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“Alright,” Happy calls into the backseat. “Everyone who’s getting out, get out. This is a no parking zone. I have to move.”
“Ok, ok,” Pepper says, opening the car door and rounding the back to her luggage from the trunk. “May? I got your suitcase.”
“I’m coming,” May says, leaning over Tony to give Peter a kiss on the cheek. “You sure you’ll be ok?” she asks. “You feel a little warm.”
“Go on, May, you’re gonna miss your flight,” Peter says, pushing his aunt away.
“Ok, ok.” May laughs. “I’m sure you’ll be glad to be free of me for a week.”
“Naw, I didn’t say that,” Peter protests.
“And you.” May turns to Tony and gives him a kiss on the cheek too. “Thank you for this. It’s been so long since I’ve had a vacation.”
“And you’re gonna have to wait another couple years if you don’t hop on out and catch your plane,” Tony says, giving her a gentle push toward the door.
“Yes, alright.” May slips out onto the sidewalk, but leans in for a final word. “Text me, ok? And don’t overwork yourself,” she says to Peter. “Tony, don’t let him stress out trying to impress you.”
“May!” Peter makes a slashing motion across his throat.
“But don’t let him slack on his homework either.” May winks.
“Come on,” Pepper says, grabbing May’s arm. “We really do need to go.”
“Ok. I’ll see you in a week.” May beams. “Love you!”
“Yeah, love you, May,” Peter says. “Have a good time.”
May closes the car door, but turns to wave twice more on her way into the airport.
“Wow,” Tony says with a sigh as Happy pulls the car away from the curb. “You weren’t kidding when you said it would be hard to get her to go.”
“Yeah,” Peter laughs. “She’s not overprotective, but…I don’t even know what to call it. She’s like, so interested in everything that goes on with me.”
“Yeah, I see it,” Tony muses. “Speaking of which… FRIDAY, you wanna get a reading on Pete’s temperature?”
“What? No, I’m fine,” Peter says, sitting up straighter in his seat.
“Of course, sir,” the AI’s voice replies, ignoring Peter’s protest. “Mr. Parker’s body temperature is currently 100.3 degrees Fahrenheit.”
“You have FRIDAY wired in the car?” Peter asks incredulously. “Is she, like, everywhere?”
“Everywhere I need her to be,” Tony replies. “But that’s beside the point. You’re sick,” he gives Peter a stern look.
“No, I feel fine, I swear,” Peter says quickly. “It’s just, uh, my metabolism. I usually run hot.”
“Ok, then, how about a nice session in the boxing ring when we get to the compound, then I’ll order pizza for us.”
“Oh.” Peter tries to keep his voice even. “Um. Ok.”
“You hesitated,” Tony calls him out. “You’re sick.”
“I am not.”
“And you’re whiny. I stand by my assessment.” Tony crosses his arms and leans into the car window, away from Peter.
“But—”
“And don’t breathe on me.”
“Oh, come on, Mr. Stark,” Peter says, making his best apologetic face.
“I’m kidding,” Tony says. “But FRIDAY, put in an order for chicken soup, and make sure Dumm-E’s on hand with Lysol wipes. I amserious about not catching this thing.”
“Come on,” Peter mutters again.
“That’s just the way it goes, kid,” Tony says with a shrug.
It’s early evening when they arrive at the facility upstate, and Peter has to admit the bowl of steaming soup and box of Kleenex waiting at his place at the dining room table are extremely inviting.
“Go. Sit down,” Tony encourages him. He stops at the bar to fix himself a drink, but watches Peter tuck in. “It’s that kind of sick, right? Like sinuses and stuff? Not your stomach?”
“I’m not sick,” Peter says, though he quickly grabs a tissue to catch his dripping nose.
“Right. We’re still playing that game.”
“I’m not.” Peter’s aware of how petulant he sounds. “This is really good, by the way,” he says, slurping down a mouthful of soup.
