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“This is great, Mr. Stark,” Peter says, accepting a second root beer float from the hovering Ironman suit currently acting as a waiter. “I didn’t know if an ‘adult’ party was going to be all that fun, but this is really good.” He shifts his straw up and down in the beverage, creating a volcano of foam that dribbles over the edges of the glass mug. Peter takes a hurried sip from the side of the cup, then turns back to Tony, now sporting a cream moustache.
“Yep, it’s good to have you,” Tony says with a hint of a sarcastic smile. “You’re real mature.”
“Really?”
“No.” Tony
“Oh.” Peter’s face falls, and he hurries to grab a napkin and wipe his face.
“I meant you’re not real mature,” Tony backtracks. He looks down into the ice cubes and dregs of scotch in his glass. “Like, seriously, you’re eating ice cream. But it is good to have you.”
“Thanks,” Peter says, smiling again. He glances around the room. “But I’m definitely not the only one eating ice cream.”
Captain America sits on a couch near the window, dressed in civilian clothes and using his shield as a tray table for his hot fudge sundae.
Tony follows Peter’s gaze. “Yeah, well,” he concedes. “He can’t get drunk, so I figured I’d give him a sugar high instead.”
“Can you do that? I thought his metabolism—”
“Geez, kid, can’t I make a joke?” Tony flicks Peter’s shoulder, causing another dangerous tsunami of foam to rise from his float.
“Yeah, yeah, of course…” Peter takes a gulp of root beer, emerging when the creamy cap is safely below the mug’s rim.
“Hey, speaking of enhanced metabolisms,” Tony says, raising his eyebrows, “Be sure to eat something. Not just sugar.”
“Did you give Cap this lecture?”
“I figured he was old enough to figure it out for himself,” Tony replies.
“What?” Peter grows indignant again.
“Relax, kid,” Tony laughs. “But, seriously, though. Protein. It’s your friend.”
“Yeah. For sure.”
Two hours later, Peter’s sitting on the back of the couch, watching as Thor points out various celestial bodies through the window and relays Asgardian stories about them. Jane keeps reminding him to use the English words for the stars and planets so the others can follow along, but Peter says he doesn’t mind. He’s distracted. Black Widow and Dr. Banner are sitting side by side at the bar, and he has a feeling something’s going to happen over there that he doesn’t want to miss.
It’s getting hard to pay attention to anything, though. Peter’s head has developed a throb. He’s tired. Maybe a little shaky. It’s only 9:30, so he shouldn’t be wiped out yet. But being here at the compound with the rest of the Avengers at an adult party, treated as an equal… He’s probably burned a battle’s worth of energy internally spazzing out and trying not to let it show.
“Hey, Cap,” Clint says out of the blue. “Have you ever played never have I ever?”
The room erupts in laughter and sounds of interest.
“Yes. That is definitely going to happen,” Tony says. He looks to Peter as if sizing him up. “If you promise not to record this, I’ll say you’re mature enough to…be present.”
“Yeah, of course, Mr. Stark.” Peter says hurriedly, eyes going wide. “I haven’t been recording at all. Tonight I thought I’d rather just, like, interact with people…”
Pepper steps between them and places a fresh tray of cheese and crackers on the coffee table and asks for drink orders.
“I am definitely ready to crack a new bottle,” Tony says, lifting his empty glass. “And drinks for everybody. We’re playing a game.”
“You can serve yourself,” Pepper replies. “Anyone else? Champagne? Coffee?” She pauses beside Peter. “You need anything? A soda, maybe? Or something to eat, if you’re hungry…”
“Oh, I’m ok,” Peter says. His stomach’s starting to feel odd, like his headache’s dripping down through his body to cause more discomfort. He shifts slightly to make room for Scarlet Witch to sit down on the couch beside him, and the jostle brings on a wave of queasiness. “Actually.” Peter catches Pepper’s eye again. “Could I have, like, a ginger ale or something?”
“Yeah, sure thing.”
Unlike Captain America, Peter is familiar with the rules of the game. He’s never actually played, though, which he supposes is a general hazard of being a high school loser.
“Ok, let’s start with an easy one just to get everyone warmed up,” Clint says. “Never have I ever…watched The Wizard of Oz.”
“Here you go.” Pepper hands Peter a bottle of Canada Dry just as everyone raises their drinks to take a sip. Peter quickly uncaps the soda and drinks.
“What, the kid’s playing?” Dr. Banner asks, looking uncomfortable.
“Why shouldn’t he?” Cap looks confused. “If it’s about movies and stuff…”
“No, it starts out about movies and stuff,” Natasha explains, looking to be one second from a fit of giggles. “But the whole point is to ask questions about, like, illegal actions and kinky sex.”
“Hey, you’re not supposed to tell him!” Clint exclaims.
“You can’t not tell him!”
As the argument continues, Peter slumps deeper into the corner of the couch. His stomach gives an angry turn, and he slips one arm around his abdomen. He takes a tiny sip of ginger ale, but the bubbles burn his throat and sit mid-chest, threatening to come back up. Why is this happening? Why is his stomach choosing right now to hate him so much?
