Honestly, I shouldn't be writing this. I have 5 other stories in the works, and one I should be updating right now. Like, seriously what am I doing?

But I was bored and hurting, and what better way is there to forget about my pain, other than inflicting it onto my favorite web-headed hero?

Update: This is a part of the RH series. This fic happened sometime after Reintroducing Hope.

Disclaimer: Me, own this? Nope.

Stupid Cephalopods & Aching Arachnids -

Peter flung himself onto the ledge of the landing pad at Avengers Tower. He stumbled a bit, his injured leg screaming in pain as it gave out below him. He might have fallen off the building had he not had sticky feet. He groaned, pressing his hand on his cut open side, trying to keep it from bleeding. It left his gloved hand warm and sticky with its red substance. He lifted himself up, his vision swimming before him. He swayed slightly before he found his footing again.

He half dragged half limped into the main living space in the Tower. It was dark, but that was to be expected since it had to be around 3:00 in the morning.

His breathing was rough and ragged and scraped against his raw throat. He wanted to lay down, wanted to just go to sleep and be done with this day. He was so tired, so, so tired.

But he knew he needed to patch up his side before he could pass out, before he could give into the darkness that lingered at the edges of his vison. He felt slow and sluggish as he made his way around the black lumps of furniture, headed for the elevator.

"Peter I have detected several severe injuries, along with a few minor ones." Peter flinched at the voice, he had forgotten about Jarvis. "I think it would be best if I contacted one of the others." The AI went on.

"No no no. M'fine, I can deal with it just fine. I just," He had to stop find his breath, swallowing hard before he continued. "wanna head to bed after this, no need to wake anybody up." Peter did not need the other Avengers right now. He just needed to get patched up, sleep for a few decades and he would be fine. He didn't want them to find him beaten and bloodied. He didn't want to explain that Doc Ock had gotten the upper hand, and pounded the crap out of him.

No, no way was he getting any of the team. He knew that they saw him as a kid in the first place, he didn't need to give them any other reason for babying him. He was still working at getting their respect, and making stupid mistakes like tonight, with Doc Ock, wouldn't help him to gain it any faster.

The AI did not sound convinced as he began again. "But Sir-"

"I've got it, Jarvis." Peter half wheezes in response. His lungs were rattling with every breath and moving wasn't helping. He finally made it to the metal doors of the elevator, they opened for him as he approached, and he had to force himself not to slump to the floor in exhaustion once he stepped in. The motion of moving made his stomach twist in discomfort and he squeezed his eyes shut.

The classical music was soft but the sound of it still hurt Peter's already pounding head. Grinding on his ringing ears. He rubbed at his temple with his free hand, the one that wasn't putting pressure on his bleeding side. He felt some wetness there. His mask was ripped up and tufts of hair were sticking out at the top. He was sure he looked just as good as he felt, which wasn't good.

The doors opened with a 'ding' and he all but fell into the medical room. His whole body hummed and throbbed with his various injuries. He felt like he had been thrown through a building only for the thing to collapse on top of him…Oh wait, that is what happened.

Thank god for his healing factor. He still had some morning classes tomorrow too. Ugh, he groaned to himself. It would take a lot more energy to get up in the morning and that meant that he probably would only get an hour, maybe two of sleep, before he had to get back up and head out again. He wasn't looking forward to that at all. But he couldn't really miss anymore classes either, not if he wanted to pass.

Peter let out an exasperated sigh at that and took off his mask. He winced in pain, as the fabric dragged across some cuts and scrapes. He needed to get this over with, he has a science test tomorrow, and all though he was good at science so he would probably still get a good enough grade to slip by. He still needed to be awake to even take the darn thing. And considering how tired he was right now, and the fact that it was already 3:47am, that might not happen.

"Hey J, can you turn the lights on a little?" He croaked into the darkness. His voice sounded scratchy, probably from the dust he had breathed in, and the fact the Doc Ock had strangled him just a 'little bit'. Man, tonight had been one heck of a party…

His lungs rattled against his chest, hurting his already sore ribs. And he rubbed at the area slightly trying to get some of the discomfort to ebb away.

