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Doctor Rio Morales has been doing this job for years. There isn't a single thing to come from the streets of New York that she hasn't encountered before. Bullet wounds, stab wounds, a person taking a mystery concoction that someone's cousin's nephew gave them and the list goes on.
The city never sleeps and she's pulled enough overnights to know intimately what it gets up to in the early morning hours. Today is not one of those days. She has the day shift and although it isn't calm, filled with the usual hustle and bustle, it is far from unordinary.
The only thing that's unusual is the influx of people lately. The overflow of the recent Damage Control attacks, but that's typical any time the superhero world grows stranger than normal. It comes with the city.
And yet, New York manages to surprise her on this lovely Thursday afternoon when none other than The Punisher comes bursting through her doors clutching a nearly dead Spider-Man.
Doctor Morales wastes no time. She takes a breath in and then she commands her team as she always does. She gets the superhero a gurney, and The Punisher tags along as they wheel him into a room. No point in trying to pry him away from the other, it's a waste of manpower and time. Things they have too little of for a case as severe as this.
"Do you know his blood type?" Hernandez asks the man.
"I don't know any more than you do just fix him!" He shouts, stepping a tad too close to her nurse.
"Trust that we will, Punisher but we can't do that with you breathing down our necks," she snaps. The man has her sympathy, she gets it, but right now he is in their way.
He pauses and she sees the way his shoulders relax. He steps back and to the side. He doesn't leave the room, but they don't need him too. This is enough.
She turns back to her patient and attempts to cut his suit. The scissors twist in the fabric, fraying the ends of what little it does manage to cut and making little more than a mess. Spider-Man's suit is tougher than it looks. It takes two scalpels to get it off.
It is through years of experience that she doesn't gasp upon seeing his bare body. His skin is a myriad of bruises, deep purples and sickly yellows scattered across a chiseled chest. Old scars stand stark as raised white bumps.
How many times has he taken a heavy hit without seeking help?
His wound is a nasty thing and her team quickly gets to work. Flitting about attaching an IV and a heart monitor. Another securing a bag of O negative blood at the ready, they'll need it. They assess him as rapid fire suggestions on how best to go about this fly through the air like ping pong balls.
That's where she comes in but their assessment isn't complete. She reaches a hand up to the edge of Spider-Man's mask. They don't know the state of him under there. How dilated or not his pupils are nor can they administer oxygen.
This is her call.
The chaos of the room around her stills. A poignant pause only broken by the steady beeping of their patients heart monitor.
“We won’t tell anyone," Pierre says.
Ruth shakes her head. "Not a soul."
She turns to them, making sure to look each of them in the eye. "If I hear a single whisper about the man behind this mask you will count yourself lucky that I let you leave this hospital."
Solemn nods greet her and she peels back the mask that has concealed their cities hero for years.
Curly brown hair, flattened by the mask and sweat. Pale clammy skin, bruised, battered and cut while blood is smeared along his chin. Evidence of the internal injuries she already surmised.
He is younger than she thought he'd be. Early twenties, maybe. She hesitates even then because he's so young. She sees her son in that face. A few years older and the obvious differences aside youthful and coming into his own.
She shakes her head, clearing away the thoughts as she focuses on the here and now.
They have a hero to save.
____________
"How much is all this?" He asks as soon as his doctor finishes explaining his aftercare needs.
"Excuse me?" Doctor Morales says, a confused tilt to her head.
He clears his throat and tries again. "The hospital bill."
She shakes her head, something sad crinkling her eyes and it sends a spike of worry through him. Did he do something wrong? It feels like he's done something wrong. Man he hates hospitals.
"Don't worry about that, you need to focus on recovery," she says.
That's when it clicks. She isn't holding a clipboard of any sort. No paperwork to sign or questions to answer. He feels his stomach sink as a blush creeps its way onto his face. It's a familiar feeling in the worst way.
It's all the times May had to sign him up for free meals at school. The countless late night early morning shifts she took and there still would barely be enough money for groceries and that months rent. Every time he only has enough money for either the washer or the dryer. Every time he skips a meal because then that's more money to put towards rent.
"No, please don’t I- I don’t have much. Spider-Man doesn’t pay the bills but I’ll pay you back, promise. Just give me a number," he stammers because he will pay them back.
He can't let them do this. They can't waste their time and resources on him.
"Do you know what my husband does?" She interrupts instead of any number of things he'd thought she'd say.
"He's a police officer. You do the parts of his job that he can't. You make sure that our son has a father." She pauses before she leans forwards and takes his hand. "It's on the house Spider-Man."
Peter shakes his head a protest burning in his throat but she plows ahead.
"You've done so much for this city, let it do something for you.”
Tears prick at his eyes and he sniffles to force them back. Her thumb brushes against the back of his palm similarly to what May would do and oh God. He feels his face grow hot as tears fall down his cheeks. Doctor Moralas's face crumples.
"Aye mijo," she mutters before pulling him into a hug without another word.
He cries into her shoulder, arms shaking as they hesitantly wrap around her. Peter half expects for something to go wrong. For the sky to open up or the building to collapse but nothing does. He sits there, hugging his temporary doctor as he cries into her shoulder.
Her curly hair smells like shea butter and it's comforting as much as it is unfamiliar. But she is warm and he is so very tired. He feels one of her hands soothing up and down his back.
"Okay?" She asks.
He nods against her shoulder. "Okay."
She gently pats his back before she lets go. He wipes at his face with a box of tissues she kindly gives to him. He tries not to feel like he wants to leap out of the window and test exactly how durable the stitches in his abdomen are.
"Do you have any other after care instructions?" He says before that urge decides to manifest.
"No," she answers as she stands. She pauses to fish something out of her pocket. A business card that she presses into his hand. "Come back if you need anything Spider-Man. But I better not see you in here anytime soon. Lay off the crime fighting."
She walks towards the door then stops and gestures that she's watching him.
Peter does a mock salute. "Yes ma'am."
His discharge is smooth after that. He manages not to cry on any more doctors and he doesn't have to fill out a single piece of paper work. Not having any record of your existence has its perks sometimes.
Nobody stops him as he slowly limps his way out of the building but some nurses acknowledge him. Friendly waves, smiles and whispers of, "good luck," and "stay safe out there," before acting as if nothing was said at all.
As he leaves the hospital that day, surrounded by the people of New York chanting his name, saying how much they love him, he thinks that maybe things will be okay.