Chapter Text
Peter sinks onto the couch, resting his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. Every inch of his body aches. He feels like a bowling ball is crushing the space behind his forehead. Peter digs his knuckles into his eye sockets, hating how warm his face is against his chilled hands. He should go find Mr. Stark and tell him he doesn’t feel good and that he wants to go home.
He isn’t sure that’s what he wants, though. He’s fine where he is. The couch is comfortable. And it eliminates the necessity to go anywhere. Peter knows he won’t last the car ride back to Queens.
He eases himself onto his side and pulls his knees up toward his chest. Peter sniffles so his nose won’t drip on the cream-colored upholstery. It increases the pressure in his sinuses, and he sighs. If he just closes his eyes for a minute, everything will be ok. He’ll go find Tony. But first, a little rest…
***
“Kid?”
A hand fluffs Peter’s bangs and presses against his clammy forehead. “Wow.”
Peter opens his eyes, and Tony’s face swims into focus. “Hm?” Peter opens his mouth to say something else, but he loses the words as he tries not to choke on the snot running down the back of his throat.
“You…have a fever.”
It’s difficult for Peter to decode the emotion behind the words. Disbelief? Annoyance? Concern? Maybe all three. Or maybe something else entirely. Peter doesn’t trust himself to judge. “Sorry,” he mutters, lacking anything better to say.
“Now, why would it be your fault? You’re sick. Unless you’re doing it on purpose…?” Tony trails off, taking in Peter’s pallor and the micro tremor going in his hunched shoulders. He shakes his head. “You’re sick.”
Peter lets out a breath. “I…don’t feel very good.”
“Yeah, I bet.” Tony shifts onto his knees beside the couch. He palms Peter’s forehead again, then slides his fingers through his hair. “I would say you should’ve told me sooner, but I don’t think that’s gonna do too much now, except make you feel worse, so…oh, well.” He chuckles softly. “I’m gonna stop talking now.”
Peter forces a smile.
“Can I get you anything, kid? Some water? Or a blanket or something?”
“I’m…good,” Peter says, though his teeth are beginning to chatter.
Tony squints at him. “You’re cold.”
“Yeah, I’m cold.”
“I’ll get you a blanket.” Tony pats his shoulder before his footsteps pad down the hall.