’t feel much of anything. Instead, he reached up and wiped away an itchy wet feeling at the corner of his eye, shouldered his backpack, and walked out of the school.
If nothing else, he could at least walk home, see how bad the damage was, maybe try to repair something before May returned. (If she returned.) He kept his head down as he walked, not drawing attention to himself, even as he walked past a police barricade on his way back to Queens.
He'd made it maybe three steps past the barricade when a car horn cut through his daze. Not the aggressive New York honk he was used to, either — just two short beeps, almost gentle.
“Hey, kid! Where do you think you’re going?”
Peter's head snapped up. There, leaning against a dust-covered Audi R8 beside the police barricade, was Tony Stark. He looked nothing like the pristine billionaire from press conferences or the gleaming hero from the news footage. This Tony Stark had still-bleeding cuts on his face, his hair was a mess, and his expensive leather jacket did a poor job hiding his tattered shirt beneath. A high-tech red briefcase sat at his feet, Tony resting one foot on its edge.
“Mr Stark?” Peter's voice cracked. "But you... the wormhole..."
“Yeah, that happened.” Tony said with his usual charade of nonchalance as he pushed himself off the car. Peter noticed the slight tremor in Mr Stark’s hands. "Your aunt called in a favor after wrapping up my arm. She’s got extra work patching people up and the police won’t let her get through the barricades, so..." He gestured vaguely at his car, as if that answered any questions.
“You came to pick me up?” Peter couldn't process it. He couldn’t process that Mr Stark was here and alive and Aunt May was safe. It all felt like a dream, too good to be true, something that would get ripped away the moment Peter blinked too hard. “But why? After everything that just happened, shouldn’t you be at a hospi—”
“Someone needs to protect you,” Tony said, as if it were obvious, though there was a firmness and intensity to his voice that Peter was not accustomed to. “Keep you safe, make sure you get home in one piece.” Peter got the distinct feeling that Mr Stark was talking about more than just picking him up from school right now. Then, before Peter could overthink it too hard, Tony’s tone changed and lost some of the intensity, though his smile still didn’t reach his eyes. “Now c’mon kid, I’m not in the ‘waiting for teenagers’ business like Happy is. Let’s get a move on.”
With that, Tony bent down to pick up the red suitcase from the ground. Observing the persistent shake in Mr Stark’s hands, Peter swiftly intervened. “I’ve got it,” Peter said quietly, lifting up the too-heavy suitcase just before Mr Stark could fully grasp the handle.
It wasn’t until Peter was putting the suitcase into the car’s trunk that he realized why it was so heavy and so familiar. Shaking his head to himself and desperately hoping that Mr Stark hadn’t been about to suit up again to go looking for him (the man really should have gone to a hospital instead), he got into the passenger seat and avoided making any comments on his mentor’s shaking hands, trying to focus instead on the familiar hum of the arc reactor.
(Was it just him, or was there a stutter to the usually infallible steady hum?)