It wasn't as if Tony hadn't noticed Peter's ripped suit and the way he slumped, or the broken quality of his voice. It wasn't like he hadn't noticed the destroyed vehicles and cracked concrete, evidence of something terrible having happened. In a bid at keeping his anxiety in check, he'd chosen to pretend the situation wasn't as dire as it seemed; to give Peter the chance to explain it all away. But it was those words in particular: Mr Stark, I don't feel so good, that made the tension that had been building in his chest all morning turn into tangible solid rock. Tony immediately forgot whatever he was talking about, as well as the costumed man passed out on the floor behind him. His concentration moved solely to Peter.

Peter's hand moved to his side. The eyes on his suit narrowed. He swayed and stumbled backwards.

"Kid? Pete?!"

Tony sprinted forward, barely managing to stop Peter from crashing to the ground and hurting himself further. Peter's body was completely lax. Tony lowered him onto the floor as gently as he could manage.

Up close, Tony could see the true damage that had been inflicted. His stomach twisted. Parts of Peter's torso were burned and blackened. The Stark suit had given way to reveal ruined flesh underneath.

Tony had known that the events of this morning were way more than just a signal cut and a traffic jam. Since he'd dawned the Iron Man suit things like this were never just anything. Finding Peter's suit offline and his phone unresponsive amongst it all had bloomed a strange kind of parental dread in Tony, one that every rational part of him tried and failed to quiet. He'd never expected that dread to be justified though. Not like this.

"Friday…"

He wasn't sure what he was asking his A.I. to do.

"Peter Parker has sustained multiple intrusions, sir. He has internal bleeding. Immediate medical attention is necessary if he is to survive."

Tony's mind went white. To survive?

"Well what are we waiting for?"

"My comms system is offline, sir. Just like everything else."

The panic that rolled into Tony's system was all-encompassing. He looked down at the small figure beneath him, a suited hand glancing over Peter's chest, seeking to help but terrified to touch. He had an urge to take off Peter's mask, as if once he looked upon the teenager's face he would somehow wake up.

"Friday, you gotta give me something here. There's no way in hell or Earth I'm letting this kid die. No way…"

"Usually I would advice against moving someone in Peter's condition, sir." Said Friday. "But I believe there are no other viable options. Hallwood Hospital is five blocks away."

They'll remove his suit. They'll take off his mask.

Tony knew how desperately Peter wanted, needed his identity hidden. He respected that choice too. He respected Peter. No hospitals then.

"Friday, will I make it back to the compound with him in time?"

"It's hard to say, sir."

"So I will. Good."

Tony made to slip his hands under Peter, ready to lift him up.

"Be careful." Said Friday. "Peter has three fractured ribs on his left side. Try to move him as little as possible. And make sure to support his head. I'm getting reads of significant bruising around his neck."

Tony hesitated. Bruising around his neck? Peter had been choked? He glanced back at the Scorpion shaped creature on the floor a few metres away, a surge of fury coursing through him.

He could take bullet wounds, broken bones. Things like that were a methodical means to an end, or fallout from the kinds of fights people like them had every week. But choking? Choking was something else. It was intentioned. It wasn't just to kill, but to hurt. He was shocked at his own rage by the thought of someone doing that to Peter. He had a sudden urge to end the man who had. But he had no time. He had to get Peter to the compound and fast. Plus they'd need the man for questioning, for at the minute Tony knew nothing about why or how this had happened. His blast would keep the man under long enough for Tony to escape the dead zone and have him detained. In the meantime, he just had to pray that Peter's attacker was on his own and would remain unmoved by the time the authorities reached him.

Tony slipped his arms under Peter and lifted him, jostling him more than he would've liked. It was difficult to keep the boy's head supported, and he winded up with it rested not so stably against his armoured shoulder. It was unsettling how utterly limp Peter remained. Though perhaps his unconsciousness was a mercy considering the extent of his injuries.

"Alright, kid. Here we go. Don't die on me."

Please don't die on me.

And with that he took off.

"I wanna know who this guy is. I wanna know who he works for. If he has family. I wanna know how many pancakes he has for breakfast, okay? Just find out who he is."

"We've got very little to go off, sir."

"We have the images the kid's suit picked up, don't we? He was wearing Chitauri tech. The only person we know who ever sold Chitauri tech was Toomes. I need a list of every transaction that man ever made. I want it yesterday, understand?"

"How do we plan to acquire that, sir?"

"How the hell do I know?! Talk to the guy. Maybe 9 months on nutraloaf and prison grits loosened his tongue. I don't care how you do it. Just do it."