The lights dimly came on, but Peter still cringed away. Like all medical rooms, this one was white. It was too bright on Peter's sore eyes and head, but after a moment he quit whining to himself and moved to a medical cabinet.

He didn't like medical rooms (or hospitals for that matter) but it was better than anything he used to have under his bathroom cabinet back home in Queens. So even though the sickly white and sterile room made his stomach twist and made him feel uneasy and on edge, he would use it. It smelt of disinfectant and blood…But the blood was probably from him, not the room.

He searched for peroxide, bandages, a needle, and thread. He would deal with his side first, make the bleeding stop. His hands were fumbley and slow as he worked to grab what he needed. And his eyes kept zoning out on him. Well, this would certainly make stitching up his own side more interesting.

He pulled off one glove with his mouth, before switching hands and putting pressure on his cut open side with a few white gauze. He then pulled off that glove with his teeth also, but he had forgotten that it was soaked with blood. The coppery sticky substance got in his mouth and onto his tongue. He hunched over as he gagged. The motion made his throat burn and his ribs scream, so he straightened himself up quickly. Heaving in a few settling breaths.

'Idiot'…He thought to himself. God, blood was gross enough, let alone in his mouth. Just ewe.

Now came the hard part, he'd need to take off the top of his suit. He settled himself onto the cold floor and shivered as the tile came into contact with his legs. The area around him was slowly getting strained red, by his many dripping cuts and gashes. And he faintly wondered if that was why medical rooms were always white…Maybe it was so you could see stuff like blood? He found himself imagining a red medical room, and how difficult that would be for the doctors to work in.

"Focus Parker." He snapped at himself. He shook his head a bit, trying to wake himself up, and dislodge the stars from his vision. He began peeling off the top of his suit. It was a bit painful, and hard since it wanted to stick to every blood soaked spot of his torso. But after a bit of grunting and persistence, it was a rumpled pile on the floor next to him.

He panted, letting out shaking, wheezing, breaths as he tried to settle himself. He needed to be steady and stop shaking if he wanted to be able to stitch up his wound anytime soon. He took in a deep breath through his nose and grabbed the needle.

His arm was shaking, and his fingers trembled around the thin metal point slipping around with blood. Peter glared at the digits willing them to stay still. But they continue to spasm around. With a heaved sigh, that hurt in more ways than Peter had time to count, he started stitching up his side anyway. It wasn't like he hadn't patched himself up with shaking fingers before, it just hurt more, and took a bit longer. But he didn't care at this point, he just wanted to go to sleep. So the sooner this was done the better.

A hiss passed his chapped and split lips as he pulled the needle through. By two more stitches, he had already stabbed himself twice with the needle, and his fingers seemed to be trembling even more at this point. He leaned his head back on the counter behind him, closing his eyes for a moment. Letting himself rest just for a second he told himself.

But clearly, it wasn't 'just a second' because when he next opened his eyes, the lights were a bit brighter. And Clint was right in front of him. The archer's eyebrows were scrunched together, and his eyes were filled with concern. He was in purple pajamas, that Peter might have laughed at if he wasn't so tired. And a black T-shirt.

"When'd ya'get here?" Peter slurred out. Huh, maybe he did have a concussion. He had ruled that out earlier, but it seemed that it was probably a bigger possibility than he had imagined at first. Of course, a concussed person wasn't the best person to be giving out diagnoses anyway, so who knew.

"Jarvis called us," Clint said as he leaned down a bit more to look at Peter. At the word 'us', Peter glanced to the side. Where Tony was leaning against the door frame. He was in a black T-shirt and blue pajama pants, and his hair was sticking up and messy like he had previously been asleep. His arms crossed and looking unamused. What was wrong with him? Peter wrinkled his nose, maybe it was because he wanted to be asleep. Peter sure wanted to be asleep, why had they woke him up?

He then glanced over to the other occupant of the room. Steve. He was next to Clint, and he looked somewhere between sad and tired. What had happened to him? Peter wondered as he took in the look on Cap's face. He was in a large blue shirt and black sweat pants. Looking much more awake then Tony. Peter cocked his head to the side.

