Spooktober 01: Stagger

a/n:  i meant to post on my account anniversary in september, but i got sick with covid and was out of commission with a 104 fever for like a week and was recovering the rest of the month, so. my bad gang. im better now. anyways, i have officially been posting to this site for a very irregular five years. that's crazy! insane! thanks for supporting my work all that time, i wish u all the best💛

finally, HAPPY SPOOKTOBER!! (ask me about my discord 👀 it's a great time to join, we're doing spooktober writing together all month long!)

Alright, sure. Maybe it wasn't Peter's best idea to take an entire drug trafficking ring down on his own, in a single night, when Tony was expecting him at the end of his patrol for a suit schematics check and some upgrades.

There's seventeen people knocked out on the ground, and more of them keep appearing– they're running through the doors in groups, waves of men in neon-orange vests making circles around him. As Peter side-steps another unconscious dude, he had to at least make the defense that this wasn't what he wanted to be doing tonight.

It really, honestly, truly, was supposed to be a standard patrol. And it had been, he'd just finished up some small-time burglary near 57th street, which is closer to Hell's Kitchen than Peter usually treads (due to some boundary agreements with some other guy he's only kinda terrified of, in the respectful way), and then it got... weird.

He thought it was just a dropoff, so got Karen to call it in quick, and then tailed the car to see where it went. It was only about eight pm, and the August sun was just barely peeking up over the horizon. He had time, he'd be able to get it done and then drop by the tower for his schematics check.

"Karen? Can you tell Mr. Stark I'll be a little late?" Peter asked quietly, observing from afar. "I have to wrap something up before I clock out."

"Of course, Peter. When should I tell him you'll be there?"

Peter looked over the warehouse very thoughtfully. He took into account the amount of exits, the amount of cars surrounding it– even the geographical location! He was thorough!

"The plan is maybe thirty minutes," Peter decided.

Well.

He forgot to account into his plan that, well, nothing ever goes according to his plans.

"How many of you even are there?!" Peter cried out, because seriously, he's tripping on people in an attempt to dodge the bullets they keep firing at him. He pulled some quick maneuvers to group some of them up on the wall with webs, but it was tricky to make sure none of them got shot in the process.

This must have been one of the bigger drug operations, because there were never this many people in one place. He couldn't tell where the boss was, but logically they wouldn't be out with all the defense. They're somewhere else in the building, surely, and maybe if Peter wrapped this up fast enough he could find the asshole before they escaped.

He didn't have a ton of experience with bigger-scale stuff. Or, at least– not all at once. He usually goes after the little operations at the bottom, one by one, and made his way up to the top. Get rid of the followers, then take care of the leader. This was not a little operations. This was stupid. This was monumentally stupid, and he should have gotten out of this mess before they all had clambered at him like rats.

But hindsight is 20-20, and he couldn't just leave now, because he knew that it would make them that much harder to find later. He just had to get it over with and power through.

In the chaos, someone managed to get the drop on him— he couldn't see their face but he knew they were yelling out like a soldier of war, and they ended up slamming the magazine of a bulky AK-47 right into the soft cartilage of his nose. Peter stumbled back, a hand jerking up to the blood that was already soaking his mask.

"Um, ouch!" Peter said pointedly. His voice came out weird with his nose all clogged up and wonked. "Not even a warning this time! Cool, no, that's great. It's not like I rely on my senses to keep my nose and other... various... parts from... breaking..."

He blocked through some other attempts of a similar attack, because obviously once the group of intelligent men saw Spidey get his ass kicked with the opposite side of a gun, they start formulating, like intelligent men do.

Peter leaped, kicked off the nearest wall and used as much force as he safely could to punch a row of armed guys down. They're webbed quickly, squirming around on the concrete to no avail, their faces red and puffy.

From across the room, someone fired another bullet. It whizzed across the room, its sound blending with the hundred other casings ringing like bells as they spin on the ground.

Peter's neck buzzed, and he yanked himself to the side just in time for the bullet to nick the span of his back. It singed the suit, it burned the skin– he hissed and cringed, his spine twisting as if he'll be able to stretch away from the pain.

"I just don't get paid enough for this," he gritted out.

He threw out his hand, and a web goes spinning forward. It gripped the gun, and Peter yanked his arm down, making the weapon and the connected man's skull hit the concrete. He doesn't have quite enough time to think about the implications of that before he's blocking another magazine, then grabbing another elbow, then sliding under another pair of ankles, and then—

The world just spun, on nights like these. He tried to explain it once to Ned, who had witnessed a morning-after moment where Peter had snapped (and quickly apologized) at him for complimenting the fight he saw on the news the night before.

("It's kind of like a rollercoaster with only the loops," Peter had said after a long bout of silence, his face pinched, his eyes shut tight and hidden behind his balled-up fists. "There's the adrenaline, and it feels kind of awesome to be moving that fast, at first, but then you're just– it keeps going, and it doesn't stop, and you just want the ride to be over.")

