This was bad.

He hissed through his teeth as he dragged himself in through his window, setting his foot right down only for his leg to give out when he pulled his left leg in after him, the burn on his hip sweeping and sending hot iron spikes down into his pelvis.

"Fuck." He whispered, reaching up with one hand to pull the string on his blinds, struggling with the damn thing before it fell sideways, obscuring enough of the window for him to feel marginally satisfied. He pulled off his mask and dragged himself to the bathroom, hauling his body over the side of the tub and putting his weight on one knee as he reached and turned the water on.

It was freezing he pulled off his gloves and tossed them over the side of the tub and hooked his arm over the wall of the bath and leaned up to get a look at the hood burned into his hip.

"This is going to hurt." He warned himself before he turned slowly, inching his way toward a normal sitting position to dip the wound into the water as it rose.

He needed to go to the hospital for this, didn't he? No. No, it was just a burn, a flesh wound. He'd be fine. Third-degree burns weren't that bad.

He clenched his jaw, a high-pitched whine escaping his throat as he let the water hit the wound.

Wait, no he'd listened to the Hunger Games audiobook, didn't Katniss say her mother said only to treat small wounds with water? Was he going to make this worse? Could his healing factor handle this?

Whatever he was supposed to be doing, he had to make sure it was clean. He needed to get out of these pants.

He took a deep breath and held it, letting the pressure build in his chest. He forced his heart to slow. He released the pressure and his pulse jumped but quickly fell again. He used the technique to get into the donation chair some days when he was feeling worked up about the needles.

"You're okay." He whispered and looked down at his wound. Or was a hole in his side, angry and red. White blisters were shining and the area was wet from... he didn't know what was making it wet but it was what wounds did. And this was so big. Black ash from where his suit had been completely burned away and was contaminating the area. At its edges, his clothing was melted to his skin.

At least there wasn't any blood...

He whimpered again and looked toward his sink. He needed his medical kit. Scissors more than anything.

No. No, he'd start with the ash. He'd clean it was water. Wash the surrounding area with soap and then disinfect the surrounding area with something he knew would actually get it clean... but he'd have to cut away his melted clothing first.

He took a deep breath. Okay. Okay,

He scooped up a little bit of water and dropped it on the wound to start, gritting his teeth. He stopped and looked away.

He started again and slowly but surely washed away the debris from the area. He trailed about it halfway through the hour fourth-minute task that he couldn't feel the worst of it. That the sounding areas were what hurt. That was bad. Nerve damage.

He sat there for about ten minutes just resting before he willed himself to use a web to open the cupboard and tug his medical box toward him. Cutting away his clothing was a tedious task that he didn't ever want to repeat. It was delicate peeling away fabric from scalded skin that hurt the most.

He disinfected the skin around the wound and grabbed the tube of Walmart antibacterial healing gel and carefully spread it over the area. He looked at the gaping, rough flesh that needed to be treated and his hand shook as he held the tube over the intense burn and squeezed out a long line of gel that dangled from the lip before gravity tugged it down and it fell into the hole in his hip. A jolt of electricity shot into his hip, down to the bone, through his leg and up his spine. He slammed the back of his head against the shower wall and bit his lip.

He was fine.

Everything was fine.

It took him about ten minutes to muster the strength to begin spreading the gel over his burn. Ice he was done he took a break and rewarded his efforts with a chance to close his eyes and lean his head back, the throbbing bruise from knocking his head into tile a reprove from his wound.

He opened a fabric bandage and unfolded it to smear Vaseline over it and placed it before taping it into place.

And finally, it was over... to which to realized meant he'd need to get up and haul his ass up out of the tub, wash his upper body, preferably with a wet rag given his condition, eat something so he wouldn't wake up shaking tomorrow, assuming he slept at all, and then he had to exist tomorrow. And the next day, and the day after that, and until he died he'd have to continue waking up every day and scrabble to make ends meet and hate himself.

The tears started by blurring his vision, but after a few seconds they were falling down his face in a steady stream and he could taste the salt at the corners of his mouth.

He didn't want to be alone. He didn't want to do this alone, he wanted someone to be here. To tell him he was doing the right thing.

He wanted his mom back. He wanted his mom to sit down next to him and tell him it would all be okay. That he was going to be fine and that they'd go to the doctor. That he didn't need to risk his life like this, that the guilt that drove him would hurt his uncle more than it could ever make him proud.

He sucked in a breath, struggling to do so, and his exhale was a whine as he imagined May would press her lips together and brush his hair back before saying something wise when he was upset.

He'd never have that again. He never appreciated her as much as he should have. She deserved better, someone who appreciated her more.

She would hate this. His pain, his struggling. His stupidity. "I'm sorry," he whispered, the words getting caught in his throat. "I want to do better."

"I love you." He never said it enough. "I'll take care of myself, I promise." He didn't mean the second half of what he said, but he realized it was a promise he needed to upkeep for her after it left his mouth. "It's just... this really sucks. Without you."

While he was healing he wouldn't be able to donate. He wouldn't be able to patrol, he couldn't do photography, he was in an awkward position with his main client, and he couldn't take new photos of himself to sell to the media. How long would it take for this to heal?

He wiped his face and took a deep breath. He needed to pull himself together, crying wouldn't help anyone.

Maybe that was the point? Maybe he didn't need to help anyone.

He grit his teeth, thinking about the public. About the media, the papers. He hated them. He should leave them to rot. The world they'd made for themselves. Some other loser would take his place. They'd die and someone else would step up but why would that be his problem?

No, no he shouldn't be thinking about this while in pain.

He dragged himself out of the tub and drained the cold mess. He washed his hair while hanging over the edge and used a washcloth to bathe the rest of his bloody self. The wound wasn't bleeding but he couldn't say that about his other injuries. 

It took him a while to brave leaving the bathroom, but the call of his fluffy pajamas convinced him and he crawled to his bed to put on the night's previous pajamas. And then he attempted to stand up while supported by a doorframe.

Supported by one leg he could pretend it was fine. For a few seconds at least, and then the blood rush of aching heat got to him and he realized he needed to shed the pants. He wouldn't be able to sleep with them on if they were resting on his burn. 

He limped over to the kitchen for his bottle of acetaminophen. He threw back a handful with a glass of water and grabbed his dollar tree Nyquill pills, taking a pack to try and induce some forced sleep. He wished he had actual sleeping pills, but like cold medicine, they were a luxury. And he'd spent his pennies on cold medicine at some point instead. 

Sleep came fretful to him that night. If you could call it sleep. He woke about every hour and a half to something putting pressure on his hip or the pain. It was agony, but what could he do?

At least while working freelance Spider-Man stalker, he didn't have anyone he had to call to take a sick day.