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The battle was over. The air was thick with the smell of scorched metal and burnt ozone, the kind of scent that clung to the back of your throat long after you’d left. The streetlights flickered unsteadily, barely casting enough illumination to push back the dark.
Steve Rogers stepped carefully over a crumbling section of pavement, eyes sweeping the alley. The scene was a mess—deep cracks in the brick walls, a webbed-up streetlamp bent at an awkward angle, shattered weapons and debris scattered across the asphalt.
It was the aftermath of a fight. And from the looks of it, a brutal one.
“Damn,” Sam muttered, stepping over a crushed energy rifle, its barrel still smoking. “Kid really tore through them.”
Natasha crouched near the remains of what looked like a makeshift barricade, running her fingers over the charred edges. “He had to,” she murmured. “This wasn’t a quick fight. He was cornered.”
Tony Stark was silent, standing a few feet away with his arms crossed. Something about this scene wasn’t sitting right with him. He’d seen the kid clean up fights before—messy, sure, but always controlled. Managed. This felt different. The wreckage was chaotic, desperate.
“Where the hell is he, then?” Clint asked, scanning the rooftops. “Kid usually leaves a message or something.”
“He’s not the type to disappear,” Steve agreed. “If he was okay, he’d have stuck around.”
“Unless he’s too injured to,” Bucky said flatly.
The words lingered in the air, heavy and unspoken until now.
Tony clenched his jaw. “No. He would’ve called me.”
Sam huffed. “Maybe he tried, but—” He gestured around them. “Not exactly a calm, distraction-free zone.”
Natasha exhaled sharply and stood. “There’s no blood trail. If he was seriously injured, he must’ve webbed out.”
It was a reasonable conclusion. A logical one.
So why did it feel wrong?
Tony stared at the wreckage for another long moment, fingers tapping against his arm, mind racing.
And then, reluctantly, he turned away.
“Alright,” he said, voice tight. “We’ll follow up with FRIDAY. See if he—”
A sound.
Quiet. Weak.
Barely more than a breath.
The team froze.
The shift was instant—bodies tensing, heads snapping toward the source.
“Did you hear that?” Steve asked, voice low.
No one answered. Natasha was already moving, silent and focused, following the faint noise deeper into the alley. The others followed, weaving through the debris, their footfalls unnervingly loud against the broken pavement.
They moved past the overturned crates, past the remnants of the fight, past the place where Spider-Man should have been.
And then they saw it.
A shadowed figure, slumped against the wall.
At first, he was barely visible, hidden behind a collapsed metal beam, his body curled in on itself.
A body.
Small.
Unmoving.
Tony’s stomach dropped.
It was him.
Spider-Man.
Peter.
And he wasn’t moving.
For a second, no one moved.
The scene before them didn’t make sense. Spider-Man was supposed to be gone. He was supposed to be fine. But instead, he was slumped against the base of the wall, barely visible in the dim light, his body limp, half-hidden beneath the wreckage.
Natasha was the first to react, closing the distance in an instant. She crouched beside him, pressing two fingers against the exposed section of his neck.
“Pulse is weak,” she said, voice tight. “He’s breathing, but barely.”
Tony was moving before he even registered it, dropping to his knees beside her. His hands hovered over the kid’s crumpled form, hesitant for the first time in years.
Up close, it was worse.
The suit was shredded—gashes torn into the fabric, dark blood seeping into the red and blue. His left glove was missing entirely, revealing a trembling, dust-coated hand curled weakly against his stomach. Blood dripped sluggishly from his fingers, too slow, too thick.
The mask was still on, but just barely, the bottom half torn, revealing a cut along his jaw.
Tony’s breath caught in his throat.
Because suddenly, he wasn’t looking at Spider-Man anymore.
He was looking at Peter.
The realization hit like a punch to the gut, knocking the air from his lungs.
He knew that face.
He’d seen it countless times—under too-bright fluorescent lights at the lab, grinning around a mouthful of sandwich, rambling a mile a minute about some science project Tony had only half been paying attention to.
But now?
Now, that same face was slack with exhaustion, bloodied, bruised.
Too young. Too small.
Tony swore under his breath. His hands finally settled, one pressing gently against Peter’s shoulder, the other tilting his face just enough to see if he was responsive.
“Kid,” he murmured. “C’mon, you with me?”
Peter twitched at the touch, a weak, barely-there flinch. His eyelashes fluttered, but his eyes didn’t quite open. His lips parted slightly, and for a moment, it looked like he was about to say something—
Then his body sagged, completely limp.
Tony felt his heart skip a beat.
“Peter,” he said sharply, giving his shoulder a firmer shake. “Stay with me, alright?”
No response.
Steve crouched beside him, gaze serious. “We need to get him out of here.”
