It wouldn't have been as disorienting as it was if his stomach weren't unbearably empty because he hadn't eaten, yet, and he'd been up since 5:30 in the goddamn morning.

(It wouldn't have been as disorienting as it was if he hadn't just crashed through those boxes like they were cardboard and landed on his head after already fighting with Captain America and holding up that jet bridge, to be fair.)

As it was, it was disorienting. It hurt to breathe, his head was pounding, and his senses were waking up with him, but in a weird order.

"—all right?"

If he'd been relying on his Spidey-sense, and been in his right mind, he would have been able to stop the reaction.

(He was on the ground and he hurt and he couldn't breathe, and someone was there, God, and he was—he was Spider-Man. Wasn't he? Not puny Peter Parker. And so he swung a punch.)


"Hey. Hey, get off—" Peter twisted, more violently than he probably should, considering his injuries.

"Same side."

"Wait a minute—"

"Guess who. Hi. It's me."

Peter blinked, trying to reconcile the voice. It was—It was Tony Stark.

The mission. The Avengers.

The giant man.

Oh, God, his ribs.

"Hey. Hey. Oh. Hey, man," Peter mumbled, willing his brain to stop scrambling for just a second.


"Oh, that was scary," Peter breathed, feeling his lungs expand, pushing painfully against ribs that didn't want him to do that again. (Breathe. Or, you know. Fight. Either one.)

"Yeah. You're done, all right?"


"You did a good job. Stay down."

"I'm good, I'm fine!"

"Stay down."

"No, it's good. I gotta get him back!" Peter winced, trying to sit up.

"You're going home, or I'll call Aunt May!"


"You're done!"

"Wait! Mr. Stark, wait! I'm not done. I'm not..." Peter got into a sitting position. Pulled his mask back down. (When had he pulled it up?) This was fine. He could do this. "I'm…" his arm was too weak to support him, and he shakily leaned himself back to the ground. "Okay, I'm done. I'm done."

He could breathe. (carefully) He deserved a breather.

(Not a "rest," because he associated "resting time" with something else, entirely, and would rather not trigger himself, thankyouverymuch.)

And it took a bit for the ringing in his head to subside.

And it took a bit longer for him to register that the comms were open, and to pull the mask off, again, because he could hear the words, but he couldn't comprehend them without some kind of context to ground him.

The next thing he grew aware of was an increasing number of flashing lights in his periphery.

Then Black Widow was crouching in front of him.

"Hey. You. Are very young. How old are you?"

"Fifteen," Peter answered honestly, and it didn't occur to him to realize that she knew that because he wasn't wearing his mask.

"Jesus Christ. Anthony Edward Stark. You absolute piece of shit."

She was holding a comm in her fingertips. Putting it in her ear.

It hadn't been in.

Peter couldn't guess the significance of that. Not now. Not when he was still figuring out how to breathe without wincing, and wondering where his phone was, or why the flashing lights were so annoying, or why the sirens sounded so weird.

And he was hungry. He could feel the emptiness of his stomach like it was a living thing, because he hadn't eaten, today.

He'd heal faster, if he actually ate when he was hungry.

(He'd feel better, if he wasn't hungry all the time. He felt so guilty about eating May out of house and home, he knew it was more expensive to feed the bottomless pit that was Peter's stomach after the bite.)

"Kid. Kid. Hey."

Peter blinked, when Black Widow snapped her fingers in front of his face.

"Something went down. I can't stay here with you. Did Tony say anything?"

"Jus' that I'm done," Peter answered obediently, hearing the way his words bled together, knowing, distantly, that it was bad, but not sure why.

"I'll say. Okay. I don't want you tangled up in Accords nonsense. God knows Ross'll send you to the Raft first and ask questions later if he knows you didn't sign."

"Couldn't sign," Peter found it prudent to say. But then he frowned because he couldn't remember why the distinction was important.

"Yeah. The whole 'bring a minor on the Avengers field trip' isn't selling me, so," Black Widow murmured, and she pulled a small black flip-phone from…somewhere. "I'll call Happy. Find your mask. Put it on. I don't want the Police thinking to question you."

Peter nodded.

And then proceeded to sit there.

Black Widow sighed, picked up the mask from the ground, and held it to Peter, who obediently slid it back over his head. Then she was talking on the phone. "Hey, Hap. Yeah, over past the—yep. Kind of out of it. Just wanna get him squared away before the—yeah."

The sirens sounded…off. Peter knew siren sounds. Ben had drilled them into his head until Peter could tell, almost without thinking, whether the siren belonged to a police cruiser, a fire truck, or an ambulance.

"They're the wrong sounds," he said aloud.

"Not wrong. Just foreign. You're in Germany. Remember? Hey, Tash."

"Hey, Clint. You all right?"

"Not gonna have a last-minute extraction, huh? Be nice, about now."

"Happy's coming for the kid. Impressive response time for that ambulance."

"Kid? That you, Spidey?"

"Where's my phone?" Peter wondered aloud, looking around him before remembering he'd dropped it a bit before being thrown over here.

"Yeah, sounds like a kid," mumbled the man.

Oh. The man was an Avenger, too.

"Concussion. He was more out-of-it before."

Peter looked up. Black Widow. Right.

He held his breath and stood, quicker than he probably should have, and both of the Avengers looked at him sharply.

"What? I…I gotta get my phone," Peter mumbled, and before they could make a move to stop him, or say something, he shot a web over to the ruined plane, near where the giant man had been, and yanked, swinging himself across the debris-littered tarmac.

Oh, his ribs didn't like that. Not at all.