Peter woke up very slowly at first, with a body that felt immovable, an awful taste in his mouth and a tongue that felt like sandpaper. He wasn't totally aware he was awake until someone started speaking to him. It was a woman's voice, asking him questions, coaxing him back to reality and away from the hazy nothingness that had filled his head up to now. And then suddenly Peter had two terrifying realisations. He didn't know where he was. And more pressingly, he wasn't wearing his mask.

Peter jolted upright, eyes wide open, hands flying to his face to confirm his fear, only to find his right hand fixed into some kind of elaborate, high-tech splint. Then his panic was joined by the agony that bloomed across his torso with the movement. He cried out, then started coughing, triggered by the dryness of his throat.

"Hey, hey, hey. You're okay. You're okay." Came the voice of the young nurse who was tending to him. She placed a gentle hand upon his back. "It's best if you lay back down."

The nurse's soft-spoken words did nothing to make him feel better. He couldn't remember how he'd got here. And she could see his face. She knew who he was. As far as he knew, the whole world did. This was terrible.

The nurse pressed a finger to her ear and proceeded to speak, but not to Peter.

"Please alert Mr Stark that Spider-Man is awake."

Mr Stark? He was at the Avengers' facility? How did he get here? Why was Tony Stark involved? Why was he unmasked?

"I'm unsure, sir. He must've burned through the anaesthetic." Added the nurse into her comm.

Everything that had happened started to come back to Peter in the wrong order: a jumbled spool of movie reel. He remembered getting the living hell kicked out of him, that was for sure. He remembered the school bus and Ned, his lack of powers. He remembered being on the verge of killing a man.

When that last memory emerged, Peter suddenly had the urge to throw up. He felt like he couldn't breathe. He tried to remember if he'd finished the job, but his memory darkened after the point Scorpion's blaster hit him for the second time, the effects of which he could feel all too well now. He remembered the anger. He remembered the desperation. But it ended there. So why did it feel like he'd killed someone?

"Peter, I really advise you lay down."

But Peter was panicking, his brain frantically trying to put pieces together amongst too much blank space.

"Hey, kid. You're gonna hurt yourself. Calm down."

It was Tony Stark's voice now. The man was on the other side of him, replacing the nurse's hand on his back, having arrived less than a minute after she had signalled him.

"Maybe we'd all benefit from doing what the nice lady, wait, what's your name again?"

"Emma."

"By doing what Emma tells us."

Tony Stark had an odd way of showing concern, but there was something off in his voice that told Peter this was it. He stilled and looked up at his mentor, fear on his face.

"Mr Stark," He croaked, slightly slurred. "Did I kill that guy?"

"What?" Responded Tony, a little perplexed at the question. "You don't remember? Nurse, is his head okay?"

"A concussion, sir."

"Mr Stark."

"He really needs to lay down." The nurse added. "The surgery…"

"No, kid. You didn't kill anyone." Said Tony. "Your trusty pal Iron Man came to save the day as usual. No one died."

Though Tony Stark's words were comforting, the man's demeanour was transparent with stress, or was it fear? Still, Peter visibly relaxed. The panic resolved slightly, giving way to the pain in his chest, shoulder, side, everything.

"Thank God." Said Peter. Though it didn't make it okay. He was about to kill that man. He would have if Mr Stark had let him.

"Hey. Now that's cleared up, it'd make Emma, and me for that matter, feel a whole lot better if you lay down."

Peter finally did as he was told, laying back against the cot with a grimace. It was only then that he registered his lack of shirt and the gauze and bandages that were wrapped around his shoulder and torso. Tony picked up a glass of water that had been left on the table beside him and dangled it in front of Peter.

"Here, drink."

Peter reached out to take it; the movement alone sending obvious discomfort across his face. He felt awful. When he sipped the water, it hurt to swallow. The nurse frowned.

"Are you hurting, Peter?" she said.

Peter just nodded.

Now it was Tony's turn to frown.

"Is he not supposed to be?"

"My apologies." She said. "It's hard to know how much pain relief should be supplied. I've already upped him from the regular dosage more than I would've liked."

"Kid's an avenger. He's not regular."

An avenger?

"Don't get ideas." Said Tony, noticing Peter's visible reaction to what he'd said. Although whilst normally Peter would have rejoiced at being labelled an Avenger by Tony Stark himself, that was far from the case now. The woman next to him was pandering over a machine to which he was hooked. He didn't recognise her, and she could see his face.

"Mr Stark, my mask." He said.

"What?" Tony responded. "Oh, not to worry." He waved his hand in feigned nonchalance. "Anything seen or heard in this room stays strictly in this room. And we only hire tested and trusted personnel. Like Emma here. You're identities safe."

You didn't even know her name.

Peter kept the words in his head, choosing to trust rather than doubt. It didn't make him feel any less horrid though. And then his stomach dropped through the floor.