Tony barely heard him. His mind was spinning. How the hell had he not known? He’d had suspicions, sure—Spidey was too damn small to be an adult—but he’d figured seventeen, maybe.
Not fifteen.
Not a literal child.
“We need a medic,” Natasha said, already pressing down on one of the deeper wounds. “Now.”
“On it.” Sam was already contacting their team, relaying Peter’s condition in clipped, urgent tones.
Tony exhaled sharply, trying to steady himself.
Then Peter made a sound—a weak, barely-there whimper of pain.
Tony’s stomach twisted.
“Hey,” he tried again, voice softer this time. “You’re okay, kid. We’ve got you.”
Peter’s head lolled slightly toward him, his face twitching in a grimace. His eyes cracked open just a fraction—dazed, unfocused.
He blinked sluggishly at Tony, eyes glassy. Then, barely above a whisper, he rasped:
“Didn’t… didn’t want you to find out like this.”
Tony barely had time to process that before Peter’s body went completely limp in his arms.
And for the first time in a long time, Tony Stark felt afraid.
Peter wasn’t waking up.
Tony could handle a lot of things—explosions, world-ending threats, even being stranded in deep space—but the kid’s too-shallow breathing and the warmth of blood seeping against his hands were making his stomach churn.
“We need to move now,” Steve said, urgency creeping into his voice. “If he loses any more blood—”
“I know,” Tony snapped.
Natasha was already ahead of them, pulling gauze from a field kit she carried and pressing it against the wound in Peter’s side. “Bucky, help me lift him. Sam, ETA on evac?”
“Quinjet’s two minutes out,” Sam answered. “I told them we need a full med team.”
“We don’t have two minutes,” Tony ground out.
Peter’s breaths were coming slower now, more uneven. His head lolled against Tony’s arm, eyes shut, lashes dark against too-pale skin.
He looks so damn young.
Steve helped ease Peter’s weight as Bucky shifted him into a better position for transport. Peter barely reacted—no sharp intake of breath, no startled twitch.
Nothing.
That scared Tony more than anything else.
As carefully as they could, they lifted Peter between them. Tony refused to let go, even when Natasha tried to take over. His grip tightened around the kid’s limp wrist, as if that alone would keep him anchored here.
Peter had fought alone.
Peter had almost died alone.
And none of them had known.
Tony could feel his pulse hammering beneath his own skin, but he forced himself to shove it down, to focus. His mind cycled back through every interaction, every night Peter had shown up to the lab with a cut on his cheek, a wince in his step. Every time Tony had figured, He’s fine. He’ll tell me if something’s wrong.
Except he hadn’t.
And now Tony knew why.
The quiet whir of the approaching Quinjet cut through the night, and Steve stepped back to give them space. As the ramp lowered, the med team inside rushed forward, reaching for Peter.
Tony hesitated.
It was Bucky—of all people—who clapped a hand on his shoulder. Not harsh, not dismissive. Just steady. “Let them work,” he said.
Tony exhaled and, with immense reluctance, let Peter go.
As the medics worked, securing oxygen, checking vitals, Tony followed. He sat beside Peter the entire flight, watching every shaky inhale, every unconscious twitch.
He didn’t say anything.
Didn’t crack a joke.
Didn’t look away.
Because for the first time since meeting Peter Parker, he realized just how close he’d come to losing him.
And he wasn’t about to let that happen again.
The Quinjet touched down with a soft jolt, but Tony barely registered it. His focus stayed locked on Peter, whose breathing remained too shallow, too weak. The medics were already moving him, speaking in clipped, efficient tones, but all Tony could hear was the pounding in his ears.
The team followed in tense silence as Peter was rushed inside the Tower’s medical wing. Stark Industries had built some of the best tech in the world, and their facilities were no exception—state-of-the-art, fully equipped for superhuman injuries. But even that didn’t stop the knot twisting in Tony’s stomach.
Because Peter wasn’t superhuman. Not really.
Sure, he could cling to walls and throw punches that could shatter concrete, but at the end of the day, he was still a kid.
And he had nearly bled out alone.
“Sir,” FRIDAY’s voice cut through the fog of his thoughts. “Mr. Parker has suffered significant blood loss, two fractured ribs, and a deep laceration along his left side. The medical team is stabilizing him now.”
Stabilizing. Not out of the woods.
Tony clenched his fists, inhaling sharply as he stepped toward the glass that separated them from the med bay. Through it, he could see Peter on the operating table, hooked up to an IV, his face pale beneath the harsh white lights.
“Damn it,” he muttered under his breath.
The others were watching too, their usual ease stripped away. Natasha had her arms crossed tightly, Steve was standing too still, and Bucky’s jaw was set in a way that said this is hitting too close to home.
Nobody spoke for a long moment.
Then Clint exhaled. “So… anyone wanna talk about the fact that Spider-Man is a literal child?”
