a/n: mgh

⚠️graphic depictions of injury⚠️

Spooktober 21: Barbed Wire

It had only taken one trip, one slip of his feet, for him to go tumbling past the fence and fall to the ground. His whole leg got caught in something, and it stung, it hurt as if he had been bitten into by a lion, only something ridiculous could have hurt that badly from just a trip.

"Oh my god," Peter gasped. "Karen, what the hell happened?"

He looked behind him to try and see the damage, and cringed at the grisly sight of his leg. The whole thing was tangled in wire, gripping into his skin and ripping through the suit. Blood dripped onto the floor and all Peter could do is look on in disgust.

"It seems your leg has been caught in barbed wire, and it is causing severe laceration wounds," Karen said calmly in his ear. "Sources say the best way to take care of it is to cut the wires, and then sanitize the wounds, stop the bleeding, and wrap the injury tightly in gauze."

Peter made a pained noise. "Ew ew ew ew—Okay, I'm caught on the sharp thingys and I don't have a wire cutter, what do I do?"

"May I recommend calling Tony Stark?"

A part of Peter's brain would really rather not call him. He wasn't going to end up in the big time hero missions if every few weeks he was calling Mr. Stark about how he broke a rib, or fell into a freezing lake, or was holding up a broken building, or—

Okay, maybe this happened a little too often. But his leg looked really bad, and the blood had started soak through the suit and stick to his skin, and the whole thing in general just made him want to throw up in his mouth a little bit.

Now, he could call Mr. Stark and let him fly all the way down to Harlem with wire cutters, but that was pushing Peter's limits on how helpless he wanted to be.

Peter looked down at his leg, tangled in wire that was still connected to the stupid fence. He gave a long, painful sigh. Needless to say, this was going to make the agony he was in much, much worse.

"Call Mr. Stark," he said, and then reached forward and yanked the wire away from the fence. Where it had rusted, the wire broke, but not without making the wire wrapped around his leg pull just enough to make him yell in torment.

At that moment, Tony's concerned face shows up in his view. "Woah, kid! What's going on?"

"Hi, Mr. Stark!" Peter said breathlessly, trying to make his voice as cheerful as possible. Tears welled in his eyes as he pulled himself from the ground. "I'm on my way over, actually. Random question: Do you have wire cutters, by chance?"

"Uh, yeah. Who do you think you're talking to?" Tony frowned. "Should you be walking? Let alone swinging. What happened?"

"Funny story. You'll see when I get there," Peter shot a web and started singing, and yelped again as the movement tore the wire further around his muscle. "Mother—"

"Father, actually," Tony finished. "Wrong one. And begging by how you definitely don't sound okay, I'm gonna assume you shouldn't be swinging. Let me come get you."

"No no no!" Peter swung another web. "I'm already moving. Just be ready when I get there, please. With pain meds."

"Christ, kid. You're gonna kill me. How far away are you?"

Peter winced. "Um... Fifteen minutes, maybe?"

"Fifteen—?!" Tony's eyes widen and he looked incredulously at the camera. "Okay. Yeah, no. Thanks for playing, but absolutely not. Tell me your location or I'm making Karen send it to me."

The tone he was using let Peter know that he couldn't argue his way out of it. But boy, would he try.

Peter cleared his throat. "Race you to the compound! End call."

Swinging with a leg injury is awful. It took his entire body to twist around the air and navigate through buildings, so having any limb be out of use really made it difficult.

But Peter grit his teeth and did it anyways, and (crash) landed outside Avengers Compound in front of a very pissed off looking Tony Stark—Who was holding wire clippers and a syringe in his hands.

He pulled his mask off and grimaced rather than smiled. Then he fell back to sit on the grass as the pain from all the sped-up activity he did decided to culminate all at once.

The anger in Tony's face didn't leave when he saw Peter's leg. He leaned down and sat across from him in the grass. "Let me guess, you need me to cut the wire from your leg? How did this even happen, Peter?"