"Where's my aunt and Ned?" he said, remembering the very reason he had to keep his identity a secret in the first place. "He threatened them. He knows who I am."

"We know, kid. They're-"

"Let me through! So help me God I'll break this damn door down."

Peter recognised the voice immediately. The door swung open and in came May, looking utterly furious. One glance at Peter and the anger melted away like it had never been there at all. She hurried forward, forcing Tony aside so she could get to him. She fell down into a seat that was pulled up against the bed. Someone in the doorway muttered a flustered apology to Tony.

"Out." Was all Tony responded with, to which the man obeyed.

"Pete? You're okay. You're okay. Oh thank God you're okay." Uttered May. Her hand shot to Peter's face, cupping it gently.

Peter relished in the immediate relief of knowing his Aunt hadn't been targeted, but felt sick at the fact she was seeing him like this. He was straight up overwhelmed; dazed from the drugs coursing through his system; still overcome with an unrelenting fear. What had happened was fuzzy in his head, but at the same time it felt like it had taken place mere minutes ago. Whilst his spider-sense was quiet, his nerves and muscles were still in fight-or-flight mode. But at least May was here. At least May was alive.

"Is Ned with you?"

He felt like the words came out too slowly.

"What?" said May, taken aback by the question. "Yes, they brought us in together."

They were both alive.

"But this is about you, Peter." May continued frantically. "They told me you were in surgery for 8 hours. I saw… This can't happen, Peter. I can't do this. Please, just tell me you're okay."

"I'm okay, Aunt May."

He hardly believed himself. May shook her head obviously feeling the same. Her eyes were full of something akin to pain. Moisture brewed there as she surveyed him and moved her hand down to his own uninjured one, the one that still held the glass of water.

"Oh Pete. Your face. Your hand. What have they done to you?"

His face? Scorpion must've really done a number on him. For there to still be bruises over eight hours later…

"It's not that bad, May. I promise."

His voice cracked, but May wasn't looking at him anymore. She was looking at Tony Stark, having adorned the furious expression she first entered the room with.

"You said you would keep him safe." She said harshly. "You call this safe? He's in a hospital bed, Stark. He could have been killed. You didn't even tell me. I had to wait until I saw that man, that monster hurting him on the news. I thought… Oh Pete, I didn't even know if you were alive."

Guilt tore through Peter. He couldn't imagine what May had gone through, watching him get beaten to a pulp through a TV screen, wondering whether it was time to start planning another funeral.

"May, I swear I'm okay."

"No, Pete. You're not." She said resolutely. "You're a child. My child. You're the most brilliant child I ever knew. But that doesn't make this, or you, or anything okay."

She turned to Tony again.

"Tell me you at least caught these guys. Tell me Peter's safe now."

Tony cleared his throat, and Peter already knew that it wasn't going to be the response May, or he wanted to hear.

"He's safe as long as he's here. You all are."

"As long as he's here? What's that supposed to mean?"

"You're not gonna like it, but I'm gonna have to ask you to stay calm. We're doing all we can."

"Just spit it out." The words were more afraid than angry. "Please." She added in a softer tone.

Tony breathed in, looking a little pained.

"Our transport ship was ambushed on the way to our containment facilities." He said. "The attacker, Peter's attacker, escaped several hours ago."

Peter's chest tightened with dread. He held his breath. He expected May to scream, to immediately flip out, but instead her hand tightened around his and she gave a soft, uncertain, terrified "Oh."

"I've got the best people on this. I'm on this." Said Tony. "No one's resting until every person involved in this is down and out."

"What do we do?" said May, her eyes flittering from Peter's face to his broken hand to her own arms as if she didn't know where to look. "Where do we go?"

"You sit tight." Said Tony. "Hey, he's practically my kid too. He's safe with me."

May let out a sudden spiteful laugh.

"Your kid?" She spat. It was as if something in the room switched, like the air dissipated. "Your kid?" she said again. And then she was standing, pointing a condemning finger at Tony Stark.

"There's certain things you do and don't do when you have a kid, Stark. I know because I raised one for the last 9 years."

Peter had never heard this tone of voice before on May. It frightened him. But as the pain dimmed with whatever the nurse was giving him, the scene before him was also beginning to seem like part of a strange feverish dream.

"You don't put your kid in harm's way. You don't give your kid the means to be a super hero at fifteen as if it's not gonna get them killed. You don't take your kid to Germany to fight war criminals three times their age. This is your fault, Stark. You dragged him into this world. You put a target on his back. He's not your kid. He's your vanity project. He's expendable to you. You don't know anything about kids. Only how to endanger other people's."

"May…"

"What, Peter." said May, her tone still harsh and frantic, her eyes still on Tony. But Peter didn't say anything more. And neither did Tony. The man looked shell-shocked, mouth half open and eyes glassy. Trust May Parker of all people to leave the one and only Tony Stark speechless.

