Work Text:
When the dust settled, Peter realized that he couldn't breathe.
His chest, buried under dozens of pounds of concrete, steel, iron, and more, couldn't expand outwards. It could only contract further inward as garbled screams exited his throat, their wet and twisted noise dying quickly under all of the rubble. Blood dribbled out of his mouth, and down his chin, pooling on the concrete before spreading outwards from his body in small rivers. A haggard exhale escaped his lips as Peter tried to command his lungs to function, to operate smoothly as panic overtook him.
The warehouse had collapsed on top of him only moments before and now he was trapped under the rubble.
That should have been enough to worry about. He should have been able to figure his way out of all the wreckage in a matter of minutes, so he could move towards Stark Tower and save the day.
But, with a sinking heart and a panicking mind, Peter realized that he couldn't feel his legs.
Shifting his left leg slightly, he stifled his scream as the jagged edges of a steel beam further cut through his thigh. He could feel the sticky blood pooling under his body as the hole in his flesh burned and his nerves screamed in pain. It felt as if the beam was ripping apart his flesh, his muscle, his bones. It was only when Peter held completely still that the injury ceased growing in size and the pain subsided to a dull ache.
The glass shards deeply embedded in his legs scraped the concrete as Peter's whole body shook, anxiety overtaking adrenaline in his veins.
His right calf had a matching aluminum pole sticking out of his leg close to his ankle, and blood was not only flowing onto the ground but inside of his suit as well. The material of Peter's suit was sticking to his skin as the deep crimson liquid dripped between his toes, pooled behind his knees, and flowed down his back. Cuts littered the upper half of his right leg. The glass shards which had caused the injuries had already been forced out of his body, lost in the chaos of the rubble.
Peter's lungs weren't working, his body was still shaking, and his vision was starting to blur as blood trickled down his forehead into his eyes. The noises of the world were dull and muffled, as if someone had stuffed his ears with cotton. Black spots danced in his vision as he blinked rapidly, bile rising in his throat. Peter quickly swallowed it before whimpering in the darkness of the rubble, the reality of his situation settling in.
"Someone, please, help me." It was quiet, and faint, and too soft to be heard by anyone inches away from Peter, let alone by someone who might be walking by the destroyed warehouse. No one was coming to help him.
"Please, I'm trapped down here." Peter tried to move his right arm, a sharp gasp escaping his lips as he felt his forearm scrape the concrete beneath him and tear his skin further apart. A protruding bone drug itself through drying blood as he flailed in place, attempting to find a position which might allow him to find a way out of his predicament. Doing so only caused his other arm, missing chunks of flesh, to seize up in pain as well.
Peter's chest grew tighter as the rubble above him pushed him further towards the ground, his cracked ribs bending inwards as his body slid on the concrete slick with blood beneath him.
He was alone, and he should be dead.
Peter's enhanced healing was the only thing keeping him alive right now, his flesh attempting to mend itself together around his protruding bones and the metal objects embedded in his flesh. Every time his position shifted, the new skin shredded itself before beginning to heal once more.
It was pure agony and he needed to get out.
Peter's mouth filled with blood as he forced himself to focus on his breathing, the panic coursing through him attempting to momentarily shut his body down in order to somehow save him. But Peter knew that if he fell asleep, he wouldn't wake up again.
Pushing down on the concrete with his better arm, Peter arched his back and let out a guttural scream as he lifted the heavy pounds of rubble upward in an attempt to get all of it away from his body. Once he was up in the air, he kept his back arched and forced all of his weight onto his broken arm. Biting through his tongue, Peter used his free hand to grab ahold of the rubble and toss pieces of it away from him one by one. He could feel his fingernails breaking as the concrete threatened to send him back towards the ground. Gritting his teeth, Peter felt his vision fade in and out as he grew closer to freeing himself from the rubble on top of him.
After twenty minutes, he collapsed onto the ground, his jaw popping as it hit the floor. He was free from the weight that had been crushing him, but his lungs still felt as if they were being flattened to a pulp. Peter rested his cheek against the ground, and his drying blood, before taking a deep breath and sliding both of his legs upward in unison.
The metal slid out of his skin in jagged, broken movements, the impaled objects not letting go of their victim easily. Once Peter's legs were free, he used his arms to drag himself forward and away from the metal coated in his flesh and blood. His fingers scrambled for ridges in the fallen warehouse's rubble as Peter forced his body towards an opening in one of the collapsed walls, his better arm straining from the effort.
A few minutes later, Peter collapsed on the dewy grass outside. The cool droplets of water counteracted his feverish body temperature as the shock of the situation truly hit him. Curling into a ball as best he could, Peter squeezed his eyes shut and felt a small whine escape his lips as tears trailed down his cheeks, small rivers cutting through the dried blood smeared on his cheeks. Ragged inhales and exhales left his lungs as Peter's fingers rested on his neck, his faint pulse grounding him to reality as the frigid night air quelled his rising anxiety.
It took a while for Peter to stop shaking, his hands wavering as he stretched his legs outwards. He used his webs to dress the two largest wounds the best that he could, before setting his arm and encasing it in light webbing as well. Standing, Peter stumbled in place as he cursed lightly under his breath, his balance shaky due to the extent of his injuries.
Peter ran his hands down his face and drew in a shaky breath before shooting his webs into the air towards the nearest building. As soon as the fluid caught on the corner of its roof, he hauled himself into the air and began swinging through the sky towards his destination. Tears clogged Peter's throat as the moonlight illuminated his blood-stained appearance in the sky.
He needed to be strong because no one was coming to save him. He needed to pull himself together because if he wasn't anything without the suit, then he would never be deserving of it.
He needed to be Spider-Man.
Otherwise, Peter would go back to being nothing but an anxious teen with superpowers who was wasting his true potential because he was scared of a little responsibility. The exact position that had let Uncle Ben die.
Peter let the pain hum through his body as he swung through the sky, the lights of Stark Tower shining down onto his face. The dull ache was easy to ignore as he shut his mind down and focused on nothing but stopping the Vulture.
After all, he had a plane to catch.