Into the Multi-Muse of Madness

Mostly, he wanted to be left alone. Guilt, and shame, it all hung heavy on him. The fear of facing down this - non-surgery surgery, of - everything. He was tired to his bones, but it wasn’t like he was going to be able to sleep properly if Mr Stark and May were there… but the idea of being wheeled around in a fucking chair …

“I .. I mean, Mr Stark, that - that’d be amazing, but, um,” he cleared his throat stiffly, “I - I don’t really want to uh - I - I’d want to - walk? If I can? I’ve been fine for like - y'know, for - for months -” he cleared his throat again. “so I’d be fine. I think.”

“Strange was able to freeze where the shard is.  He wasn’t able to move it.  So if it’s still pressing on your spine in the wrong way...”

He hummed.

“Can you stand and walk okay without pain?”

He tilted his head to the side.

@magical-boy-toys

@whomuses

@fourgaymuses

and

@heroesofbr00klyn

He was expecting a tingle, or heat, or - something. Instead, he felt - nothing when the spell moved through him. That was weird in and of itself, though. He took the hand and got up, carefully. His legs were shaky, but he was able to stand with only a very minor ache. It was - okay. The way he’d managed to trick himself into thinking it was fine, the way he’d gotten away with it for so long …

He felt better, moving away, shaky but stable enough, taking some time alone to use the bathroom. He stared into the mirror, able to see his pallor and gaunt edge, but finally padded his way towards the bed again, knowing they weren’t likely to let him do anything else but lay there for - a while.

“So, Pete.  We have eight hours.  Would you like to see the compound?  May has shown an interest in it.”

Tony smiled softly at Peter, holding up some normal clothes.

“Granted, orders are you use a wheelchair, but I think we can make it work.  What do you say, under-roos?  Wanna see where the big guys work?”

Eaten a little? He looked at the plate. He’d barely taken a nibble of it; he hadn’t wanted any of it, his stomach churning as it was. And it was hard, with his metabolism as demanding as it was, but he nodded slightly.

“Yes, sir, what - whatever you say.” he whispered, instead. He tried to smile, but he was tired and scared and achey. He wanted to get up and stretch his legs. His throat bobbed again. “Um, can I … can I go to the bathroom..?” he asked, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck, at the scraggly curls there.

“If you are currently feeling that you can walk, you may.  Just let me place a small spell so that the shrapnel doesn’t move from where it is.”

He moved over Peter, waving his hands as orange light slipped into Peter’s body.

“There we are.  Now you can move freely without it moving and causing damage.”

A portal. In his back. That was - utterly bonkers. But at the scolding, he nodded, grimacing awkwardly. There were a lot of injuries he’d taken, that he’d never mentioned. He’d healed up after the warehouse and the plane, all on his own - or near enough. Hiding it from May had been a challenge. It had been .. hard. To his shame, he started to cry again, thinking he could’ve been without the pain all this time.

“Yes, sir,” he choked out, rubbing at his face. “I’m - I’m sorry. Everything else healed on it’s own so I just - I thought - I thought it would go away.” he admitted, breathlessly. He rubbed roughly at his face, again, swallowing convulsively.

“We’re just lucky no infection set in.  If it had...it’s very possible that you could be dead now.  But it seems your physiology kept an infection from occurring.  I’m not sure how.  It’s fascinating actually.  And if allowed I would like to do more tests purely so that we are aware of what you can deal with from a medical standpoint.  But only if you agree to them.  They wouldn’t be invasive.  Mostly just some blood and saliva samples.”

He rubbed Peter’s leg gently.

He was poking listlessly at his food. He hadn’t slept well; he’d managed not to wake up screaming, at least, just breathing raggedly, and he hoped that nobody had noticed. Unfortunately, he felt utterly exhausted. Not unfamiliar for him, recently. He was already hating being in bed, and the pain had eased back dramatically; a side effect of resting, maybe, but something that he was used to. The come and go of it.

Dr Strange coming in was both a relief and a whole new wave of fear. He pushed aside the plate gratefully and looked at the doc as he spoke, his throat bobbing. “No surgery?” he whispered, eyes widening. “You - you can fix it -?” he sat forward towards him. The idea of no pain - when he’d been putting up with it for months now - he was still scared, but … “It won’t hurt any more..?” he’d resigned himself to having the pain forever. The idea that it could be fixed…

“Well, it’s technically not surgery because there is no use of cutting instruments.  I’ll create a portal into the affected area and carefully remove the shrapnel before healing your disk.  You’ll be sedated so you don’t feel the shrapnel moving in your back, because that would be painful.  But once the job is done, the portal will be closed and you’ll be free to go about your daily activities.  Pain free.”

The doctor cleared his throat.

He scowled at that. Didn’t like people taking the option away from him; what did it matter what he wanted if that was how it was going to go, right? But he sighed shallowly, slumping back against the headboard and looking at the ceiling.

