Marvel Oneshots

Ao3 | A Chance (of Life and Death) | Part One

Angst, lots of angst
Stucky if you squint, and Clintasha if you squint harder

Chapter Text

Peter felt the explosion shake his bones. It was impossibly loud; his ears were filled with noise, noise, and then nothing but ringing. He felt a surface pressing his back, his limbs, and something heavy on his chest... it felt like concrete. He must be on the ground, though that didn't explain the weight on top of him. His head spun and screamed like it'd been cracked open- maybe it had. His vision wasn't swimming, it was drowning. Everything was dark, speckled with faint flares of light. His mouth was filled with something coppery, and he choked when he opened it to gasp for air. Air. He couldn't breathe. Something was on top of him, something heavy, crushing him like the building had... Was he dreaming? For once, he wished to see the Vulture. To be in a nightmare, instead of here. Maybe if he closed his eyes...

----

He wasn't in his bed when he woke. He hadn't opened his eyes, and he already knew that much. He inhaled, relieved when air filled his lungs, though it smelled sharp, like antiseptic. Medbay, then. It had been real.

The next thing that registered was the burning pain in his ribs and the back of his head. He felt his eyes watering despite being closed. He wasn't sure he wanted to open them. He could feel an IV in the crook of his arm; they were giving him something, but it wasn't doing much. He wanted to fall asleep again. His body didn't hurt when he was asleep, though he couldn't say the same for his mind. He started to do just that before registering that his hand was oddly warm. He cursed his curious teenage mind, then cracked one of his eyes open to look down.

Bad idea.

The light was more agonizing than the pain in his head and ribs put together and doubled. He let out a faint sound that definitely wasn't a whimper, wishing he could bury himself in a deep, dark hole of ice packs. Through the roaring that was still in his ears, he thought he heard someone say his name. He couldn't bring himself to focus on the sound. The last thought he had before drifting off again was that he hoped he wasn't worrying anyone.

----

The next time he woke up, he felt relievingly number. They must've upped his painkillers, his fuzzy brain provided. He felt like he was laying on pancakes. What? Never mind. Focus, he told himself. The air still smelled on the sharper side of too clean, so he was still in the hospital. The residue in his ears had subsided to a faint ring. His hand was still weirdly warmer than the rest of his body. His surroundings weren't painfully bright through his eyelids, so he took a chance on peeking out of his left one. No pain. The room was dim, thank god. Everything was blurry and unfocused, but he made out the unmistakable shape of Tony's goatee by his side.

"T'ny?" he mumbled. The shape jolted and inhaled sharply, squeezing his hand. Huh, that's why it was warm.

"Oh, thank fuck. Oh my god, kid. You scared the shit out of me, I'm not even kidding."

"S'rry," Peter slurred, and the Tony-blob quickly shook its head.

"It's not your fault. How do you feel? Need more painkillers?"

"M'good. Wha' happ'ned?" Peter tried to tilt his head and drew in a sharp breath, aborting the movement.

"Easy, easy. Don't try and move yet. There was a bomb..."

"Bomb," Peter repeated, trying to rack his brain for memory and failing. He blinked.

"Yeah, a bomb," Tony sighed. "We were wrapping up in Jersey City, everyone was heading back to the Quinjet, and a bomb went off. It was hidden, there was no way anyone could've... Anyway, you're going to be alright. Just a head injury and broken ribs."