It's getting late. He wanted off the ride.

The waves were getting smaller, but the ground was nearly covered in unconscious men. Peter felt kind of sick, standing in an ocean of his own violence, and for some godforsaken reason, people were still finding the space and energy to shoot at him.

"Mr. Stark has sent you another message," Karen chimed in through his ear. "He is informing you that it's been nearly forty minutes, and is asking if you're okay. Shall I tell him you're being shot at and cannot respond?"

"No," Peter jolted. "Absolutely do not tell him that. Just— I need—"

A heavy guy ran head-first into his stomach, and Peter got the wind knocked out of him as he tumbled backwards.

"I need these guys to stop taking overtime," Peter wheezed out with a scowl, and shoved the guy off. He managed to scramble up from the floor, but not in time to block someone from the side presenting a nasty hit to his ribs. He heard a crack. He felt a crack.

Peter exhaled sharply. He grabbed the offender by the shirt. "Karen, turn the HUD off," he muttered.

The shiny displays go away. Everything goes brighter, sharper. In his vision, just the man, surrounded by more people who only want to hurt him. His heartbeat thudded angrily in his chest.

"I'm not scared of you," the man in his grasp spat, saliva dribbling from his lip. He wriggled, his hands tugging uselessly at Peter's hand. "Stupid fucking spider, I'll squash you like a bug."

Peter stared at him, just— just exhausted. Everything in his body hurt. He could taste his own blood in his mouth, the sharp tang of iron keeping his mind wired.

"Where's your boss?" He rasped.

The hair in his ears pricked, and he could hear someone staggering up behind them. He reached his other hand back and webbed them back to the wall. All the while, his gaze remained steady in front of him.

"I'm not telling you shit," the man shook. His eyes were wild with terror and something rabid. "You'd have to kill me first."

Around him, all had gone suspiciously quiet. Like any remaining people were holding their breath, waiting to see what happened next. Like they no longer believed they had a fighting chance, and were ready to bolt whenever the moment presented itself.

The lenses of Peter's mask narrowed.

"How much is your product worth?" He asked.

The man sputtered an indignant laugh. "What, you want in on the gig? I'm not sellin' to no fuckin' narc. Nothin' is worth that shit."

"All your men are going to be arrested," he said slowly. He watched the man's face twitch. "And you have a cell in Rykers with your name on it. Do you know why I'm telling you this?"

The man stared, gritting his teeth. After a second, he quickly shook his head.

Peter dragged the man closer, getting up in his face. He tilted his head to the side. The man shuddered in fear.

Then, clearly, succinctly, he said:

"Because that's what your worth is."

He dropped the man to the floor and webbed him stuck. He looked up, each movement feeling like a drag. His eyes carried tiredly around the room, to the remaining few. "Anyone else want to fight tonight?"

All of them seemed to jerk out of their stupor then, and made a panicked hurry towards the doors. Peter unclicked a small canister from his belt and tossed it at the door, watching it explode, and catching all of them in a net of webbing.

Peter watched them squirm. He sighed. "Karen, scan the building for life forms."

"...Scan completed," Karen said after a beat. "Everyone in the building is breathing and on this floor. And wall. And ceiling."

Peter snorted dryly, glancing around the warehouse. "Yeah. I'd have to agree with that. Tell Tony I'm on my way."

"Of course, Peter."

Peter hopped up the window at the top of the warehouse, shattered through from the bullet rain, and began his trek back.

On his way, he debated many things, like just telling Tony to temporarily shove it and going home for the night, or simply not saying anything and taking the subway home, almost drooling over the idea of letting the train lull him to sleep, drifting off and letting his aching body rest.

Of course, he didn't do any of these things. He landed on the designated balcony of the tower within twenty minutes and dragged himself in, peeling the mask off and cringing at the way it was stiff and folded in his dried blood.

Tony was waiting for him, sitting at the snack bar with his arms crossed. A half-empty water glass on the counter. His eyebrows were furrowed deeply, and his lips were pursed. Okay, so he was disappointed.

"I know. Gimme a second," Peter sighed. If he had to be scolded, he might as well fix his nose first. It'll only be worse later if he lets it finish healing wrong.

He shoved his mask in his mouth. Brought his hands up to his face and felt around his nose, where it was bent wrong. Then he inhaled deeply, held his breath, and jerked it into its proper spot. His jaw tightened, teeth clenching around the bloody fabric. A wave of nausea hit him, and he sat down in a heap on the floor.

"Jesus," Tony muttered. He scrubbed a hand over his face, keeping his eyes covered. "Kid, there's a safer way to do that. You might have just screwed it up more."

Irritation prickled under his skin. Peter didn't want to argue, was too tired to snap, so he just sighed again, and leaned back on the floor— as his spine relaxed, a series of crunches and pops sounded from the room. Tony winced in sympathy.

