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A dull rushing sound was the first sensation that returned. A rhythmic thudding underpinned it, almost choked beneath the incessant, dulled roar. The next was the sting of bile-tinged saliva, pooling and heavy, unable to be spat or swallowed away just yet. Goose-bumped flesh followed as the body pinpricked and reawakened, nerve endings spasming and tightening. The body’s nervous system trying and failing to make sense of itself. The last thing to return is the vision, eyes gaining and losing focus in concordance with the rushing sound. In and out. In and out. The world cuts in and out, first as a whisper, then as a slither of light, until finally the world came into clarity around him.
Peter gasped, almost choking on his own saliva as air flooded his lungs, the violent sound flooding his over-sensitive hearing. His head pounded as his sensation, his awareness of the world around him continued to mount. He tried in vain to steady his breath, to return to the world more quietly, but his head pounded under the assault of his senses.
It took him an eternity to quieten, to deaden the rushing, returning sound of his own blood flowing, his own heart beating, his own lungs breathing. A cacophony of sound that only existed in his own echoing eardrums. Yet even as they quietened, as his body’s equilibrium returned, these sounds and their quiet hum of life were the only ones he could hear.
Peter straightened himself in his seat, his joints and muscles contracting and twinging as they reawakened. He became aware of the worn sofa beneath his fingertips, the soft light of dawn catching the glass panel of a window, and a familiar voice (tethered to no heartbeat, no breath) prompting him from a speaker above.
“Can you hear me, Peter?”
Peter opened his mouth to speak, a soft, gasp-filled croak finding its way past his lips, before he swallowed, breathed in, and tried again.
“Yea.”
He licked his cracked lips, cleared his throat, and went to stand. His legs trembled the moment he tried to put weight on them, and he fell back onto the couch for a moment as he attempted to even his breathing and brace himself for his second attempt. He planted one hand firmly on the armrest beside him, the other on the couch cushion beneath him, and pushed himself up with a grunt. He straightened out, muscles spasming but holding, as he stiffly looked around.
He was alone on the communal floor of the Avenger’s tower, the warm light flitting through the windows making the space seem almost warm. Yet any familiarity evoked by the space was quickly interrupted as Peter’s eyes swept the room. A window panel had shattered, clumsily sealed with cardboard and duct tape. A bar trolley lay against a far wall, upturned and surrounded by smashed glass. Half the couches had been haphazardly pushed to one side of the room and two low tables had been pushed together, covered in scattered files, notebooks and papers. The couch Peter had been sitting on had been pushed closer to the window, facing outward towards the view of the city below, with a small television perched on a cabinet in front of him. The glare through the window silhouetted the screen for a moment but as Peter’s eyes adjusted, he caught sight of them. Photos littered the screen, haphazardly stuck on with clear tape, overlapping one another, forming a cobbled together family album.
Peter stared, gaze drifting slowly from one to the other, recollections hazy as his mind reawakened. Whoever taped these photos there had wanted them to be the first thing he saw. Photos of his team. Many had been taken in the very room he stood, the Avengers looking particularly un-Avenger like in their casual wear, their pyjamas, even ill-fitting Halloween costumes in some. Their faces danced and smeared in front of Peter’s vision. Steve. Nat. Clint. Sam. Thor. Bruce. Bucky. Some repeated more than others. Some newcomers. Some old friends. Wanda. Scott. Strange. T’challa. Many photos from company retreats. Rhodey. Pepper. Happy. May…. And almost always amongst them, dispersed throughout the intersecting worlds. Tony. Mr. Stark.
Memories tugged at the corners of Peter’s mind, he could feel himself taping the pictures, arranging them with care, assuring that not one face gets covered, folding corners and cutting out figures to assure he could see them all, just as he was now.
Despite the disorientation, the grogginess of awakening (of reawakening), a part of him had never forgotten. He remembered with all too much clarity the situation he found himself in.
“Where ‘re they J?”
“Captain Rogers is on the ground floor, attempting to exit the tower again. Agent Romanov is currently two floors above you, but she has stopped moving. Sargeant Barnes is pacing on the first floor. Clint, Pepper and Happy have not moved from their beds. Sir is in his lab where you left him.”
“Thanks J.”
Peter’s voice rasped and broke, sounding harsh even when compared to Jarvis’, whose usually impeccable cadence had also suffered the effects of disrepair. Peter ignored his returning senses screaming at him (dangerdangerdanger) and turned to leave the room. With every muscle in his body protesting, he stumbled towards the elevator which mercifully Jarvis could still open for him. He half fell into it, catching himself on one knee with a hand pressed into the cold ground. The usually stark overhead had been mercifully turned down to an ambient warm glow (Thanks, J) but nothing could slow the headache mounting behind Peter’s eyes. This always seemed to happen. A persistent headache settling in soon after he returned to himself. A side-effect perhaps, of flesh and mind rapidly regenerating.
The elevator moved slowly and quietly and by the time it came to a stop Peter had steadied himself enough to stand again. He breathed in deeply. In. Out. In. Out. All too aware of the unseeing eye waiting for him. “’m ready, J. Thank you.”
