While There's Still Something Left

The Aftermath of Chaos is Just More Chaos

The team was relatively silent on the way back to the Tower. Bucky and Steve were talking quietly as they bustled around, picking and prodding at Sam, removing his armor, trying to figure out what exactly happened, but he didn't have any outward injuries that they could see. No head injuries or bruises of any kind. That only seemed to trouble them more, despite his heartbeat and breathing being steady and strong. If they didn't know any better they would think he was sleeping, but no matter what they tried to do to wake him, his eyes remained closed.

Peter could almost feel the weight of blame on his shoulders. Nobody said it, but they didn't have to. He did so many things wrong. His stomach ached, his whole body hot with shame and nausea, and he wished more than anything he could go back and do things different. He replayed every scene again and again until he truly thought he would be sick.

Peter went against his orders. Then, when he couldn't handle the situation on his own, he left Sam behind and made him vulnerable. All of this because was too busy trying to act like a hero. Some hero he was. Sam got hurt and he didn't even notice. They wanted to trick him, to trick all of them, and they succeeded.

You did it again, the voice in his head taunted. How many people are you going to get hurt before you finally give up?

Peter couldn't even look up when they landed, too afraid of what he might see in their faces if he did

"Let's get him to the medical bay," Steve ordered, sweat beading on his forehead. He and Bucky set up the the portable gurney and lifted Sam onto it, his arms hanging limply at his side. Peter noticed Sam's skin had turned slightly ashen since he last looked up. Guilt dug at his throat with sharp talons, threatening to suffocate him, but his body seemed to be working, even if his mind wasn't. He followed slowly behind them, watching as they rushed forward, the infirmary doors opening and shutting in front of him, leaving him standing in the Greeting Parlor.

He could hear Clint walking up from behind him, but it didn't seem to really register, like background noise, too distant from his present state of mind to seem prevalent. Clint put a hand on his shoulder and he jumped away like the touch physically burned him.

"Hey. He'll be okay, kid," Clint assured him, giving him a sad smile. "He's tougher than he looks."

Peter nodded, but Clint wasn't sure if he actually heard what he said. He gently guided Peter over to the couches and handed him a water. Peter nodded in thanks, and Clint took a seat beside him.

Within minutes, there was a loud rumble from outside, and Clint sighed in relief as a smaller jet landed near theirs. "Thank god."

A young woman with kind eyes and straight black hair pulled high and out of her face hurried inside with a small team of nurses and aides. Clint jogged over to meet them.

"You got our page," Clint said gratefully, falling into step beside her. "He's right through there."

"How bad is the damage?" She asked, pulling some gloves out of her lab coat pocket. Her brows were furrowed in concentration, with a seriousness of a soldier preparing for battle.

"We don't see any so far. He just won't wake up," Clint explained.

Dr. Cho tilted her head. "The request I got said there was a lot of blood loss, multiple injuries, maybe a fracture or two between the both of them."

"Both?" Clint asked, shaking his head in confusion. "No. It's just Sam."

Dr. Cho stared at him for a moment then stopped, turning to one of the people on her team, speaking lowly. "Call in more people. The rest of you go set up two more beds. We need all hands on deck."