"Alright," Tony noted. He stood up, walking over. He looked down at him with calculating eyes, and Peter couldn't help but feel mocked. "Any other injuries I should know about?"

He let the question roll around in his mind.

"I'm tired," Peter answered, the energy rolling back and forth in his chest like a ship in a storm. He grit his teeth, then relaxed. Tried to let the nausea settle.

"Well, that makes sense when you're jumping around like a gymnast for several hours a night," Tony pointed out.

"No," Peter tossed an arm over his eyes. "I mean, yes, but— I'm talking about—"

His face felt hot, his cheeks burning with all the emotion threatening to blow out. A tea kettle whistling in his ears, the kind that's just been on the stove a touch too long, and the handle is red, and nobody wants to touch it, nobody wants to take it off the kettle for fear they'd burn their hands.

He shut his mouth, wrenched it tight. Inhaling deep through his nose, feeling the breath shake its way into his lungs.

There's a rustling of fabric, and then a struggling groan, and then Tony was sitting beside him on the floor. He didn't say anything. He was just there. Peter could hear the steadiness of his heartbeat, always a little faster than everybody else's, the careful in-out-in-out pattern of oxygen.

"I don't know what's wrong with me," Peter started quietly. "I just get like this some nights."

Tony hummed. "Like what? What do you mean?"

Peter opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it again. "Like– most of the time, I'm fine, and I love doing this. I really love being Spider-Man, I do. You gotta know that."

"Of course I do," Tony said easily. His expression was patient in that guarded way that was specific to Tony— one that looked closed-off to someone who wouldn't know him, but to Peter, was easily recognizable as concentration. He was listening. He wanted to make sure he was getting every detail right.

"But, then there's the other times, like now, where I'm just..." Peter huffed. "My rib is sticking out, and my back hurts, and there's blood in my mouth, and I'm tired."

"Mm." Tony scratched at his chin. "Okay. Well, let's break that down, then."

The corner of Peter's mouth quirked up. Let's break that down. He always said that. Peter thought it was the mechanic in him, probably. And maybe Peter had rose-tinted glasses, but he didn't think there was any problem that Tony couldn't solve or at the least understand by breaking it down, finding out how the pieces work together.

"It's totally normal to feel like that, for one," Tony started off. "You get kicked around a lot. Nobody likes that. You may have the name of a saint and the patience of one, but nobody can endure all of that, all the time, and not get fed up with it."

"I want to," Peter argued. "I'm better than that. Than this."

"Kiddo," Tony marveled genuinely. "At sixteen years old, you already are miles better at all of this than I am, than all the Avengers, than anybody in the world. Sure, you can always be better, anyone can always be better, but that doesn't discount how good you are now."

Peter worried his tongue over his teeth silently.

"You can be mad," Tony said gently. "You can be tired. If anybody deserves it, it's you, Peter."

After a moment, Peter croaked out: "I don't like being mad, Mr. Stark."

Tony smiled meaningfully at him and patted his leg. "I know. But anger isn't a negative emotion, you know. I'm still learning that, too, but... we're all just human. We're going to get mad. It's what we do with it that matters. Tonight, you were mad. What did you do with it?"

"I... I knocked out a lot of people."

Tony narrowed his eyes. "They were criminals, Pete. And they were shooting at you."

"Still knocked them out..." Peter mumbled.

"And after?"

"I went to you," Peter shrugged. "Basically passed out on your floor, and then started complaining at you."

"So, leaving the situation that made you mad, going to someone you trust, and then you talked about it," Tony listed. "Those are three healthy things you did to de-escalate, cool off. You still mad?"

"Not really?"

"Exactly," Tony nudged him with his foot. "I'm proud of you."

Then, he frowned. "Did you say your rib is sticking out?"

"Got hit hard by the boss," Peter confirmed, looking sheepish. "It hurt really bad. Probably dislocated it, but I'll be okay."

Tony sighed carefully. He took a few seconds, just staring at Peter. They did that, sometimes. A moment of silent communication, so seamless where it seemed like they were made of the same stuff. Tony looked at him, and his eyes were making a plan, and Peter looked back, and his eyes said 'thank you, I know you won't hurt me. Thank you.'

"Let's get you to the medbay," Tony said finally, his voice soft. "I'll get you some of my old clothes, I'm sure I've got something that'll fit. You can get some rest. We can do upgrades in the morning."

"...I have school."

"I'll take care of that. I'm sure May would agree we shouldn't send you to school with a healing dislocated rib," Tony said firmly. He stood up with another groan. "God, I'm getting old. Alright, kid, let's go. Do you want to run a movie marathon with me tomorrow? I've been wanting to rewatch some Hughes."

He took the segue for what it was, and when he dragged himself off the floor this time, it was with a tired smile.