The floor was in a similar state of disarray to the common room, if not worse. Broken glass and loose paper littered the floor, with various objects teetering or slipping off desks and tabletops. Most surfaces were covered with tools, devices, vials, wires, monitors, and all semblance of partially completed or hurriedly abandoned projects. Peter’s own work and notes intermingled with his mentors, much of it untouched in years, preserved as a memory of a time Peter could hardly remember anymore. One bench stuck out, it’s surface the least marred by dust and its contents half emptied onto the ground as if pushed aside and discarded. Peter’s last-ditch attempt.
Peter came to a stop at his last workstation, gazing down at the notes scattered at his feet as that incessant headache still tugged at his senses. A soft sound broke through the haze, the scraping shuffle of a heel dragging along the ground, drawing closer. Peter turned towards it, head still downturned, eyes fixed on the ground as he stepped over crumpled paper, broken glass, past hopes of revelation. A pair of scuffed, worn sneakers entered his view, dragging uncomfortably along the ground, achingly slow and stilted. Peter let his eyes glaze over, unfocused as his gaze travelled upward to meet the slowly approaching figure.
“Hi Mr. Stark.”
His mind knew what he was seeing. He could not escape the disappearing mass of the body before him. The eaten away flesh, the absence of eyes, the sunken face. Yet by some trick of the mind, he could still see him, a memory overlayed over the corpse in front of him. Almost comforting.
Tony raised his arms clumsily, fingers slipping as they struggled to curl and find purchase on Peter’s arm. He was hunched awkwardly, his spine struggling to support his torso, tilting his head at an awkward angle to gaze up at Peter, unseeing. Peter could almost hear a snide comment about his growth spurt (“Can’t call you “underoos” anymore huh, kid?”) as he gently propped up his mentor’s arms till they grasped his shoulders.
He felt a weak tug and bent towards it, hunching forward into an almost hug as Tony’s form lurched forward awkwardly. His teeth snapped as they sought flesh, uncoordinated and flimsy, they missed again and again, and when they finally clamped onto Peter’s shoulder, they could not pierce skin. It had been a long time since he had been able to bite Peter.
Peter held him for a moment, a haunting semblance of an embrace, before drawing back with a gentle push.
“Let's get out of here, Mr.Stark.”
Tony clawed weakly at him, but Peter just gently took his hand and led him back to the elevator, slowly, carefully, at Tony’s pace. In the elevator Tony tried to gnaw on Peter’s arm again, a lack of warm breath making the sensation one of cold stones slipping off skin. Tony’s body was leaning awkwardly against him, struggling to stay upright, but he was almost weightless and emitted no warmth. It was almost like there was nothing there at all. The usual accompaniment of sound Peter had grown accustomed to, since his first bite (a spider’s bite), was gone. There was no other heartbeat. No other steady breath. No flow of blood. No sign of life outside of his own.
When the elevator doors opened again Peter patiently led Tony to the couch by the TV, coaxing him down into it before sitting beside him. Tony immediately reached for him again, clawing at him, trying to find purchase, trying to bite. But his movements had grown so slow, so clumsy, so weakened. It was as if he had rendered this still world into slow motion. Peter sat quietly beside him, staring blankly at the photos in front of him. He could hear the others, just barley on the fringes of his senses, moving, dragging, pacing, clawing for a way out. They had slowed so much since he had last been conscious.
“I shouldn’t have left you there.”
Tony’s jaw struggled to open and close properly, teeth gnashing weakly.
“’m sorry.”
If he focused, he could hear the soft thrum of the world beyond. He knew some of the others were still out there, stumbling and searching for life to sink their teeth into. The returning memories sunk back behind a haze, begging to be forgotten.
“Jarvis?”
“Yes Peter.”
“What day is it?”
“It is a Monda-. -e second- August in the yea’ 2021.”
It had been five months since he had last turned. Since he had last let himself be bitten. The periods between consciousness were getting longer. Despite the best efforts of his healing factor it seemed the virus was keeping him longer, evolving in potency. If he was lucky in a year or two he may never awaken again.
He reached slowly across to the arm Tony was still trying to pierce and pulled it out of his mouth. His nails dug into the flesh slowly, before pulling back, harsh and fast. The skin ripped and tore, blood riveting down and soaking into the fabric of Tony’s torn jeans and the coach beneath them. He dimly heard Jarvis’ voice cut in and out, but they both knew he was not listening. He lifted his arm closer to his mentor, the scent of blood drawing Tony closer, his teeth sinking into red flesh.
Peter leaned back into the couch cushions, body relaxing as his body went through the motions of dying for what felt like the hundredth time. His senses zeroed in on the photos before him, on the feeling of his mentor beside him. One photo drew his attention in. A pack of jovial Avengers holding him aloft, as a far too big pin tacked to his shirt proudly read “sweet sixteenth”. That had been the last birthday they had all celebrated, before the world fell silent. He could almost hear the photo, a swell of cheers and laughter and shouts of-
“It’s my b’rthday next week.” Peter muttered absently. His voice was already starting to slur, to slow. His head lolled to the side, coming to rest against a warm shoulder.
“Happy Birthday Peter.”