“Alright, alright,” Wanda pipes up. “It doesn’t have to be weird. How about…Never have I ever sang in the rain.”
“Is this really all about musicals now?” Tony rolls his eyes. “I like it better the regular way.”
“Well, when it’s your turn, you can ask whatever question you want,” Clint points out with a smirk. He looks back to Wanda, but gets stuck on Peter. They make eye contact for a second, then he asks, “Are you ok?”
A moment ago, Peter though he was. Now the shakes have turned to sweats. His heart’s dropped to his knees and his stomach is in his chest. He can taste ice cream and bile, and he has to get out of here right now…
“Sorry, just one sec…” Peter mumbles. He shoves his soda bottle at Wanda and clambers up on boneless legs. He gags immediately and has to clamp a hand over his mouth to make it out of the room.
Peter’s barely into the hallway when his stomach contracts and sends a rush of vomit up his throat. It sprays between his fingers, and he stabilizes himself on the wall for a second before dashing into the bathroom. He heaves again in the doorway, leaving a second puddle of sick.
Peter manages to sink to his knees to ride out the third wave, and he’s coughing when he hears Mr. Stark saying his name.
“Hey, Pete?” A pause. “Fuck. Wow.”
Peter swallows a hiccup and looks over his shoulder. Tony’s just outside the door, looking at him with a mixture of concern and disgust. He leaps over the vomit on the floor and hovers uncertainly at Peter’s side as he retches.
“Yep, you’re all messed up,” Tony says. “You had a lot of soda, a lot of ice cream. No actual food. Like I told you.”
“Shit,” Peter mumbles into the toilet. “I’m sorry, Mr. Stark. I wasn’t hungry, and I forgot…”
“Yeah, well, you’re stuck just riding it out now.”
“Ugh. Yeah.” Peter wipes his mouth on the back of his hand.
“Gross.” Tony pulls the ornate hand towel off the rack and shoves it at Peter. “Here.”
Peter buries his face in it for a second, but quickly drops it when nausea surges again. “Thanks.”
There’s a light knock on the door frame. “Everything ok?”
If anyone, Peter had expected Pepper. It’s definitely not her voice, though.
“Under control, Barton,” Tony says.
Peter dry heaves hard with a strangled sound. “Sorry,” he groans.
“No, no, it’s ok.” Dress shoes click against the tile as Clint jumps over the mess in the doorway and joins the group in the bathroom. He leans down to pat Peter on the back. Then he addresses Tony. “You didn’t give him alcohol or anything, did you?”
“God, no,” Tony says. “I’m not gonna put myself in a position to get arrested. No, he was just being a twerp, drinking sodas and not having actual food.” He gives Peter a hard look. “But you learned your lesson, there, right? That sometimes I do know what I’m talking about?”
“Yeah, I…” Peter chokes. “Sorry I…made a mess.”
“Hey. It’s ok,” Clint says again. “I’ll sit with him for a little bit. Why don’t you go back to the party?”
“I invited him,” Tony waffles. “He’s my responsibility.”
“Nah, he’s a self-sufficient young man. He just needs a minute to get it together. Go back out. I got it in here.” Clint all but pushes Tony out into the hall.
Peter fights through the urge to retch again. He hears a towel hit the floor, then the door clicks shut.
“Alright. I know you’re feeling shitty,” Clint says. He lowers himself to the floor and puts his hand on Peter’s shoulder.
Peter heaves, bringing up only bile this time.
“But looks like you’re pretty empty.”
“Yeah,” Peter breathes. He rests his cheek against the toilet seat, burning with embarrassment that he’s doing this at all, let alone in front of someone he barely knows, yet respects and admires… “You don’t have to…to stay.”
“I have 3 kids at home,” Clint says. “I’ve seen way bigger messes.” He flushes the toilet, then gets to his feet and runs the sink. He offers Peter a damp washcloth. “Here. Clean up a little bit?”
“Thanks.” Peter scrubs his face and sticky hands. “I bet you think I’m stupid,” he says quietly.
“No,” Clint says with a hint of a laugh. “This whole situation is kind of stupid. I mean, it sounds like the beginning of a bad joke. Like, the Avengers walked into a bar, Cap played never have I ever, and Spiderman tossed his cookies. Sorry, root beer floats.”
Peter can’t hold back a chuckle, although it almost makes him gag.
“But nah, you’re not stupid. You’re 15, getting one of those lame-ass life experiences out of the way.” Clint takes back the washcloth and offers a cup of water instead. “Better here than, I don’t know, at some frat party in college.”
Peter grimaces at the thought. He swills out his mouth, then leans back against the wall.
“Feeling a little better?”
“Not really,” Peter admits. His head is pounding from the pressure of being sick.
“If you really did jack up your blood sugar, you probably won’t feel too good until you eat something. Unfortunately,” Clint says.
Peter sighs.
“I know. Sorry.” Clint leans on the edge of the counter. “Want me to get you some crackers or something?”
“Maybe in a minute?” Peter looks up at him hopefully.
“Sure. It’s not a race.” Clint takes a step toward the door. “Give you some privacy?”
Peter nods. “But, uh. Thanks. It helped.”
Clit smiles. “That’s what I’m here for.”