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When Peter drags his eyes open, he’s not exactly sure where he is. Someone’s sitting in a chair beside his bed, someone who looks a lot like Pepper. He doesn’t normally sleep in places where Pepper is, so it must mean that either he’s sleeping at the Avengers compound, which is unusual, or he’s very, very confused. Which is…also unusual?
Peter blinks hard to quiet the swirling of his thoughts. It feels like there’s a whirlpool in one of his eye sockets, massacring his brain like a frog in a blender. Which is…a very unpleasant thing. How the hell did that ever get to be a saying?
“…Peter…?” The voice sounds like it’s coming from very far away, though Pepper looks to be moving her lips.
“Huh?” He squints at her, experimentally closing one eye, then the other in the hope it’ll help pause the tilt-a-whirl in his head.
“Hey,” Pepper greets him. “Do you remember what happened?”
What happened? Did he get knocked out in a battle or something? Was there a battle? What was he fighting? He can’t remember. That can’t be a good thing.
“Um. No?” His voice is coming out all wrong. There’s something in his mouth, gumming up the way his jaw opens and closes. Everything tastes like copper.
“You had dental surgery,” Pepper says. “All four wisdom teeth extracted.”
Oh. Well that explains the nastiness in his mouth. Although the realization that it’s largely his own blood provides little comfort. It’s actually pretty sickening. But…why’s he here? With her. Not that he’s complaining.
Pepper’s still talking, and Peter struggles to tune back in. “…And since your metabolism’s enhanced, Tony thought it would be better for you to recover over here where we’re…a little more aware of your needs.”
Now that she mentions it, everything hurts. “Oh,” Peter breathes. “Ow.”
“Yeah, I figured,” Pepper says with a smile. “The local probably wore off a while ago.” She fishes a pill bottle out of the pocket of her sweater. “The problem with Percocet, though, is that you have to take it with food. You want some ice cream or something? Dumm-E’s pretty good at milkshakes.”
An imaginary set of scales in Peter’s head balances pain against queasiness, and he tries to decide if he wants to risk eating anything. He can’t actually remember the last time he ate. Which would maybe explain the waves of nauseous hunger splashing though his chest cavity.
“Peter?” Pepper prompts.
“Um,” he starts, trying to set up his mouth to be able to speak without a terrible lisp. The way liquid oozes through the soaked gauze behind his teeth doesn’t help. “Actually kind of…don’t feel good.”
“Aw, yeah, that just comes with the territory,” Pepper says apologetically. “I’ll get you something.” She pops the pill bottle back into her pocket and heads for the door.
“Thanks,” Peter sighs belatedly. He glances around the room, trying to divine where the heck he is. It looks like a bedroom, so he supposes in one of the compound’s many guest rooms. But, from what he can see, the décor is done up in shades of red and blue, with accents of black and bronze. So maybe…it’s a room especially for him? Or he’s hallucinating.
Peter blinks hard and looks toward the partially-open door. A shadow passes by, followed by someone blonde and bulky and dressed in dark blue and carrying something silvery and round. There’s only one person that tight ass could belong to. Peter shakes his head. He’s probably hallucinating.
But still. He might have his own room in the Avengers compound. Right next door to Captain fucking America. And Pepper Potts is getting him a milkshake. How the hell did he get so lucky?
Then his head twinges and his stomach clenches, and the aura of happiness breaks and dissolves. Peter feels nothing short of horrendous. Nausea blooms in his stomach and quickly jumps to his throat. His entire face hurts, and it seems like his jaw is eager to unhinge and fall into his lap.
Peter pushes himself as upright as he can while staying slumped against the pillows. He tips his head back and breathes in deeply through his nose. He can smell the metallic tang of blood in his mouth, and it turns his stomach all over again. He tries to swallow the growing urge to retch, but a blockade of something hot and bitter makes the action impossible.
“Fuck,” Peter curses himself around the excess of saliva running between his teeth. The beginnings of a contraction start up in his abdomen, and before he can breathe his way back into control, he’s gagging hard over the edge of the bed and scrambling to get ahold on the bedside table so he doesn’t topple out onto the wood floor.
He heaves hard, bringing up a dribble of acidic and slightly blood-tinged mucous. A wad of soiled gauze flops out too. Just seeing it all puddling on the blonde wood makes him vomit again.
“Whoa, what the fuck?” Peter looks up to see Mr. Stark rushing at him. A trash can is collected from beside the desk and shoved roughly into Peter’s chest.
“Ugh,” he groans.
“Sorry, kid,” Tony says through a grimace. “FRIDAY, you wanna maybe call Pepper?”
The AI obliges, and within a minute, Pepper’s back. She’s sets a tall glass of blended ice cream on the bedside table, but it’s definitely the wrong choice for the occasion.
“Oh, goodness,” she says sympathetically, sitting on the edge of the bed and getting a comforting hand on Peter’s shoulder before he slumps over the trash can. Nothing more comes up, but strings of bloody spit still hang from his lip. He spits them forcefully into the trash, which dislodges more gauze from the back of his mouth. Then raises his head, trembling all over.
“Sorry,” Peter mumbles, dragging the back of his hand over his lips.
“No, don’t apologize,” Pepper soothes. “It’s ok.”
“It just…really hurts,” Peter says around a deep, panting breath.
“Let’s get you drugged up again,” Tony suggests, raising his eyebrows at Peter. He practically feels Pepper up, going for the stash of Percocet in her pocket.
Peter grimaces, and Pepper stays Tony’s hand. “He needs to eat before he can have that,” she explains.
“So get him a saltine cracker or something.”
“Really, Tony? He just had dental surgery.” Pepper rolls her eyes. “How about ginger ale to start with. And you can run downstairs and get it.”
Tony barely huffs as he leaves on the errand.
Pepper pats Peter’s shoulder again. “I’m sorry you’re feeling so sick. We’ll get it figured out.”
“It’s ok,” Peter rasps, moving his tongue experimentally through his mouth. “How, uh, how long do the painkillers last?”
“Six hours usually,” Pepper says. “So for you, maybe three or four.”
Tony comes through the door bearing a can of Canada Dry and an oversized bendy straw. Peter practically snatches it out of his hands. “For a few hours of…of not-this, I’ll try anything.”
“Nice and slow, kid,” Tony reminds him, but the can of soda is already decently gulped and Peter’s looking green again. He looses a fizzy retch, and Pepper maneuvers the trash can up closer to his mouth.
“Or I guess we can do this all day,” Tony sighs, perching on the other side of the bed.