“M'fine.” he mumbled, churlishly. “Goodnight, Mr Stark.” he let his eyes shut, although stubborn refused to press the button for more medication even as his back started to ache. He could feel his legs again, but the sensation was like pins and needles, deeply unpleasant. He did, at last, start to drift towards sleep, but it was clearly not restful.

At eight in the morning, Doctor Strange entered Peter’s room.  Breakfast had been brought in for Peter.  Tony and May had already eaten.  The Doctor looked over the various xrays and MRI scans and hummed as he developed a plan in his head.

“Okay, Mr. Parker.  You have a piece of shrapnel in the disk of your back at the base of your spine.  If it penetrates further and injures the spinal cord, you’ll be unable to walk and be dealing with pain for the rest of your life.  Though I’m sure that you’ve already been told that.”

Doctor Strange looked at Peter with soft eyes.

He carefully accepted the drink, taking slow sips, reaching up to support it himself even if Mr Stark was determined to hold that for him. It was - embarrassing, no doubt, but he was more shaky than he wanted to admit.

He looked down at the button, hesitating. “I’m - I’m fine, Mr Stark. Thank you.” he whispered. “Yeah. Yeah, I’ll - I’ll get to sleep, um. You - you can too, yeah?” he suggested, a low croak in his throat. He had no intention of doing so. “I - I’m gonna - sleep now, so …” he gestured, vaguely.

“Why are you lying to me Peter?  You’re so much like me you could be my blood.”

He chuckled softly.

“But seriously, if you don’t try to sleep they will come in to sedate you again.”

He pushed his chair to the side, and set it up as a bed for himself.

“I don’t… Mr Stark, it’s - it’s really kind but I don’t - it was - it was bad last time. It was -” the wave of panic was buffeting him again. He shook his head. “Do you have any water?” he croaked, desperately wanting to wash the taste of dust away, even if he knew he was imagining it.

Even if his mind, especially with the pain and numbness, kept dragging him back to the warehouse. To the crushing weight on him. To the feeling of things splintering in his back, to - to all that pain - and then afterwards, on the Cyclone… swinging home whilst barely conscious…

He poured a cup of water, put a straw in it, and brought it to Peter’s lips.

“Okay.  I’m not going to push.  Especially right now when you have so much weighting on you.”

He squeezed Peter’s arm.

“You’re hooked up to the IV by the way.  To the pain medicine.  When it hurts bad, just push the red button.  You can push it every half hour.”

He grabbed the buzzer like button and placed it where Peter could grab it.

His eyes swung towards Tony, hands tightening again. He shook his head, after a moment, unable to believe that he’d suggest it. But before he could object, Mr Stark was continuing. He exhaled slowly, looking down at his hands, because that was easier. He hadn’t known that. All the stories he’d grown up with were about how Mr Stark was a huge hero…

“I didn’t know that.” he whispered, “I … I wasn’t… Mr Stark, I had - therapy. Before. After my parents died, and it was - I didn’t like it. Very much. Um. It didn’t - it didn’t help.” he plucked at some loose threads on the thin medical blanket. “It was just expensive and - I didn’t - like it.”

“Steve...he’s friends with someone who counsels soldiers with PTSD.  I think, maybe it’s time I called him.  Maybe Sam can help you.  PTSD is different then grief, Peter.  It won’t cost you anything.  And it will help.  You just need to find the right people to talk to.”

He cleared his throat.

“I would bring you to my group, but it’s...well...filled with people with foul mouths.”

“You … really?” the relief. It’s like a balm. He laid his head back. The drugs they were giving him were making him sleepy. It was probably why his tongue was being so loose. “Mr Stark, I … thank you, um.” he swallowed again. “I keep - I keep remembering it -” he shuddered again, but the words from FRIDAY silenced him.

“Eight?” he whispered. That meant he was stuck here all night. That Mr Stark would see the nightmares and the - the - everything, of it. How weak he was, how - useless and shitty he was. His head felt heavy at the least, but… he could still taste the dust. He’d done so well at keeping everyone, even May, unawares of the mess he’d become …

“I want to go home.”

“I want you to see someone.  A therapist.  I saw the signs.  PTSD.  I have it too.  I’ve been working with someone.  It helps.  I can sleep most nights, as long as Pepper is with me at least.”

He took a deep breath.

“See, back in 2012, I brought a nuclear bomb through a portal into space.  And my systems shut down.  I started falling back to Earth...it was...horrible.  For a long time I couldn’t talk about it.”

He smiled sadly at Peter.

Jesus. The little bit of colour in his face drained away; he looked close to passing out again. That had been in there - all that time? No wonder… the pain had been so bad, all that time, and he’d just been… tolerating it. Instead of saying anything. His chest ached again, his mouth tasted like dust; when he closed his eyes again, he could see the broken chunks of rebar all around him, feel the agony …

He shuddered, hands tightening on the blanket where he was holding it, glad there was nothing he was crushing. He then whimpered as pain shot through him, burying his head in his hands instead. He couldn’t seem to drag himself out of it, though. He was scared. Fuck, he was scared. He glanced over at May, asleep on her cot … shit. Poor May.