Peter wanted to protest. This wasn't Tony Stark's fault. This had always been his choice. He chose to fight. He always would, regardless of Tony's influence. There were consequences when he didn't, the kind he wouldn't wish on his worst enemy.

Peter wanted to protest, but as the morphine took effect his thoughts grew hazy and slow. A blanket of warmth settled upon him, undeniably good, and the anxiety seeped away to uncover very real exhaustion.

"Aunt May…" he said again, a mumble this time, not sure what he was asking for.

May turned to him and as she did Peter's now too heavy head lolled to the side, eyelids drooping. May's face immediately softened. She fell back down into her seat and quickly took the glass that was slipping from his hand.

"Oh sweetie, it's gonna be okay. We're gonna fix this. You're gonna be okay."

It was crazy how fast May was able to unconsciously switch from scared and raging, to a mother desperate to comfort her child.

"I upped his morphine dosage significantly. He shouldn't be in pain anymore."

The nurse's voice would have cut the tension in the room like a knife if Peter could still feel it. He looked at May and felt his mind drifting away.

"My…choice…" he mumbled, only remnants of coherent thought breaking through.

"Honey, what?"

"My choice." He said. "Uncle…Ben…"

Was my fault.

Sober Peter would have never spoken those two words in front of May in such a situation. Sober Peter would have also reacted differently to May breaking into tears seconds after he did, or reacted at all. He would have even noticed the unmistakable expression of guilt seeping onto Tony Stark's face. It was just a dream now though, and soon he was well and truly asleep.

After Peter fell asleep, Tony felt a desperate urge to leave the room, which he quickly succumbed to.

"Uh, nurse, Emma, make sure he gets better fast okay. I'm gonna... take care of some business."

The first thing he did was find the nearest desk and press his hands against it, trying desperately to gather his thoughts.

Vanity project? Vanity project?

Was that true? Was Peter's aunt right? Tony tried to recall why he'd ever wrapped the kid up in his world in the first place. At the time he'd needed muscle. He'd needed someone with the desire to help. Someone to balance the odds in a terrible situation. At the time there was nothing more to it.

Like hell there was nothing more to it. Tony couldn't convince himself that it had ever been that simple.

He'd done research on the kid before they'd met. Of course he had. He'd known Peter was still in high school. He'd known he was a child genius. He'd known that both his parents were dead and that less than three months prior to their meeting, his uncle and guardian had been shot and killed. Tony's research into Peter's life had revealed to him a childhood not so different from his own, one riddled with both extreme loss and extreme promise.

So he'd seen himself in the kid. So what. It wasn't as if he'd walked into that apartment, eagerly looking to paint Peter in his own image. God no. He wanted Peter to be better. Do better.

But did that make this whole thing a selfish endeavour? He'd thrown away a path of heroism and righteousness the second he'd started using his wits to make and sell weapons. Was he leading this kid to an early death in some twisted attempt at self-redemption?

No. Any input he'd had in Peter's life was to protect him. At least he hoped that was the case. Peter was already a super-hero, before Tony; before the Avengers. He was always going to be one. Peter had been blessed, or cursed, with whatever abilities he had, and he was going to use them no matter what. A fancy suit had nothing to do with it. Tony was there to protect Peter along the journey he'd chosen for himself; that was it.

But it was hearing his broken voice. I don't feel so good. It was seeing him waver, then drop to the floor like a dead weight. It was carrying his lifeless body for what felt like hours, terror swelling with every passing moment; every moment closer to the boy's death. It was Pepper in his earpiece when his comms came back online, asking what had happened. It was his reply cut short when Friday informed him that Peter's heart had stopped. It was later, watching the events he'd missed play out through the first-person recordings on Peter's suit. He could practically feel each blow, grimacing as the camera lense fell flat against the concrete for far too long. He felt nothing short of ill when watched Peter's shaking hand pick up a huge shard of glass and shove it into his own leg. This was what Peter had been seeing. Lord knows what he'd been feeling. And then it was watching it again, small glimpses of shaky phone footage on the news. Spider-Man , who looked so small, hit, kicked, mocked, imagining the child inside the suit that he'd made, all the while waiting to hear if he'd ever wake up.

It made him regret ever stepping foot in that apartment. It made him regret ever laying eyes on the kid; building that stupid suit and this even stupider attachment. Looking out for the little guy, that's what he'd said. That was Peter's reason to fight. It was about protecting those who couldn't protect themselves. But who was going to protect Peter: a child who hadn't even owned a flat or been to work or lived? It was supposed to be Tony. But he couldn't. He didn't. And now Peter was lucky to even be alive.

"Sir, we have something."