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“I’ll be right back, ok, Mr. Stark?” Peter says.
“Yeah, sure…” Tony doesn’t look up from the delicate piece of wire between his fingers.
Peter slumps against the wall as soon as the elevator doors close. The modern metal plates lining the box are cold, sending a chill through his hoodie and t-shirt. Goosebumps spread up his arms, practically reaching to the back of his neck. But it also feels good. He knows he’s running hot.
He probably should’ve declined when Mr. Stark had asked if he’d like to spend the weekend upstate working on upgrades to his suit. But how often does he get the chance to stand elbow-to-elbow with the greatest engineer of the age and see his own ideas meld with Tony’s and materialize in the wiring of his web slingers? Peter would’ve ditched on just about any other obligations for that. So staying home to nurse his cold was out of the question.
Peter leans his head back and closes his eyes as the elevator begins to rise. He’d been feeling better. He hadn’t felt the need to blow his nose in at least a couple hours. But now this morning’s dose of Dayquil is wearing off and ushering in a new era of symptoms.
His head hurts. Not in the congested way it has been for the past 24 hours or so, but in a heavy feverish ache that makes him want to bury his face in a pillow and refuse to emerge. His jaw is heavy, and his throat is tight. Sour saliva is spreading over the back of his tongue. Peter swallows hard, eager to suppress that chain reaction.
The elevator stops on the floor for Peter’s bedroom. Dizziness plays around his ears as he walks down the hallway, trailing his fingers across the wall to make sure he doesn’t stumble. Peter opens his door, cringing as it bangs against the stopper with a muffled thud. He squats in front of his disorganized duffle bag and paws through it.
But there’s no Dayquil. No ibuprofen. Nothing in terms of medication. Just rumpled clothes and a couple Gameboy cartridges that probably belong to Ned. He should really give them back… But geez, bending over like this is making him feel like passing out.
Peter straightens up and grabs the edge of his bedside table to ensure he’s not about to fall over. Ok. So he’s not prepared. He could spend a few hours mentally berating himself, but his head hurts too much.
There have to be painkillers around somewhere. It’s a mansion full of superheroes, after all. Mr. Stark probably stocks acetaminophen by the barrelful.
“Hey, Karen—I mean, FRIDAY,” Peter says, suddenly remembering the AI’s helpful presence, “Is there ibuprofen around? Or Tylenol or something?”
“There’s a large selection of over-the-counter medications in the closet at the end of the hall,” FRIDAY answers. “Would you like assistance in treating your current symptoms?”
Shit, the AI’s monitoring him? And probably writing it all down in a file for Mr. Stark. “No, thanks,” Peter says, shaking his head. He waits for the vertigo to pass before setting off down the hallway.
He’d always assumed the closet in question was for linens or cleaning supplies and generally off-limits to everyone but staff. But now Peter opens it, and he’s met with half a drugstore. The floor-to ceiling shelves are filled with everything from pink stomach medication to blue sleeping pills. Cold medicines in liquid and tablet varieties stand beside bottles of painkillers of every kind.
“Whoa,” Peter whispers, taking in the selection and weighing his options. The bright colors and fancy fonts decorating the boxes and bottles are dizzying. Peter blinks hard and considers what he wants. Sweat prickles along his hairline and across his upper lip. Something that’s going to nix a headache and a fever and nausea all at once. But the longer he stands here, the less he’s sure he’s going to be able to swallow anything…
Dizziness ramps up until Peter’s seeing stars, and his throat contracts against a swell of warm bitterness.
“Fuck,” he mumbles, then sets his brain onto a mantra of don’t throw up, don’t throw up, don’t…
He needs to get to the bathroom. Or do something, anything, besides just standing here stupidly. Peter gags in slow motion, then brings his hand over his mouth even more sluggishly.
“Kid?” Footsteps pound up to Peter’s side, and a hand comes down on his shoulder.
Peter can’t hold down the pressure, and he heaves a wave of partially digested breakfast over the floor.
“Yeah, I wondered if that was gonna happen…” Mr. Stark grabs Peter by the upper arms and quickly steers him into the nearest bathroom. Peter’s barely over the toilet before more starts to come up.
“Is his temp still 101?” Tony asks the room at large.
“101.4, sir,” FRIDAY answers.
So Mr. Stark is keeping track of him… Peter can’t put energy toward being annoyed. It’s taking all his concentration to breathe through the urge to retch. “I’m…ok,” he chokes before contradicting himself with another heave.
“I was gonna wait for you to say it first, but you’re taking too long,” Mr. Stark says. “You’re sick.”
Peter coughs and spits out strings of snot and bile. “Yeah, maybe.”
Tony laughs sympathetically. “Yeah, definitely.”