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Peter stumbled out of the hospital and started running down the street. He had to get away from the cold lights and the sterile smell, from the soft voices telling him They tried everything they could and Sorry for your loss and We are going to call child protective services, don’t worry, dear.
It was sunny outside, people were talking, laughing, strolling down the sidewalk while he couldn’t hear anything over his own racing heartbeat, couldn’t think of anything but No, it can’t be true, it can’t be right, NO-
He ran, not bothering to dodge the shoulders and bags and elbows in his way, not hearing any of the muttered insults over his own laboured breathing.
He ran until the houses started to melt into each other, until all the streets and trees and cars looked the same and black spots started dancing in front of his eyes. He doubled over, panting, and screwed his eyes shut against the pain in his lungs, the burn in his legs, the throbbing in his skull.
Still gasping for air, he collapsed against a wall, sliding down onto the cold sidewalk next to an overflowing trashcan. Feet rushed past him, people moving by, uncaring. Nobody spared a second glance at him, a high schooler sitting in the middle of a half-frozen puddle. Peter pulled his knees to his chest, curling his arms around legs, and squeezed as hard as he could. The pain helped to clear his head a little. He had to think. What should he do now?
It’s cold, was his first thought. Maybe I should go inside. But he couldn’t summon the energy to stand up anymore. All his previous panic-induced strength had vanished, leaving him with his head spinning and his limbs feeling like jelly. He should call someone. But the first person that came to his mind, the first person he would always ask for help, was- she was-
Peter whimpered and pressed his head to his knees, trying to drown out the thoughts racing through his mind. He dug his fingers deeper into his lower legs, barely noticing the sounds of his jeans ripping. He gripped tightly enough to bruise his skin, nails digging into flesh, while trying to let the pain banish those thoughts. He focused on the pain, drowning out every other thought-
It didn’t work. Everything was still there. Peter was sitting in a muddy puddle, doing nothing, while his aunt was-
He couldn’t do this. He needed someone– he needed help.
Peter fumbled out his phone with stiff fingers, and called a number, the only number he could still think of. With shaking fingers, he pressed the phone to his ear.
Please answer, he pleaded silently. Please, please don’t be on a mission or in a conference or somewhere outside the country-
“Hello?” came a voice over the line. Peter’s heart instantly leapt up his throat, making his breathing hitch slightly. “What’s up, Pete?” he asked. “Still swingin’?” In the background there was the tinkling of metal and one of the robots whirring.
“I-,” Peter choked on a sob. “Mr- Mr Stark-,” he said.
“Peter? Are you hurt? What’s wrong?”
“No, it’s- it’s,” Peter couldn’t say it. He couldn’t breathe.
“Peter? Calm down, buddy. Where are you?” Mr. Stark’s words were difficult to discern over the distinct ‘clicks’ of the suit assembling.
“I don’t know,” Peter whispered, unbidden tears rolling down his face. He was too tired to wipe them away.
“Jarvis, trace the phone call,” Mr. Stark said. There was a faint “Yes, sir” in the background. “Stay on the phone, Pete, I’ll be there as quick as I can.”
“Okay,” Peter managed. Mr. Stark was on his way. He was coming, and that was all that mattered- not the biting cold of the stones and the wind. Not the dirty water slowly soaking Peter’s trousers. Not the people probably searching for him because he ran away from-
“Peter?” Mr. Stark interrupted his circling thoughts, repulsors whining in the background. “I have your location; I’ll be there in three minutes, tops.”
Peter stifled a sob, fingers coming up to rub at his stinging eyes. Mr. Stark was coming. It would be fine. It had to be fine.
“Hey,” came the low voice over the speakers, “Can you tell me what’s going on? Are you hurt?”
Peter shook his head, belatedly speaking his answer out loud. “No, I- I,” Peter drew in a painful breath. “I’m not, but, b- but-” he started crying earnestly now. Tears were running down his face, dropping off his chin onto his trousers, and the sobs rocked his whole frame. The phone dropped from his fingers when he started choking on his breaths, lungs not expanding as they should, leaving him gasping and retching. He couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t think, he needed-
Suddenly, there was a warm hand on Peter’s shoulder, and he was pulled into a firm chest that smelled of motor oil and grease and something familiar. Peter turned his face into the warmth, hands coming up on their own volition to grip the soft material tightly, not letting go. In turn, sturdy arms curled around his shoulders, holding him, shielding, protecting him.
He couldn’t stop sobbing, couldn’t stop the ragged gasps from escaping. The hand on his back slowly began to move in slow, soothing motions. There was a voice speaking to him, a voice that he knew and trusted, telling him “I’ve got you, kid, don’t worry, just breathe. I’ve got you.”
And finally, Peter breathed.