"I told Jarvis, not'ta wake'ya up." He wheezed out. He glanced down at his side when it tinged with pain, he had forgotten about the gash there. Oh yeah. He needed to finish cleaning that up. He readjusted his grip on the bloodied needle, it was hard to get his fingers to work, but he could do it. He went to start stitching up again when a large, warm, hand grabbed his wrist softly.

Peter looked up through blurry eyes to see the owner of the hand was Steve. "Peter, why would you tell Jarvis not to get us?" He asked his voice echoed a bit…Did it always do that?

Peter blinked a few times, "Ya'guys were sleepin. I can do'tis, myself." His tongue felt kind of heavy and hard to move inside his mouth, it was frustrating and Peter felt his eyebrows scrunch up as he moved it around a bit.

"No." Came the reply from across the room, and then Tony was in front of him. Wow, how'd he move so fast? "You call us. Got it web-for-brains? We would rather help you in the first place then be woken up to find you passed out on the floor in medical." Peter hummed at him.

"I think he's concussed," Clint said to the other men. Peter hummed at them again, he thought so too. And Clint chuckled. "This is a conversation we can have with the kid later." Peter closed his eyes as the archer talked. "And we will be talking to you about this, Peter." He said firmly. And why did Peter feel he was in trouble?

The three men shifted Clint and Tony moving to the side, Peter opened his eyes slowly as Cap came into view. "I'm going to move you off the floor now, alright son?" Steve said, and when had he taken the needle away? Peter lazily bobbed his head up and down. And then the world around him spun, he squeezed his eyes shut as a groaned passed through his lips. His stomach twisted and he was afraid he would puke for a moment. Man, he felt like crap. He was going to seriously pay Otto a visit after he healed up.

A moment later he was laid down on a bed and he moaned softly at the warmth and softness. This felt so much better in comparison to the cold tile floor he had previously been on.

"Pete, can you open your eyes up for me?" Clint asked, Peter slowly did and then snapped them back shut when a light shined on them. He groaned and batted the man away with uncoordinated hands.

"Nah, Clint!" He slurred out, it sounded whiny even to his own ears. Man, it was hard to talk.

"Yeah, concussed. If that wasn't already obvious." The archer told the other two men.

"What happened Peter?" Came the soft voice of Steve.

Peter didn't open his eyes. Just shifted a bit as he thought of his answer. "Doc Ock." He murmured, and did you know even your lips could hurt? "Stupid Cephalopod." He wheezed out. And he heard a few chuckles overhead.

"I'll get Bruce." Someone said, but Peter couldn't tell who. Someone pressed on his side, and he hissed in pain. But didn't say anything, he knew what they were doing, it's what he had been failing to do all night. Stop the bleeding.

A moment later a warm hand was on his neck and he couldn't help but lean into it. "-was strangled." Was the only words he caught, it sounded like Steve. "Hey, Pete." The hand rubbed at his bare skin a bit. "You still with us son?" Peter hummed at the man. "Did Octavius strangle you?" He asked sounding concerned and maybe pissed off? Peter hoped that anger wasn't directed at him…

Peter raised a shaking hand to his throat. Yes, yes he had. It happened right before he had been thrown through the building. Otto had gotten him down and broken one of Peter's web shooters. And with his other hand pinned down, there wasn't much Peter could do about it. The man had picked him up by his throat. Bringing him up to face level and grinning at Peter's beaten and bloodied form.

Peter did kick him in the face so that was a plus, not like that guy could get much uglier anyway. But Otto didn't seem to agree, and then Peter had found himself flying through the air, and crashing through an already falling apart building. The two story had fallen on top of him, and by the time he got out Doc Ock was nowhere to be found.

"Peter?" Steve asked, sounding even more worried. And Peter realized that he had never answered the question.

He cleared his throat, but his voice was still cracked and rough nonetheless. "Yeah. Got'me with one'a his arms…" He swallowed hard, trying to lighten the mood he said. "Don't recommen, bein' choked by metal clamps, no fun."

This time, it was Steve who hummed. "I'll take your word for it." Peter vaguely felt a hand brushing his hair, but it was getting really hard to stay awake now. And he wasn't sure why he was even trying anymore. "Is it hard to breathe Peter?" The man asked.

Peter felt himself nodding. He was so tired. And everything hurt he didn't want to be awake anymore.

