This is beginning to get tiring.
The whole, chasing Beck thing. Peters is tired, dirty, (bloody) and it’s so cold on this train. It’s getting difficult to keep his eyes open. It’s getting harder to breathe. In fact, his breaths sound more raspy than usual. Coming out as wheezes instead. Naturally this is a problem. Usually, this means that he needs medical attention.
And in the movies, usually, that never happens.
Mumbles slur out his mouth, and the light dims. Good, because it was starting to give him a headache. Hold on — usually, blacking out isn’t a good thing either-
And the world shifts.
Peter feels the bile sliding up his throat the minute he takes a breath, and letting himself gag, the vomit — and blood — pours out his mouth. Peter hacks and coughs, kneeling on the hard concrete. The putrid smell of vomit hit Peter’s nose, and it smells unnatural, unpleasant, and almost sour. It has — give Peter a moment — about the sour, acrid taste of a Hershey’s bar.
Peter’s body aches and he gags once more. He miserably moans, feeling the itch at the top of his mouth, his eyes watering up, as if his allergies were starting to act up. He grips the hard ground, and it takes one last gasp and gag until he is finished. It takes a moment for him to catch his steady breath again.
His back creaks and groans as he straightens his posture, still in that kneeling position. The shine from the sun hits his eyes, and Peter brings up his hand, — caked with vomit, by the way — and shields his vision. His eyes scan his arm. He’s still wearing the black suit. His hands are still bloody, somewhat now, and he can still feel the agonizing pain from that train. The large impact from the hit. And Peter decides that he does not like trains.
It’s a few more seconds before Peter can finally figure out his surroundings. Throwing up in an alleyway is probably the least sanitary way to go about things, He’s figured. Trying to stand hurts. His legs tremble and he lets out a pained groan, steadying himself by placing a hand on the wall. It’s almost like a sob breaks out of his mouth, and Peter scolds himself for letting himself get to this point.
It’s quiet. Besides from the sound of cars passing by, and the chirps of birds, Peter hears no chatter from the people. It’s unusual. It is. This whole thing is, because he should not be in New York.
Unless this is an illusion.
Peter isn’t quite sure what Beck really wants from him. As if getting hit by a train isn’t enough…
The alleyway is starting to smell, and Peter isn’t fond of it. He stumbles — and limps — out of the alleyway, biting back the groans that want to escape his throat. And suddenly, it’s loud, so loud, and he can hear everything. Heartbeats, talking, the small buzzes of flies and gnats. And Peter hates it, and Peter wants it all to just shut up.
Of course, it doesn’t. Not much has gone his way this whole trip, and Peter doesn’t believe it’s going to any time soon. Things seem realer than usual. But, it’s not like Peter can tell the difference between Beck’s illusions and reality.
People that walk by glance at Peter and quickly look away, like they don’t wish to get involved. Their curiosity is forcefully put to an end by themselves, because a kid who is in a black suit — probably looking like some spy — doesn’t look like good news. Peter’s actually grateful they continue to go on with their day.
He wonders if he still has his- aha! Peter fumbles with the mask and pulls it down his head, adjusting it to his liking, to be more comfortable. He’s careful not to wipe the vomit or blood on his hands onto the suit. He’s not sure if it’s washable, or anything. But he’s sure he got some on his mask..
Peter has to be more careful. It’s either reality or an illusion, but he has to get back to Prague, somehow. He needs to protect Ned, and MJ, and everyone else that is in danger. Wherever Beck is going next, he needs to be there, be ready for anything that comes his way.
It hurts like a bitch when Peter swings through the air, but he does his best to ignore it. Something is wrong with his leg, something is messed up with his back, but he can take a look when he gets back to his apartment. He’s all alone out here, he reminds himself. ‘No Stark, no no one, just you.’
There’s just one problem. Peter’s injured leg is making it difficult to climb the wall up to his apartment window. Of course, webs would come in handy if he wasn’t out of them.
So, it’s hard to get up to your room when you're badly injured and people can spot you. Peter tries to tune out the people’s questions and their worry, and says, “everything’s fine, people!” In a lower tone of voice, in a non-pained voice, because Spider Man is strong, and Spider Man is able to take care of himself.
And God, hopefully May wasn’t home. And hopefully Happy wasn’t in there, having some weird date with his aunt. That wouldn’t be cool. Peter pulls off his mask, and goes for the doorknob.
The door wasn’t locked. (Woohoo!) But, kinda not. Because Tony Stark is sitting on his couch with his aunt.
Tony Stark. Who is actually supposed to be dead, if you didn’t know.
Peter can’t move. He’s frozen, and he tunes out the door closing behind him. He hates everything about this. None of this is okay — none of this is correct. It’s wrong, so wrong, because his senses do not scream, and a dead man is sitting on his couch. And Peter decides that this is by far, one of the absolute worst illusions Beck has created.
Even if the expressions on Tony and May’s face look so real.