“We … how are we going to afford this?” he whispered, a cold drop in his stomach, now, trying to swallow all the dust he couldn’t seem to shake the taste of.

“Peter...from this day forward I’ve taken on the responsibility of your medical expenses.  May was reluctant at first, but if you’re going to be doing the hero thing...then it’s only right that I pay for your medical.”

He brushed some hair out of Peter’s face.

“You’re going to be okay, Peter.”

A voice sounded over the intercom.  It was Friday.

“Doctor Strange has been contacted and agreed to do the surgery.”

“Really?  Oh that’s wonderful!  He’s amazing, Pete.  He’s an artist when it comes to medicine.  He had an accident a while back that took him out of the game.  Ruined his hands.  But apparently he’s a wizard now or something.”

“The Doctor would like to meet you in the morning, at eight; if that is okay.”

He grimaced as he was kept down. His back was starting to ache again, more like a low thrum than anything else. Maybe laying down was enough to make it stop hurting, for now. Mr Stark admitting he’d made a mistake made his chest tight again, shaking his head.

“No. No, Mr Stark, you - you were right. It made me get my head out of my ass.” he rasped. Although of course he was still hurt, he couldn’t stop himself from thinking Mr Stark knew best, no matter what … his hands shifted in his lap, looking down. The surgery. It had gone from zero to one hundred so fucking fast -

“Is there another way, Mr Stark?” he whispered. “Any other way? I - I’m guessing something - healed wrong, after the warehouse, I … I’ve been handling it… by myself. It’s fine. Um.”

“I looked at the X-rays and the MRIs.  It’s not bone like we thought it was.  I’m surprised you didn’t have any infection from it.  There is a shard of metal dangerously close to your spine.  It’s cutting through one of your disks.”

He brought up a hologram of the injury for Peter to see.

Aw, fuck, maybe he was feeling more fragile than he wanted to admit, tears starting to run down his face. He clumsily pushed them away, sniffling. He hadn’t told him. He hadn’t - it wasn’t -

“It wasn’t the plane.” the words blurted out before he could stop them. “it was - it was before that, I -” he exhaled shakily, starting to try to push himself up, needing to see Mr Stark’s face as he sniffed, even if it hurt. “He dropped a - a warehouse on me and I - I was yelling for help and you - you didn’t - nobody -” the sobs were wracking him. He felt like a little baby, but he couldn’t stop.

“Nobody came. So I - I lifted all the rubble myself and then I went and - I stopped - I stopped the plane and the - the pain didn’t - it didn’t start for … a while. I mean it - it hurt but there was so much more hurt and it was - it was important, Mr Stark, I couldn’t - I couldn’t let him get away -” he wheezed.

Tony rested a hand on Peter’s chest to try and keep him from sitting up.  Instead, he used the control on the bed to do it, helping the boy sit up so that he wasn’t straining his back.

“Peter...I should have never taken the suit away from you.  Or at the very least, left you with a coms device to contact me.  I’m so sorry, Pete.  This is all my fault.”

He gently brushed away Peter’s tears.

He was still foggy, but his body was very, very efficient - it would rival, if not surpass, Steve Rogers in that regard - and he was feeling clearer by the second. At least he couldn’t really feel his back right now, but he grimaced, exhaling sharply as his ears took in everything in the room whilst his eyes were still re-focusing.

“I can’t… it’ll wear off.” he mumbled. “Always wears off. The pain - it comes and goes.” he sighed, too out of it to want to really sit up yet. His throat bobbed again, reaching sluggishly, brushing his hand over the cannula on his arm. Oh. They must’ve … taken some blood, huh?

“Mr Stark…. are you - are you mad at me?”

“Disappointed, yes.  Mad no.”

Tony sighed softly.

“I’m disappointed you didn’t feel that you could come to me with this.  Peter, I took you under my wing.  I was willing to make you an Avenger.  That means that I take your health into my hands.  If you’re hurt, you come here and get checked out.  Okay?  I should have had you checked over after the Vulture.  That’s on me.”

He scrubbed over his face before looking back at Peter.

He managed not to scream as he was moved, but it was hard. Everything was overwhelming. If he hadn’t had sensory overload before, it was definitely too much now. He tried to clamp his hands over his ears, trembling all over, ghost white. He just wanted to work on his tech - he didn’t want this - he didn’t want any of this - thankfully, his brain finally gave him a break and let him pass out.

He woke up at the hospital, drifting up through layers of sluggish delirium. He drew in the smell of the antiseptic, thankfully too heavily drugged to be too panicked by it, and all of him felt strange and floaty instead of the overwhelming agony, so that was … that was better, wasn’t it?

Peter had been kept sedated.  Avengers Medics had arrived just after the paramedics and together they got Peter to the Avenger’s Compound medical bay.  May was asleep on a cot in the room, but Tony was very much awake; looking for the right doctor to bring in to work on Peter.

He was flicking through potential doctors, annoyed that Doctor Stephen Strange was no longer practicing.  It wasn’t long before he noticed that Peter was slowly weaking up.