Peter's body ached and burned as he pushed himself forward. He needed to get as far away from the beach as he could. There was nothing like a plane almost coming down on Coney Island to draw attention. Toomes was taken care of, and it seemed for all intents and purposes, he should be breathing some sigh of relief, or at least feeling some level of accomplishment after pulling off what he'd just done, but instead, he felt strangely numb.

The sounds of sirens were nearing, and drawing a shaky breath, he took the last few steps to the street, ducking into the shadows of an alleyway. Feeling began to return to his body, and his legs started shaking. He was wavering under his own weight. He'd taken some hits. He knew for sure some ribs were broken. It was then he felt the growing warmth on his side. He brushed his fingers absently against it, bringing them up to his face. It took a moment to register. It was blood.

He looked down at the spot on his side and could see—even in the darkness—the deepening shade of red growing on his sweatshirt. What it meant didn't connect though—not really. It wasn't like a surge of adrenaline pumped through him, and he jumped into action. It was more like time slowed down as he watched in morbid curiosity as the wound bled. It was the sound of sirens passing the alley that snapped him out of it.

That's right. The crash. The plane. He had to get out of there.

He scurried up the brick wall to the rooftop, feeling his side burn and pull. He pressed a hand to it and hissed. Blood dripped from his fingers. This was too much blood. Peter lifted his shirt and inspected the wound. It was deep—a puncture maybe. He thought back, trying to remember it happening but drawing a blank. His thoughts seemed slow. His senses dulling.

What was he doing? Right, the blood. He put a hand over the wound again and pressed, thinking absently how it fruitless it was since no one knew where he was. No help was coming.

It was all very anticlimactic. He imagined bleeding out, dying, would be different. It wasn't the life flashing before your eyes scenario from the movies. It was just … cold, thoughtless, tiring.

He looked out over the city and thought how out of everyone out there—no one was going to notice him dying tonight. Maybe that's what being a hero was about though. Getting as many wins as you could and then one day, without so much as a thought from the world, you die. The world goes on, and another hero takes your place.

He drew a shaky breath. It was getting so cold—a shiver passed through him. He was so tired. He couldn't ever remember a time he was this tired. He tried to walk but stumbled, collapsing onto the gravelly rooftop. His stomach began to hurt in earnest, and he rolled onto his side, drawing up his knees, feeling very much a child and not a hero.

This wasn't how this night was supposed to go. This wasn't how any of it was supposed to go. He thought of Liz, Ned—Aunt May. There it was. The emotion that he wasn't feeling—the fear. He was scared. He didn't want to leave Aunt May alone. He couldn't. He needed to be there for her. If he died, she'd blame herself.

He couldn't die there. Not tonight. Not on this shitty roof. He was going to live. He just needed to … He had no idea what to do. The only person he could call wanted nothing to do with him. Mr. Stark had made that clear. Happy wouldn't take his calls either.

Maybe he was going to die after all. That thought hurt. It burned him like fire. He tried to push himself to his feet but only managed to get to his hands and knees. The building seemed to sway beneath him. He imagined this wound was just a bit too much for his advanced healing to keep up with. Maybe if he could just get home. Apologize to Aunt May. He didn't want to leave her without an explanation.

He rechecked his side. It was still bleeding. This really sucked.

He grunted and tried pushing himself back onto his feet. He couldn't do it. This was it. He was going to die. Crap. This was just not how the night was supposed to go.

It was okay, though. He'd saved people. He'd stopped Toomes. He'd kept the city a little safer. Maybe he could rest.

He curled back up on the rooftop and closed his eyes. His limbs began to feel warm and tingle a bit. It wasn't bad. He imagined there were worse ways to go. It felt almost like falling asleep.

Then he heard it. It was distant and foggy, but he knew the sound. Repulsors. It couldn't be though. There was no way. He was dreaming. How would Mr. Stark have found him? He didn't have the suit anymore.

"I got him … Shit," he heard Mr. Stark talking.

He felt someone lifting him, holding him tight. He heard the Repulsors again and then air pricking his face. He could hear broken fragments of Mr. Stark talking.

"Fuck … Faster … Divert the power then … Fuck … Kid, kid … No! Peter!"

He couldn't hold on any longer, though. The darkness was so comforting, so warm. It wasn't harsh and painful. He relaxed into, hearing a distant voice calling out his name as he slipped into the silence.