I'm technically writing something else right now but I accidentally opened tumblr while getting food, passed a hella-long AU post, and the 'running late for the same flight au' caught my eye. Took a half an hour off the other thing to pump out this drabble.

Cross-posted from AO3 same-day.

Of all the things Peter had to be late to, a flight was probably the worst. He couldn't exactly make it up (technically, yes he could, but Aunt May would be really disappointed) like one of his college classes. So he was sprinting wildly through the airport, gathering more than a few odd looks, but somewhere along the way, he picked up someone else too.

The man was massive in the too-many-muscles kind of way, not that that was necessarily a bad thing. He had a good silhouette at least, though with the hood of his hoodie raised, Peter couldn't tell anything else about him.

"The 1:30 to NYC," the man said cheerfully, sounding completely not out of breath. Rude.

"Same," Peter wheezed out.

The stranger gasped and suddenly sped up. For some reason, Peter felt driven to keep pace with him, and he strove to move faster. Even out of breath, he caught up with the stranger after a moment. Who glanced sideways, saw Peter, and made a high pitched gasp, like a startled southern belle. And then sped up again. So Peter had to do the same.

This back and forth continued for several gates until Peter felt like he was going to collapse and the other man still seemed fresh as a daisy.

"Why... the fuck... are we... racing?" he gasped out. "It's not like... we don't have... assigned seating!"

"I know but now I can't stop!" the man chirped, still not out of breath, the motherfucker.

Suddenly, the man stopped, and Peter, uncoordinated at the best of times (really it's a miracle he hadn't tripped already), stumbled over his feet and tripped into the man's back.

"Oof," the man said unconvincingly, since Peter barely weighed anything, even with momentum.

The only problem was, after he tripped, Peter couldn't figure out how to stand again. His legs felt like jelly and-

"I think a lung collapsed," he confessed, clinging to the back of the stranger's hoodie.

"Aw, aren't you precious," the man cooed.

Overhead, a generic female voice announced: "Last call for flight VA4940."

"Shit. Our flight. Why'd we stop?" He barely managed to get the question out. He barely managed to breathe.

"Cuz we're here!" The man was way too chipper and if Peter had any energy, or life, left in his body, he would have stabbed him to see if that managed to change his mood any.

"Oh," Peter replied faintly. "I'll catch the next flight. I think I'll just..." he began to slide down the man's back, "lie here for a bit. And die. Yeah, that sounds good."

He barely felt his knees hit the floor, and then the stranger was turning around in the loose circle of where Peter's arms hadn't fallen away from his legs yet.

"Nonsense, you cute mess." Peter giggled almost hysterically at the rhyme, and then the sound cut off in a hiccup when the man picked him up like a bride. "I'm sure five hours is long enough of a rest for your life force to come back. And I'll give you some of mine."

He could finally see the man's face, and it was a good thing he was already dying because he might have said something rude out of shock. He couldn't remember ever meeting, or even seeing, someone with such extensive burn scarring. But at least the hoodie in LA of all places finally made sense. "Okay," he squeaked.

He didn't know how they even made it aboard the plane without someone making his impromptu race partner put him down. Honestly, Peter mainly floated in and out of it as the man pulled Peter's boarding pass out of his back pocket and handed it to the stewardess, and all the way into his seat. When the blackness stopped wavering across his vision, they were already in the air and he had a bottle of water in his lap.

His head rolled to the side and he found his scarred stranger staring at him with a wide grin.

"Hey there, cute mess. Feeling better?"

The scars were a bit frightening, but the grin was infectious. Peter tried to reply only to start hacking up his one remaining lung. There was a muffled crack, and then an open water bottle was right in front of his face. It was hard work to drain it slowly, but he'd get sick otherwise. Something he had a great deal of experience with.

"I think I left my soul in the airport." His throat hurt and his voice came out in a rasp.

"I'd help you out, baby boy, but I left my soul in the 90s," the man returned immediately.

"Ginger?" Peter couldn't help but ask.

"Military. Former," the man returned easily, apparently unoffended.

"Mm. I like a man in uniform." Peter blamed the race for the lack of oxygen to his brain. He still felt a bit dizzy and apparently it was making him flirt with a complete stranger who had to carry him onto the plane like he was a... a... well, like he was a him.

"What about a man out of uniform?" the man shot back, mischief in his eyes and his smile.

Peter blinked at him for a long moment. He was pretty sure he hadn't heard that right, except... there was a warm weight on his knee, and he looked down to see a scarred hand resting there. He looked back up and his mouth was moving before his brain could catch up to the situation. "Even better."

Peter may or may not have joined the Mile High Club at some point during the five hour flight. He may or may not have joined three or four times. He definitely left LaGuardia with an exuberant Aunt May and Wade's number in his pocket.

FIN

Did 2 min of research on flight numbers and it's mostly made up. Flight length is mostly right per Google.

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