"Oh god"

Peter doesn't even look away from the road, really. He glances over where his phone is mounted to the AC vent for maybe a second to glimpse May's text, but even that is too long.

The words haven't even sunken in when something in him screams danger danger danger—is it his spider senses?

There's suddenly a car in front of him that hadn't been around earlier. It's approaching too fast, or rather, Peter is. The proximity sensors chirp angrily. The other car's hazards tip him off that it's stopped in the middle of the road, an obstacle with no easy path of avoidance. He swerves.

"Oh god." Did he hiss that out? Was it his imagination? Why is that what he cares about in this moment?

The car jerks harder than he meant it to, but it's too late to compensate now. The car is veering toward a ravine on the left regardless of what Peter wants.

All of a sudden, everything is weightless. Somehow, he knows—he just knows—he's airborne. The brake can't do anything, but he's slamming it with everything in him.

Awareness after that comes in bursts. He sees the initial swerving, but he misses the exact moment his car topples over the edge. He misses countless trees to both sides. He feels the one that glances the side of the front bumper.

Everything is still when he next tunes into reality. It feels like time has passed, but there's no putting his finger on exactly how much. The lights of the dash burn straight into his retinas, returning him to the memory of unfortunately many post-mission concussions. Right, that's not good.

The lights are a good sign though. He hasn't been out long enough for the car to lose power. Should it be on, though? Probably not… Probably not. A few clumsy attempts precede him successfully landing a hand on the stop engine button. The interior lights accompany him for the longest thirty seconds of his life thus far, then nothing.

It's pitch dark, which he supposes is another good sign. He left around three in the morning—he cursed himself for waiting so late to leave the compound in hindsight—and the summer sunrise was dependably around half past six. He knows it's simple math, but his brain is begging him not to complete it, so he settles for knowing he couldn't have been out for more than a few hours.

The situation seems safe enough. Time to move on.

Oh. Or not. As he gradually soaks in the situation, it finally registers in his brain that he's not right side up.

The bottom of the seatbelt is starting to cut off circulation to his thighs, and he realizes the dark sky he's been trying to make out has actually been the ground all along. Probably not good.

Should he even try to escape the car? Is it worth it when he doesn't even know if he can stand? He's out of it enough that he doesn't trust himself not to have missed other injuries.

A voice chirps through the car's speakers. It takes a moment for him to place it as Karen.

"Peter? Mr. Stark is requesting to connect."

He struggles to make his mouth fit around words in the affirmative, but he gets there with some effort.

"Hey, kid," Mr. Stark still greets him, despite the fact that he's twenty now. "I don't like that your GPS is still pinging five miles from the compound. I need you to tell me that one of my flawlessly designed units is buggy and you're actually home in bed."

Peter's known him long enough to interpret this as the extreme concern it really is.

"Uhh… not exactly."

He fumbles over the words, but soon enough, Mr. Stark is caught up on everything Peter knows and is soaring toward the incident.

Time disappears for a bit. It couldn't have been very long.

He hears yelling in the distance and prays it's Mr. Stark. At this point, he won't be picky about who stumbles upon him and helps, though. As much as his poor head disagrees, he lays on the horn, holding it as long as he can bear the sound echoing around his concussion-addled ears.

The yelling stops. Another unknown amount of time goes by. Is the person still out there? Was it even Mr. Stark?

Muffled cursing alerts him to the presence again. Definitely Mr. Stark. The driver's door falls open, and Mr. Stark sets to work freeing him and helping him stumble a safe distance away.

Mr. Stark never says anything aloud, but Peter's learned how to interpret his language through years of practice.

Helping him walk is, "I'm worried about you."

Sitting on the filthy forest floor to keep him closer company is, "I love you."

Refusing to let the paramedics put more than five feet of distance between the two is, "I'm with you until you get through this."

They'll get through it.