"I just tripped!" Peter defended. "And I don't need help, I just need the thing. Please don't be mad."

Tony handed him the wire cutters, but he still had his eyebrows furrowed and his jaw clenched. He didn't say a word, but the tension was rolling off him in waves.

Peter's hands shook unsteadily as he went to cut the barbs one by one from his leg, and the blood continues to drip into the grass.

"Okay, stop." Tony reached his hand forward and took the wire cutters back. "Geez. I hope you aren't thinking of being a surgeon. Lay back."

Peter fell back with his head on the grass. He shut his eyes tightly, scrunching up his nose and holding his breath while Tony carefully cut the tangled wire.

"Ow!" Peter flinched, nearly yanking his leg back.

"Sorry, kid. Don't move."

Peter couldn't see his face, but he could tell from the gentleness of his voice that Tony wasn't angry anymore. It was usually like that. He had realized a few deadly accidents ago that Tony was never really "angry" at him, he just got concerned and worried sometimes and wasn't the best at expressing it. (Especially when Peter was bleeding out in front of him, or Peter was seconds from going unconscious.)

Parental, was the best way to describe it. Because May did the same thing sometimes. Peter understood.

"'M sorry," Peter said between gritted teeth, trying to ignore the sharp twinge that came with every short movement of the wire.

Tony's answer was short and pointed. "Yeah."

Snip.

"Ow."

"Almost done," Tony said quietly. "Hang in there."

Peter bit his tongue until finally Tony pulled away, and then he sits up. His leg still looked a mess, covered in blood and ripped fabric, but the wires were removed in a pile on the grass.

"If you ever make me do that again, I'm taking the suit again for real," Tony warned. His hands were covered in blood. He held up the syringe he had brought with him. "Give me your arm."

Peter held up his arm without thinking. "What's that?"

"A tetanus shot, what else do you think?" Tony stuck the syringe into his arm. "Rusty barbed wire injury? Come on."

"Oh. Yeah, that makes sense."

"Go inside and get that cleaned up. You know where the first aid kit is," Tony huffed, standing up from the grass. "After that we're gonna have a conversation, capishe?"

So he was still upset, then.

Peter sighed and stood up, limping into the compound to clean the injury. As he was wrapping up his leg in the gauze, he heard Tony behind him walking into the room.

"So," Tony crossed his arms, standing in the doorway. His hands were clean now, so he must have washed the blood off in the sink. "What I really want to know is: What is it going to take for you to stop hesitating to call if something goes wrong?"

"Mr. Stark—"

"No, I'm serious. It's like you have no idea how to stop when something goes wrong," Tony said bluntly. "Which I can't say I'm too great at, but come on, that's why I'm here to tell you that you've gotta grow out of it."

Peter stayed silent, looking up at Tony and chewing the inner part of his cheek as he got scolded.

"You have access to help. If you're in any kind of trouble, I implore you to use it. Take advantage of it. I'm here to listen to you, kid. To help you when you need help. How am I supposed to do that if you won't keep the door open all the way?"

Peter looked down.

"I'm trying my best here," Tony insisted, his voice draining of energy and bleeding into desperation. "I'm trying my best to keep you safe. Look at me. Give me something to work with. What can I do?"

There's a silence as Peter processed the words. It rung around like a weight in his head.

"I don't know," Peter said honestly. "I'm sorry."

Tony sighed. "And how's the leg, is it doing better?"

"Yeah."

"Okay. Good." Tony uncrossed his arms. He looked around the room for a moment before forcing out his next sentence. "Thank you for calling me. Don't hesitate to call again, right?"

"Right," Peter smiled weakly. "Thank you for picking up."

"Anytime, I mean it. Do you need a ride home?"

Peter fought back the need to decline the help again, and instead slowly nods. "...Yeah. I think that would be good."

"Well." Tony looked over at him. "I think we can arrange that, then."