He heard more people in the distance, felt the cold air on his split open side; felt fingers dance along his bruised neck, heard people talking adamantly. But it all felt far away, and he didn't really care what was going on around him anymore. So he let himself sink back into the darkness.

Peter felt himself moan as he woke up. His head was pounding, and his stomach burned. He shifted trying to ebb some of that discomfort away, but it didn't work. He was on something kind of hard. Harder than his bed…And the blanket over him was too scratchy to be his own…

He cracked an eye open. Looking around the too bright room. When his vision unblurred he found himself looking upon the medical room in Avengers Tower. Not on his own floor. His eyebrows pulled together in confusion for a moment before realization hit him.

"Crap!" He exclaimed as he rolled to the side. What time was it? How long had he been asleep? His body screamed at him as he went to move from the bed. His ribs sending sharp pains up his torso, and his ears ringing with the movement.

He shoved the blanket off of himself. It was cold in here. And he only had the pants of his suit on. And in substitute for a shirt, his whole upper body was wrapped in white gazes. He shivered despite himself, god why was it so stinkin freezing? S'not like Tony can't afford to turn up the heat. Peter complained to himself.

He planted his bare feet on the cold tile and began to stand up when something tugged at his arm. He looked down to find an IV, he wrinkled his nose at the thing. Ewe.

He pulled it out of the crook of his arm, feeling a little grossed out by it as he did so. He glanced around the room again. Why were there no clocks?! He needed to know what time it was. Needed to know how late for school he was going to be. Needed to know how mad his professor was going to be.

He pushed himself up and immediately felt dizzy. When was the last time he had eaten? Lunch, he had had half a sandwich yesterday for lunch…Definitely not enough, especially when his body was trying to heal from the fight last night.

He rubbed at his eyes, trying to banish the black spots there. Groaning to himself. Man, he felt like crap. And he was going to have to swing all the way to class…Ugh, why was this his life?!

He padded to the other side of the room, looking for the rest of his costume. He couldn't find it, did Clint steal it, again? He was going to kill the man.

He bent down looking to see if it had been shoved under the cabinet and winced. He placed a hand on his bandaged side. Man, that thing still hurt. Yeah, he was definitely paying Ock back for this.

He bent himself upright again, panting a bit. It was kind of hard to breathe. Of course it was, he had a gash in his side, and probably a few broken ribs. But this was different, it felt like something was wrong with his throat. He leaned a bit on the counter next to him, closing his eyes and breathing through the pain coming from his side and chest.

Yup, Doc Ock had really gotten him good, didn't he? It was going to take at least a few days for all of this to heal up. If not a week. But Peter couldn't take a week off, he'd have to go looking for Otto later tonight. He couldn't just let the man go because he had a few boo-boos.

'Alright, Peter. You have three seconds before you need to get your butt moving.' He told himself. 'One', he pushed himself up from the counter. 'Two', he sucked in a deep breath through his nose. 'Three', He opened his eyes.

And just like last night, Clint was there. But this time he was leaning in the doorway, arms crossed over his chest and staring at Peter, much like Tony had done. "You aren't supposed to be up." He said rather flatly.

Peter raised an eyebrow at him. "Got, school." Man, his voice sounded like crap. It came out all choked and cracked, and it hurt his throat, he rubbed at it a bit. Feeling a little concerned.

Clint chuckled dryly, "Bruce said that might happen." He walked closer to Peter.

"Wha?" Peter rasped. Uh, what the heck was wrong with his voice?

Clint raised an eyebrow, "Said that you might have some trouble talking today." Peter gave him a confused look cocking his head to the side. "Guess that'll happen when your windpipe is nearly crushed." Clint was glaring at him now, leaning his weight on the counter.

Peter tried to straighten his stance a bit. Clint looked mad, or at least irritated and Peter always felt small when he was getting lectured. And even though Clint wasn't the tallest of the group he still had a few inches on Peter. But his ribs didn't let him and he still had to hunch a bit. Meaning he had to look up at the man.

"What the heck Parker…" Oh, yup, last name. He was in trouble. "You come in here half dead and don't let Jarvis call us?"

