It's pure luck that he doesn't crack his head on the pavement when a car comes barrelling out of nowhere and knocks him off of his bike. He really needs to wear a helmet, he knows it ā but he's forgetful, and stubborn. Theo's head is hard in more ways than one. Other than his heart, it's his strongest attribute, filled to the brim with high intellect and imagination. He's smart about a lot of things, clever to a fault ā but remembering to grab his helmet when he's late to class? That's a piece of information that dissolves between picking up his keys and his bike lock taking off down the road. At least this time the accident only leaves him with bruises and wounded pride.
It's not the first time he's been shot, and it won't be the last. This is just one of the times it nearly sticks ā but maybe that has something to do with the fact that he's been buried alive by a hunter who wants to put his head on a mantle. Peter doesn't die ā he gets back up, he climbs out of the dirt and the muck and heals and kicks Kraven six ways from Sunday for doing it in the first place, but, well. He doesn't do well with dark enclosed spaces from then on out.
It's not so good, is it? That's what Kon's face is telling him. It's telling him that it's not just various broken ribs, that it's possible Pete's broken every single bone in his body. More than broken, turned to dust, maybe, and the rest of him is ā it's not pretty. It's better not to look. Man, he feels bad. Technically they've only just met, kind of ā Kon's pulled him out of rubble before. Pete remembers, vaguely. Says something about it, like ā Gonna bridal carry me out of here? It comes out more like a wheeze, and Pete's not sure he can stand the look it inspires on Kon's face. He'll miss waking up with him every morning. I'll miss waking up with you. Did he say that out loud? Fuck it. He means it. Death's not so bad, in the end, held by Kon ā and Peter gets his wish. He wakes up, face buried in Kon's neck, and he's breathing, and no bones are broken.
When Theo is first learning how to swing from rooftops and make use of his web-shooters, he falls a lot. He usually catches himself, but it's taking a while for that spider agility to really take root in him. Theo has always bashed his elbows on everything ā every surface, every wall, the headboard of his bed, the corner of the bathroom. When he's swinging for the first time, he's all elbows ā throws them every direction, takes a swing too close to a wall and clips one on the corner of a building. Why the fuck did they call it the funny bone? It hurts like a bitch, and Theo's still pretty sure his elbows have bruises, regenerative abilities or not.
Theo's wrist is the victim of many injuries ā unsurprising, really, when you spend almost every day of your life tripping. It's caught him more times than he can count, but sometimes that's resulted in a break, or a fracture, or a sprain, or maybe it's been ridden over by a skateboard, or ā more recently ā grabbed and twisted the wrong way by some thug, and now it's the home for his web-shooters, new things to catch him with. But they aren't the only things to catch him, not by a long shot. Theo's fairly sure his new abilities mean that he's supposed to be less clumsy than usual, but it doesn't always stick. He's walking up some steps with Kit when he misses one ā too distracted with talking, laughing ā and prepares to brace with his hand, or to take a face full of stair. He doesn't need to, though ā Kit's caught him by the wrist, by the hand, smiles down at him and teases. He twines their fingers together and hauls Theo up, and ā Theo, smiling, warm, feels well and truly caught.
Theo has had his ass kicked more times than he can count. It's not that he goes looking for trouble, but sometimes he just can't help it. He's done it since he was a kid ā mostly putting himself between a bully or group of bullies and somebody else, with no consideration for whether they're bigger than him, stronger than him, that maybe in the long run he's just making it worse. The key is that every time he lands on his ass, he gets back up again ā it might take a second, maybe an hour, but he'll do it, and he goes back, again and again, and he never learns. Theo's not so sure he wants to learn, or what it would mean if he stopped. Besides, his ass has enough padding, anyway.
Thank fucking god he's never had a physical injury to his heart. It's felt like it, though ā the physical manifestation of heartache, a deep pang in his chest to curl around in the middle of the night, the break-up that came out of nowhere, when he'd looked ahead at the future and thought: this is it. The biggest one always hurts the most, but Theo could never hold it against her for long. It's nothing unusual, he thinks ā experiencing heartbreak. He doesn't wonder if he's got especially bad luck. It's just ā life. For someone who had such a lonely heart for so long, Theo loves deeply and wholly, and just like the rest of him ā and like the rest of Peter ā every time its injured, he picks himself back up, and doesn't hesitate to love again. There's no limit to it.
It's already enough of a shock when she gets down on one knee, with that stolen ring in her hands, like it's meant for him ā somehow? Like she's planned it all just for them, and Peter is pretty sure he can't feel his extremities, like his body has suddenly forgotten how to work, too focused on firing every brain synapse it can all at once, like unauthorized fourth of July fireworks going off in the back alley that's his head. Cat, Iā Nope. He's fallen for it, hook line and sinker, and when her claws slash the skin of his leg open while she laughs, Peter thinks Ow. His leg hurts. His feelings hurt? Fuck, she's good.
Why does every single bad guy want to grab him by the leg? It's like, the go to move ā noxious black tentacle, other metal tentacle (why are tentacles a whole thing with Peter, he wonders, is this a sign, should he be worried?), Goblin hand, sand hand, rhino hand, electrical hand, clawed hand ā there's too many to count. But he'll always be swinging, minding his own business (fucking unlikely) and then, wham, there it is, some jerkwad throwing him ten blocks just by way of his ankle. Maybe he should get a cool little ankle taser, zap anybody who touches it ā if only it wouldn't ruin the look.
He's only been in this world for ā what ā a week? Two weeks? He's not sure, but he's powerless and kind of useless and now he's got a knife sticking out of his side, and normally that wouldn't be so bad. Normally he'd yank that out and start to heal straight away, the skin regenerating as seconds pass. Maybe it's not instantaneous, but he could keep fighting. Now, though? This very human body immediately goes cold, starts to panic, to shut down, and Peter's lying on a San Franciscan rooftop dialling Felicia Hardy's number and hoping against hope she picks up.