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Sometimes, Peter thinks that he’s gotten a hold of this thing. Sometimes, he thinks that he’s finally managed to master the art of not getting his ass handed to him. Sometimes, he’s beaten down without a second thought from the villain of the week, and he dismisses all of those hopes.
Sometimes—but not often—he wakes up to the blaring white lights of a hospital, and wonders what he’s doing there. He tries to sit up, eyes scrunched against the light of his room, but feels a large palm on his chest, pushing him back down. “Stop. You’ll bust a stitch,” Matt says, and at the sound of his voice, Peter relaxes back into the hospital bed.
“Hospital?” Peter asks hoarsely, and Matt shakes his head.
“Night Nurse.” Matt pauses. “You want the light off?” he asks, and Peter nods. The room flickers into darkness, and, once the brightness stops stinging at his eyes, he tries to remember how he ended up here. He remembers a guy with an affinity for knifes and an Edward Scissor Hands fetish, and he grimaces as each slice and stab he allowed just to get the civilians to safety flares back into his memory.
Peter reaches out for Matt as he goes to sit back down, and the brunet sees how the older man visibly softens. Matt nods, shedding his suit jacket and glasses, and slips his belt out of its loops before crawling into the bed with Peter.
Peter hisses as Matt’s arm brushes a particularly deep gouge in his side as he attempts to pull him closer. Matt stiffens and pulls back, but Peter’s hand finds Matt’s, and he guides it around his waist in a place that is relatively painless. “How long was I out?” Peter murmurs, and he’s not sure if it’s been a while, or not, but he’s still pretty tired, and as he waits for Matt’s answer, he lets his eyes slipped closed.
“Only a couple of hours,” Matt responds. “But go back to sleep. Your body needs it,” he murmurs, and Peter hums his agreement, before carefully, carefully turning over in Matt’s hold. He buries his face in Matt’s chest and curls into himself, a small, spidery ball under the stark white blankets randomly stained red with blood that has oozed through his bandages. He feels the rumble of Matt’s chuckle in his chest, and Peter smiles.
Matt threads his hand into Peter’s hair, Peter sleeps, and it’s after noon before the brunet wakes again, face hidden from the sun into Matt’s shirt. “I don’t want to get up,” he groans softly, muffled.
“...We can get ice cream,” Matt offers quietly, and Peter pauses a moment before bringing his head up and pressing a quick peck to the older man’s lips.
“Sold.”