“Good,” Tony says. “It’s what I always order when I’m…not sick.” He chuckles. “There’s plenty more if you’re still feeling, you know, absolutely fantastic tomorrow.”
“I…” Peter’s about to contradict him again, but he thinks better of it. “Thanks, Mr. Stark.”
Tony tells Peter he’s not allowed in the lab until he’s no longer breeding germs, so they start a movie after dinner. Ordinarily Peter would never pass up an opportunity to provide commentary on Raiders of the Lost Ark, but he’s sleepy as soon as the opening credits begin to roll. He rests his throbbing head on the arm of the sofa, and before he knows it, Tony’s shaking his shoulder and bundling him off to bed.
“Sorry, Mr. Stark,” Peter mumbles, scrubbing at a drool spot on the upholstery.
“Save it, kid,” Tony says, looking pretty tired himself. “See you in the morning.”
Peter crashes out again once his head hits the pillow. The slumber doesn’t last long, though. It’s still dark when he jolts awake, sweltering and drenched in sweat. He lays still for a moment, trying to get a handle on what’s happening.
If he was having a nightmare, he can’t remember it now. He’s not nauseous. His body still aches, but all things considered, he feels alright. Better, in fact.
Peter peels himself out of bed and heads to the bathroom to wash his face. The cool water is refreshing. He’s pretty sure his fever’s broken. When he’s suitably cleaned up, Peter considers going back to bed. His stomach rumbles, though. Fighting off the bug has drained him of energy. He’s starving.
Peter tiptoes down the stairs, hoping Tony was telling the truth when he said there was soup leftover. He’s about to open the door to the kitchen, but something catches his eye. There are shadows moving in the dining room.
“Hello?” Peter calls tentatively.
“Huh? What?” Tony’s head whips around, and he winces and rubs the wrinkle between his eyes. “Oh. It’s you.”
“Mr. Stark? What’s going on?” Peter asks, squinting in the dim light. “Everything ok?”
Tony sits at the table, a bowl of soup in front of him. He clears his throat and points at Peter with his spoon. “You know, I really wish you would’ve listened to me,” he says. “And kept your germs to yourself.”
“I did,” Peter says, “Or, well, I tried.”
“Didn’t try hard enough.” Tony sniffles and wipes his nose on his sleeve.
“Oh no. Are you sick now?” Peter pulls out the chair beside Tony’s and flops down. “I’m really sorry.”
Tony stirs his soup and shrugs. “I was kind of stressing about you spiking a fever, and insomnia’s just a fact of life, but now I can’t breathe through my nose.” He snags a Kleenex from the box that’s still on the table.
“Have you, uh, checked your temperature?” Peter asks, his thoughts flip-flopping between concern and guilt.
“No, I’m a grown-up. We don’t do that.”
“Hey, FRIDAY,” Peter says. “Can you do a temperature reading on Mr. Stark?”
“Of course, Mr. Parker,” the AI replies.
“Hey, hold up,” Tony gripes, but FRIDAY is already reporting the data.
“Mr. Stark’s body temperature is 101 degrees.”
“Whoa, that’s higher than mine was,” Peter says, getting to his feet. “Do you want some, like, Tylenol or something? Or a blanket? Or I could call May and ask—”
“Kid?” Tony asks thickly.
“Yeah?”
“I want you to calm down.”
Peter takes a breath. “Yeah. Yeah, ok.”
“I have a cold,” Tony declares. “I’m not dying.”
“Right.” Peter nods. Maybe he was overreacting a little. But still… he feels bad.
“We’re gonna take care of each other, ok?” Tony holds out his hand.
Peter reaches out to shake it, but Tony pulls back at the last second. “Actually, let’s not keep passing germs,” he says.
“Good idea,” Peter laughs. The he asks, “Is there more soup?”
“You still feel bad?”
“No, I actually feel a lot better,” Peter says. “I’m just hungry.”
Tony chuckles. “That’s good. And there’s more in the fridge.”