irondad & spiderson oneshots

lxxviii. just hours before (1)

I'd prepare see tissues if I were you

As Peter lied there, staring up at the night sky that was quickly becoming ingrained in his memory, he thought back on what led him to this moment.

Just hours before, he'd been laughing with Ned as they compared test results (both passed with perfect scores). Just hours before, he'd been in Decathlon practice with his team, no idea what would happen later that night.

It was with a shuddering breath that he wished he hadn't had Ned remove the tracker in his suit again.

Tears stung his eyes but he refused to let them fall, squinting up at the sky. For a fleeting moment, he wished he could see the stars. He wished that he wasn't just staring up at pure darkness.

Peter realized, forlorn, that he wouldn't be taking his science test the following day. He also wouldn't be able to make it to the next meet. Or any meets ever again.

He noted silently that MJ would be upset with him. Flash would probably be happy for his spot on the team, though.

A dry sob suddenly erupted from his throat as he realized he was supposed to have a lab day with Mr. Stark tomorrow.

He did every Friday. It was Thursday. Why did it have to be a Thursday of all days when this happened?

Though, there really were no good days, Peter thought, sniffling. His mask was a few feet away from him, too far for him to reach, so he couldn't talk to Karen, couldn't call his mentor.

His eyes slipped closed with a shallow breath, but he quickly snapped them back open.

Blood was trickling from his lips, dripping onto the damp ground beneath him, and Peter didn't think anything he'd ever felt hurt quite as much as this did.

His stomach was pulsing in fiery agony, his suit soaked with blood by now.

Peter wondered how Aunt May would react at his funeral. He imagined she'd cry. He imagined she'd be beyond distraught.

But Peter knew Mr. Stark would be there for her. As much as the man pretended to be scared of her (he probably was a little bit), they were close friends.

He wondered if Mr. Stark would cry. They'd gotten a lot closer since the whole homecoming fiasco, and while he didn't want the man to cry, knowing that the man cared about him enough to cry made a small smile flicker on his lips.

Though, it was quickly replaced with a grimace. Getting a building dropped on him didn't compare to this, he noted.

Not even the fight with Toomes had hurt this much. It was rather ironic, now that he thought about it.

Tons of concrete and a mechanical bird suit didn't hurt as much as a tiny little blade.

Peter had trusted his Spidey Senses to earn him of danger, but he was too slow to react. He was pretty sure the mugger that stabbed him was surprised as he was that he actually succeeded.

He remembered the kid's choked gasp (kid, because that's all it was, a kid that was struggling to make ends meet), and the way he'd stumbled back.

Peter was on his back, the breath knocked out of him before he really registered what had happened. The kid had run off immediately, leaving Peter to lie in a puddle of his own blood.

For the first few minutes, after he'd torn his mask off to breathe, he waited for his mentor to show up and take him back to the compound, to scold him and pretend to be angry but actually worried and concerned.

It was a few moment later that he'd realized the tracker wasn't in his suit anymore. His heart has sunk, his blood (however little he had left) froze in his veins, his lungs stuttering in terror.

It was then, in those fleeting moments, that he realized he was going to die, alone in a dark, empty alley. And it was all because of a random mugger.

It had been almost twenty minutes now and it still hurt so badly. He'd read about how things stopped hurting as you died, but so far all it had done was hurt worse.

Peter wished he could go back in time and slap himself silly for taking the tracker out, again. He wished he wasn't lying here, alone and miserable.

But he'd resigned himself to the fact by now. Peter Parker was going to die, and soon. His eyes were growing heavy and his heart felt as though someone was reaching into his chest and squeezing.

Finally, he let his tears fall, rolling down his cheeks as he sobbed heavily. He was just a kid, no matter he argued otherwise, he was just a kid. A young, terrified kid that didn't want to die.

He wanted Mr. Stark, he wanted his dad. He wanted to not be alone. He wanted the billionaire to call him strange names in Italian that he didn't understand. He wanted to be held by the man one last time, wanted to hear his voice.

Peter thought about Happy, about how the man pretended not to care about him but had threatened to kill Flash more times than he could count.

He thought about Mr. Delmar and Murph. He thought about Miss Potts and Colonel Rhodes. He thought about Ned and MJ, about his aunt and his mentor- his dad. He thought about his friends and family, and he cried.

Peter cried, loud, ugly sobs, each one sending a spasm of pain thought his body. He wanted it to stop but he didn't want to die.

He didn't want to die, he didn't want to go. Peter wanted to grow up. He wanted to go to MIT, despite all his teasing to Mr. Stark.

He wanted to get married and have kids. He wanted to have a family. He wanted to grow old, maybe pass off Spider-Man to someone else.

He wanted to live.

But life was cruel. Life was despicably cruel to Peter.

So, approximately twenty four minutes after he was stabbed in the stomach, young Peter Parker died, alone, and terrified.

When Tony finally found him, he'd been dead for hours.