Peter Parker, spider problems

A Phonecall and a confession.

So, Peter might have done a dumb thing.

Okay, yes, he'd definitely done a dumb thing.
This was bad, this was bad- he'd left.

Just fucking- up and left them, no explanation, no nothing.

He didn't know what to do, leaving was a stupid thing to do and he wished he hadn't just fucking left the kids there, but... he couldn't think of anything else to do. That and he didn't exactly have much of a choice.

His leg was broken, he couldn't see shit out of one eye, and he wasn't sure how many concussions he had- and, again, he still wasn't sure if his leg was supposed to bend like that? Either way, he was covered in bruises and pains from head to toe and there was absolutely no way he could go to the hospital. There was only one place he could think of that he could go.

It was unfair, and a didn't like it. But he really couldn't go to the hospital. Given his rather narrow array of other options. He wished it wasn't the way it was, but any kind of professional medical help would realize that something wasn't right - that drugs wore off too quickly or that lacerations closed up unnaturally fast. It wouldn't end well, Peter knew that, and that was just the way it was. Someone would find out, simple as that.

After Amy had called 911 it had all gone by pretty quickly, most of it was a blur. Peter had no idea what had happened downstairs with the resident abusive orphanage lady- but he was pretty sure it was something bad if the noises that made their way up the stairs were anything to go by.

Someone had come up the stairs, the creaky steps whined loudly under the pressure and it made Peter's skin crawl with unwarranted terror. He'd heard it before any of the others did but hadn't said anything, instead opting to silently make his way to the door and cautiously poke his head outside despite many resounding protests.

It was a police officer, she had a black eye.

before long all of the kids in the building had been collected and were being herded down and outside, but they stayed clumped together in a close-knit pack. None of them seemed too keen to talk to the scary adults with guns, instead opting to whisper and mumble amongst themselves. More than one of them was desperately trying to hide their bloodshot eyes and tear-stained cheeks, and Peter would have likely been one of them had he not been too concerned about the person he was helping carry down through the building.

Peter's arms felt like they were on fire but he didn't much care as he shifted the teen, Finley, onto a medical stretcher. Absent-minded tears staining his cheeks. It was dark, almost too dark to make out just how injured he was, which was probably why the police had let him help carry Finley down those stairs in the first place, that and he'd refused to leave their side until they'd gotten outside.

He was left staring, helpless as two kids he knew were hauled off on stretchers to an ambulance. He couldn't think, and his chest hurt. Well, everything hurt, his chest just hurt more noticeably than anywhere else at that moment. He felt like he was suffocating, despite the clear New York City air of the night. And not for the first time that evening- he didn't know what to do.

In the end, he wound up wandering over to the other kids and teens, specifically those who had been in the room with him. His eyes met theirs, and all Peter could feel was an overwhelming remorse swell in his chest, he still felt guilty. For the fact that this had happened to them, the fact that this might not be the last time it happened to them. And what could he do about it? Granted, these kids hadn't been well off before, but, they weren't getting any better.

Peter knew their lives hadn't been great, he knew they lived in fear every day, but, this, they didn't deserve this. Any of it, none of them did. And this, this time it was his fault.