Peter spluttered, "I was'nt haff dead." He protested, and god this was not fair. He didn't even have a voice to defend himself with. (well it wasn't like that hadn't happened before)

"Really?" Clint's eyebrows shot up in a challenge. "Four broken ribs, minor-concussion, cracked collarbone, sprained left ankle, fractured right wrist, and many lacerations, and contusions. Not to mention the huge stab wound to your side, and the almost crushed windpipe…" Yeah, Clint did not look happy.

Peter shuffled a bit, not wanting to meet the man's eyes. "S'not like hasn't happen before." He muttered out.

"That's not the point kid." Clint ground out. "When one of us gets hurt we don't just sneak in and not let anyone know about it. Especially not when it's that bad." Peter did glance up then, nodding a little.

"S'fine." He protested, "I get hurt, all da'time. And I fix it just fine, myself." He didn't want them thinking that he couldn't handle this, he could. He did all the time, with his crappy kit at home, and then on the streets with nothing. They didn't need to be worried. And it wasn't like big things like this happened all that often anyway.

"I know you can deal with it yourself kid." Clint grabbed him by the shoulder steering him to the bed Peter had just gotten out of. "But you don't have to anymore." The heat that had laced his voice earlier was gone now. "You are an Avenger now. And we take care of our own." Clint lifted Peter's chin making the teen look up at him. "Got it?"

Peter nodded, "Got it."

"Alright sit down," Clint began shoving him onto the rumpled bed.

"Nah uh. Got class." Peter protested. As he tried and failed to get out of the archer's grip.

"You think we're letting you go to school like this?" The archer raised his eyebrows at Peter looking incredulous.

Peter raised an eyebrow. "Can't just skip cuze I got a'little hurt." He mumbled, licking his dry lips.

"This isn't a little hurt kiddo." Clint pushed him to the bed. "You can barely talk," He looked down at Peter's stomach "and you tore your stitches just by walking around." He finished looking smug.

Peter glanced down and sure enough, he bandages were turning red. He huffed as he gave up on arguing. "Fine." He slumped onto the too hard mattress.

Clint chuckled as he began grabbing things to patch Peter backup. "Don't worry your little nerdy head about it, Tony already called you in. And made all the appropriate excuses. Or whatever." Clint told him as he began unwinding the now ruined bandages and fixing his torn side.

"Good'ol, Tony," Peter smiled as he leaned back and let the archer work.

The rest of the day was nice and relaxing. Peter sat around with the team in the common room watching movies and eating take out. It was nice to be taken care of for once. A little voice in the back of his head kept saying he didn't have time to relax however, it kept reminding him that he needed to get back out there and find Octavius.

Steve seemed to sense his thoughts. And had pulled him aside, and had a firm talking to with him. He had forbidden Peter from going out on patrol for at least three days. Saying that he would bench Spiderman from the next mission if they found out he had gone out before he was healed. And Peter really couldn't argue with Cap. Even if he wanted too. So he didn't. He told the little voice to shut up and let himself enjoy the calm and relaxed atmosphere of the day.

He played video games with Clint. And the archer seemed to take advantage of Peter's lack of voice, teasing him and making jokes that he knew Peter wouldn't be able to retaliate too. Finally, Peter just started kicking the man and after a good laugh, he stopped.

He played cards with Natasha and Thor. He and Thor tried to team up on Nat, but she still kicked their butts. Peter seemed to always have a cup of hot chocolate in his hand and some sort of snack to munch on by his side. But he wasn't quite sure how they just seemed to appear beside him. But he didn't mind. Nope, not at all.

He felt content and happy with his situation as he fell asleep in a large beanbag surrounded by his teammates and friends. Letting the chatter of the room fill his ears, and the sound of Robin Hood (Clint's choice) drown him into slumber. The sounds slowly turned to whispers as the group noticed him dozing off, the TV volume low. Jarvis dimmed the lights, and someone placed his blanket on him. And Peter smiled to himself in his last waking moments. Feeling happy.

A few days later when Peter asks about a news report he had seen, about The Avengers going out and taken down a certain eight-legged criminal. The group would deny any knowledge of what he was talking about calling him crazy. And leaving him standing there with a huge smile on his face.