The whooping and screeching of the building’s fire alarm would have drowned out a louder voice than Peter’s, but he refused to evacuate without the damned cat.

“Tripod! Triiiiipod! Where the heck are you?” No answer. Not like the cat knew his name anyway…or, you know, spoke English, and Peter would’ve stopped to facepalm if he’d had the time. Besides which, Tripod was a true alley cat, snarling and spitting at anyone who tried to cut through to the parking lot, let alone pet him. If he knew his name and spoke English, the little jerk would ignore him out of sheer stubbornness.

Peter’s coworkers thought he was insane for feeding the cat that hung around their company’s office park hissing at everyone, let alone naming him. Current events would appear to bear out their theory.

Except that Peter liked to think he could be as stubborn as he was insane, damn it all.

“Tripod!” His feet slipped on a nasty spill of something seeping out of the dumpster as he ducked down to peer underneath.

No cat, but that wet lump of—something—oh God it smelled bad. Peter staggered back up, ears ringing from the din, and steadied himself against the wall.

Under the constant blare of the alarms, he could hear a new and piercing wail: at least two sets of sirens, coming from more than one direction. He needed to find the cat and get out of the fire lane before he got arrested for impeding an emergency operation, or something.

Peter swiveled, his glasses sliding down his nose and almost flying off. He shoved them back up. And there—a black shape humping its uneven way down the other side of the alley.

“Tripod!” The cat shot a contemptuous look over his shoulder and made a break for the mouth of the alley as fast as his three paws could carry him, right into the path of the fire engine currently pulling into the parking lot from the main street and heading their way.

Peter pelted after, feet trying to flail out from under him as the slick soles of his shoes lost traction. The fire engine’s sirens and the fire alarm’s hoots mingled and crossed, creating a cacophony even Peter’s human ears couldn’t handle.

It was way too much for Tripod. The stupid cat froze, with his back arched and every bit of fur standing up straight, his ears flat against his head as he hissed and spat like he always did.

At the fire engine.

Which  outweighed him by like, thousands of pounds.

People used a lot of words to describe Peter. Athletic and daring had never made the list. But stubborn and insane, on the other hand…

He put on a burst of speed, and maybe he was red-faced and sweating through his shirt and panting, but he made it, dived for Tripod and scooped him up and rolled—and yes, he was effing Spider-Man— 

—if Spider-Man had 20/500 vision and crappy depth perception. Damn it, those glasses he wore in the movies were just for show, weren’t they? As Peter spun through the air, shiny red and flashing lights filled his vision. What felt like Thor’s hammer slammed into his shoulder, the cat yowled and scratched and bit his way out of Peter’s arms, a whirlwind of pointy bits and rage, and Peter landed with a thud and a shattering crunch. That was his new phone. In his pocket.

Peter had just enough time to feel like a moron for caring about the phone before the pain hit.

Squeezing his eyes shut only made it worse, and he curled into a ball, conscious of nothing but his arm, and how it was in a million pieces that all hurt like hell.

Shouts, and then hands on him, and he writhed away, moaning. A deep, worried voice echoed and shattered around him. Peter caught a glimpse of shockingly wide, horrified hazel eyes in a tanned face before he passed out.

He blinked awake again in a haze of pain as the EMTs loaded him on a stretcher, and he lost another minute on the way to the ambulance, a jolting, scattered journey that blurred in and out. Peter mumbled his name when they asked and came out of it enough to catch that he had a dislocated shoulder and probably a broken wrist.

On the left. Of course. Because that would be good luck for ninety percent of the population, but not for him.

For some reason, the two EMTs who’d taken him away both seemed to be suppressing bursts of chuckles the whole time they rigged up his IV and got him settled, which was a little disturbing. He’d always suspected that the medical professions attracted their share of sadists, but seriously? Keep that for the weekends, guys. Peter caught “…never let him live it down…” and something about roses—roses?—but that was it.

The world went hazy and muted, whatever painkillers they’d put in that IV starting to kick in. Tripod! Tripod…he couldn’t muster the strength to demand they go back for the cat, or to do anything more than mumble incoherently.

For crying out loud. He had to trust that the stupid cat could take care of himself—and anyway, he couldn’t possibly be worse at it than Peter.

He sank back against the stretcher and closed his eyes, letting the meds and the adrenaline crash drag him under.