No one answered.
Because they were all thinking the same thing.
Natasha was the one to break the silence. “How old?”
Tony didn’t answer right away. Because admitting it made it real.
But finally, his voice came out rough, barely above a whisper.
“Fifteen.”
Sam let out a low curse. Steve closed his eyes briefly, then exhaled sharply through his nose.
“No way,” Clint muttered. “I mean—I figured he was young, but… damn.”
Tony ran a hand down his face, exhaustion and guilt pressing down on him like a weight. “Yeah,” he muttered. “Damn.”
The reality of it settled over them, heavy and suffocating.
Peter—Spider-Man, the kid who had fought beside them, who had cracked jokes mid-battle, who had saved lives—was barely old enough for a learner’s permit.
And none of them had known.
None of them had been there.
The weight of that realization was suffocating.
A faint groan from the med bay made them all turn sharply.
Tony was at the glass in an instant, eyes locked on Peter.
The kid shifted slightly, brow furrowing. His fingers twitched weakly against the sheets.
Then, slowly, painfully, his eyes cracked open.
Tony barely realized he was holding his breath.
Peter blinked sluggishly, eyes unfocused. His lips parted slightly, like he was trying to say something but couldn’t quite get the words out.
The medics moved in quickly, checking his vitals, murmuring reassurances. Peter flinched at the contact but didn’t resist. His head lolled slightly to the side—just enough that his gaze landed on the group standing behind the glass.
And then, despite everything, his lips curved into the smallest, weakest excuse for a smile.
“…Hey, Mr. Stark,” he rasped, voice hoarse.
Tony exhaled sharply, tension bleeding from his shoulders in a way he hadn’t expected.
Peter was alive.
Still weak, still battered, still reckless as hell—
But alive.
And Tony would make damn sure he stayed that way.
Peter didn’t stay conscious for long. The pain, the exhaustion, and the blood loss all pulled him back under before he could say anything else.
But that was fine.
Because for the first time that night, Tony wasn’t afraid that he wouldn’t wake up again.
The team lingered for a while, keeping an eye on Peter even though the medics assured them he was stable. Eventually, though, they started filtering out one by one, leaving Tony alone in the dimly lit med bay.
He pulled up a chair beside Peter’s bed and sat down with a sigh, rubbing his temples. The kid’s face was still pale, but there was more color than before. The monitors beeped steadily, a quiet reassurance that he was still here.
Tony leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.
“This has gotta stop, kid,” he muttered, even though Peter was out cold. “Sneaking off, taking on guys twice your size, bleeding out in alleys…”
His throat tightened.
He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “You should’ve told me, Peter.”
A small shift in the bed made him glance up. Peter’s fingers twitched against the blanket, his brow furrowing slightly before his eyes fluttered open.
Tony straightened immediately.
Peter blinked sluggishly at him, confused for a second before recognition settled in. “M’ Stark?” he murmured, voice rough.
Tony smirked, but it was tired. “The one and only.”
Peter tried to move, winced, and immediately stopped. His face scrunched up. “Oh… ow.”
“Yeah, no kidding,” Tony muttered. “You got your ass kicked, kid.”
Peter sighed through his nose, clearly still too out of it to argue. His gaze flickered around, taking in the med bay before settling back on Tony. His expression turned sheepish. “Guess… you know now.”
Tony scoffed. “Guess?” He shook his head, his voice softer when he continued. “Peter, you could’ve died.”
Peter swallowed hard, guilt flickering across his face. “Didn’t wanna drag you into it,” he admitted. “Didn’t wanna disappoint you.”
Tony frowned, something twisting in his chest. He leaned forward slightly. “Hey. Listen to me.”
Peter blinked at him, eyes still heavy with exhaustion.
“You never have to hide stuff like this from me,” Tony said firmly. “You’re a kid. You’re my kid, as far as I’m concerned. And if you think for a second that I’m just gonna let you keep doing this alone—” He huffed, shaking his head. “Not happening.”
Peter swallowed, his expression conflicted. “But—”
“Nope. No buts. New rule,” Tony interrupted, pointing at him. “If you’re in over your head, you call me. I don’t care if it’s two in the morning or if you think you can handle it. You call. Got it?”
Peter hesitated, then gave the smallest, sleepiest nod. “Got it.”
Tony studied him for a second, then sighed. “Alright, kid. Get some rest.”
Peter hummed in response, already half-asleep. Within seconds, his breathing evened out again, his body relaxing into the bed.
Tony stayed there for a while, watching the steady rise and fall of Peter’s chest. The panic from earlier was still there, coiled tight in his ribs, but for now, he let himself focus on the fact that Peter was alive.
Still reckless. Still stubborn.
But alive.
And from now on, Tony Stark was going to make damn sure he stayed that way.