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The crime-fighting vigilante life comes with its share of occupational hazards.
Over the past two years of Spider-Manning, Peter’s had all kinds of work-related injuries. Broken ribs from being slammed into brick walls, multiple concussions, a couple of minor stabbings by disgruntled muggers, a broken collarbone from miscalculating the distance between buildings, and the very memorable time that a truck ran over his foot while he was attempting to stop traffic on Grand Central Parkway to help a family of ducklings cross the street, just to name a few.
But never in a million years did he think that after performing CPR on a drowning man he fished out of the Hudson six weeks ago, he’d be struck down with one of the worst strains of mono the SHIELD doctors had ever seen.
As they say, no good deed goes unpunished.
Peter wakes groggy and disoriented in a tangle of covers, his curls sticking to his forehead with sweat. The room is dark around him, so it takes a couple seconds for his fever-addled brain to register that he’s not at home, but in his bedroom at the Tower. The clock on the bedside table reads 5:23—awfully early, but he could really use a drink of water, or maybe tea. His throat is killing him.
Groaning, he rolls his achy body out of bed and slides his feet into his novelty duck slippers (Tony has the worst sense of humor). He’s shivering, so he grabs a blanket to wrap around himself before venturing out.
Since May still has to work, Peter’s been staying at the Tower for the past few days so that someone would always be able to keep an eye on him. Most of that time has been spent in some kind of limbo state between sleeping and waking, occasionally being roused by Tony or one of the other inhabitants of the Tower for fluids and whatever food he can keep down. They’re hopeful that his enhanced healing will step up its game soon.
A headache is pounding behind his eyes as Peter makes his way shakily down the hallway outside his room, dizziness forcing him to keep one hand on the wall for support while the other hugs the blanket around himself tightly. He’s trying to be as quiet as possible so as not to wake anyone, but only a few steps in, he hears voices and laughter coming from the common area.
Peter doesn’t think much of it at first—it’s pretty common to find the team up at all hours of the night—but when he starts smelling roast turkey, confusion sets in.
“...And that’s how I ended up bailing these two idiots out of a Canadian jail cell,” Clint’s voice floats down the hall.
“Okay, for the last time,” Bruce argues, sounding a bit heated. “You only bailed Tony out. It was a misunderstanding and I was released.”
The room erupts into peals of laughter and Peter’s confusion deepens. Maybe a mission just ended? He can’t think of another explanation for the entire team to be hanging out in the kitchen at the asscrack of dawn, sharing embarrassing anecdotes.
Then he turns the corner to take in the sight before him.
The entire team—plus Happy, Pepper, and Rhodey—are seated around the room’s massive dining room table. It’s piled with three whole roasted turkeys, two giant bowls of mashed potatoes, a mountain of rolls, a vat of green beans, half a bog’s worth of cranberries, a glass pan full of sweet potatoes (topped with brown sugar and pecans), and at least seven different types of pies. He blinks at the sight.
“Um… did I miss something?” Peter croaks.
Conversation ceases as all heads turn in his direction.
“Ayy, it lives!” Tony says with a chuckle. He removes the cloth napkin from his lap and sets it on the table before getting to his feet and moving over to Peter.
“How are you feeling, Peter?” Bruce asks kindly.
Peter blinks again. “Um…” He’s still trying to process what exactly is taking place. “I’m sorry, but… why are you all awake?”
“What do you mean?” Tony asks with a frown. “It’s five-thirty in the afternoon.”
Nothing is making sense. Peter rubs a hand tiredly at his eyes. “It’s still Tuesday, right?”
Exchanging a worried look with Tony, Steve quietly gets to his feet and helps usher Peter over to sit on his now vacated seat. Natasha and Bucky immediately start clearing dishes out of the way to make room for him at the table while Sam snags Steve another chair from the other room.
“I’ll go get him something to eat,” Pepper says, heading for the kitchen.
“Maybe some fever reducers too,” Tony calls after her, pressing the back of his hand to Peter’s sweaty forehead.
“Wait… so it’s not Tuesday?” Peter clarifies.
Bruce coughs, looking a bit sheepish. “Uh… you’ve been pretty out of it the last few days,” he explains, while Tony nods in confirmation. “It’s Thursday now. November twenty-eighth.”
“I slept all the way to Thanksgiving?” Peter balks. He’s suddenly feeling a bit self-conscious about crashing the party in his fuzzy paw print pajama bottoms and Happy’s old UCLA hoodie, sporting what has to be extremely impressive bedhead.
“We did try to invite you a few times, Peter,” Bruce says sympathetically. “But you didn’t seem interested.”
Tony scoffs. “That’s putting it lightly. Pretty sure your exact words were ‘Fuck off, Mr. Stark, I’m sick’.”
“Oh.” Peter feels his cheeks turn red. “Sorry. Uh… I don’t remember that.”
Tony laughs a bit. “Yeah, I’ll bet.”
“I am so glad you’re able to join us, Peter,” Thor declares, taking a large bite out of a drumstick. “This Midgardian holiday is one of my personal favorites.”
“Yeah, I can see that, given the entire turkey you just consumed,” Rhodey remarks with a good natured eye-roll.
Thor chuckles heartily and claps the colonel on the back. “Yes, I know—’tis embarrassing! Back on Asgard, I could have consumed three birds by now.” He frowns thoughtfully. “I believe it is something to do with your Earth’s gravitational pull…”
A moment later, Pepper reenters the dining room with a glass of water, a small bottle of pills, and a steaming bowl of broth. “Alright, soup time,” she announces. “I microwaved some turkey noodle, to go with the theme.”
Peter manages a weak smile. “Oh, thanks.” Despite his slight nausea, he is actually kind of hungry and soup seems a lot more doable than the rest of the feast laid out before him.
While the team continue their lighthearted banter, Peter manages to eat a few spoonfuls before deciding he shouldn’t press his luck any further, and he is content to just sit and listen. After days of feverish sleep, it’s nice being in the warm atmosphere of good company again.
Eventually though, the mono wins out and Peter’s eyelids start to droop. He figures he should go lie down—if not in his bed, then at least on the couch—but both options seem awfully far away at the moment.
As if sensing his dilemma, Tony wraps an arm around Peter and pulls him into his side. “I gotcha, kiddo,” he whispers.
With a grateful murmur, Peter rests his head on his mentor’s shoulder.
All things considered, it’s not that bad of a Thanksgiving after all.