Bruised But Not Broken - Irondad/spiderson

The sticky situation continues

FRIDAY projects the security footage onto the wall of the medical room.

The image is warped through my unfocused vision, but I don't need clarity to know what they're seeing. A red blur moving through the city. Leaping. Swinging. Bleeding.

Me.

The doctor steps closer and gently fits a mask over my mouth and nose. The plastic smells sharp and clean, nothing like the city.

"Peter," she says softly. "You can go to sleep now."

"Just relax, Mr Parker. You're in good hands."

I don't feel relaxed.

I feel exposed.

Tony stands with his back to me, shoulders tense, arms crossed. He doesn't look away from the footage. I can't see his face, and that somehow makes it worse.

The medication starts to pull at me, dragging me downward, heavy and warm. The edges of the room blur. The beeping machines fade into something distant and slow.

The darkness comes back.

But this time, it isn't sharp or cold.

I'm standing in a field.

The air is warm, thick with the scent of wildflowers and sun-warmed grass. Colour stretches out in every direction. Yellows and purples and greens so bright they almost hurt to look at. I know this place instantly.

Picnics. Laughter. Bare feet and ants crawling up my legs while Mum pretended not to notice.

"Peter, darling."

The voice is gentle, familiar in a way that makes my chest ache.

I turn.

She's walking toward me through the grass, curls bouncing around her face, brown eyes soft and shining. A flowing dress brushes against her legs, fabric moving with the breeze.

I don't remember her like this.

Not so clear.

Not so alive.

She holds out her hand. I hesitate only for a second before taking it.

Warmth floods through me at the contact. Not just heat, but something deeper. Steadier. The pain I've been carrying loosens its grip.

She hums quietly, a tune I don't remember learning but know by heart.

She pulls me forward, spinning us gently, trading places until I'm facing her fully.

"Mum?" I whisper.

She smiles. Red lipstick. The faint scent of vanilla beans wrapping around me like a memory.

"You really should be more careful," she says lightly. "Getting injured like this isn't good."

Her hands come up to cup my face, thumbs brushing beneath my eyes.

"You'll get through this pain. It isn't your time."

My throat tightens.

"I—" Nothing comes out. Tears blur my vision.

She smiles sadly. "I know, honey. I know."

She pulls me into a brief embrace, then straightens, hands firm on my shoulders as she looks at me properly.

"Your father and I are so proud of you. And Aunt May is too."

"You... you talk to Dad?" I ask.

A familiar voice answers before she can.

"Of course she does, kid. She can't get rid of me. Not even in death."

I spin around.

Dad is walking toward us, older than I remember, but smiling the same. He drapes an arm over my shoulders.

"You're doing so well," he says quietly. "Life will give you something beautiful one day. You just have to make it there."

"I wish you weren't dead," I choke. "I wish you were here."

"We are," Mum says softly, brushing my cheek.
"We're always with you," Dad adds, pressing a hand over my heart.

I look down.

His wedding ring. Simple gold. Mum's name engraved inside. The same ring sitting in the drawer beside my bed.

When I look back up, Mum is already walking toward the sun.

Dad's hand slips away.

"Wait," I panic. "Please don't go. I'm not ready."

The grass disappears beneath my feet. The world darkens, turning to obsidian. Far away, I see them together, Dad's arm around Mum's waist, waving.

"We're always with you, Pete!" Dad calls.

"It's time to wake up, my darling boy," Mum says.

The sun sinks. The darkness swallows them whole.

I'm alone again.

"Peter."

A different voice now.

Gentle. Real.

I feel hands rubbing my shoulders, brushing my hair back from my face.

"Peter. Wake up."

My eyes open slowly. White walls. Beeping machines. The sharp, clean scent of antiseptic.

Aunt May is right there.

She pushes me gently back when I try to sit up. "Easy, sweetheart."

Her face is tired. Pale. Worried. And underneath it all, upset.

"I'm glad you're okay," she says quietly. "But we are going to talk about this. You got shot, Peter. And you tried to hide it. What were you thinking?"

Her voice breaks on the last word.

"Did you see?" I mumble.

She sighs, and that tells me everything.

I swallow hard. My lies are gone. My secret isn't.

"I'm sorry," I whisper. "I just didn't want you to worry."

"I know," she says softly. "You always look after everyone else first."

She helps me sit up and hands me a clean shirt.

"The doctor says your healing is... unusual," she adds carefully. "You can come home once you're dressed."

I don't look back at the tower as we leave.

I don't look at my phone either.

Queens smells like home.

Concrete. Old carpet. Familiar stairs that burn my legs on the way up. I ignore the buzzing in my pocket.

At the apartment, I drop my bag and collapse onto the couch.

"So," May says gently. "Spider-Man."

I nod. "Yeah."

She adjusts, softer now. "Tell me about it."

So I do.

The bite. The lab. The changes. The hunger. The strength. The danger.

She listens. Really listens.

"You need to eat more," she says firmly. "And you're not going out again until that shoulder heals."

"Okay," I agree immediately.

Later, I build.

A small robot. Simple. Friendly. A little screen from an old Game Boy. Wires and gears and care.

I name him Little Guy.

When Ned finds out, he yells. A lot.

I laugh for the first time all day.

Before bed, I finally read Tony's messages.

I don't reply.

I turn my phone off.

And for once, I sleep.