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“I can hear your heartbeat,” Morgan informs, pressing the bell of her pink plastic stethoscope to the middle of Peter’s chest.
“Oh yeah?” Peter grins at the five-year-old, who is currently wearing one of Tony’s white button-downs as a lab coat. “What’s it sound like, doc?”
“Like”—Morgan rapidly taps her hand over his heart, adding a sound effect between each pat for emphasis—“badumbadumbadumbadumbadum!”
Peter laughs lightly. “That’s pretty fast. Might have a problem there.”
“Nope,” Morgan says knowingly. “It’s perfect.” She pulls the stethoscope out from her ears and shoves it back into the purple Doc McStuffins bag, exchanging it for a thermometer. “Here,” she says, thrusting it at Peter’s closed mouth, causing him to flinch backwards in surprise. “We gotta take your temperature now.”
Peter takes the device from her and holds it as close to his lips as he can without actually touching them. Prior to Tony and Pepper leaving for their date night earlier that evening, both had warned him of their daughter’s newfound medical obsession. Apparently, she’s been giving out check-ups to every toy, doll, and family member who’s crossed her path the past week.
(Gerald the alpaca was less than pleased about this.)
After about three seconds, Morgan pulls it away again and glances at the number display before letting out a little shriek. “You got a fever!” she cries.
“Oh no!” Peter gasps, pressing the back of his hand to his own forehead in a dramatic swoon. “How high is it?”
She shakes her head back and forth solemnly and lets out a sigh. “Sixty-two percent.”
Peter has to bite the inside of his mouth to keep his face straight. “Sixty-two percent?” he clarifies, raising an eyebrow. “Pretty sure if it hits seventy, I’m toast.”
“Not if I give you the medicine!” she exclaims. “It’s, um…” She whips a plastic syringe out of her kit. “It’s five hundred shots!”
Peter sticks his lip out in a pout. “Aw man, but I don’t like shots...”
“That’s silly,” she says simply, and immediately jabs the bony part of his elbow with the point of her plastic needle, eliciting a yelp that was only partly faked. “You need to get better or you’ll die.”
“Fair enough,” Peter allows, grimacing. “So… only four hundred and ninety-nine more to go?”
Giggling, Morgan proceeds to poke him with the syringe a few dozen more times in quick succession until she declares him cured.
“Now you need a bandaid,” she says, grabbing the box of Doc McStuffins sticker ‘bandages’ from her kit. She opens it and then frowns. “Aw, they’re all gone.”
Peter laughs a bit, recalling the picture Tony texted him yesterday of a rather grumpy-looking Happy covered in colorful stickers. “Guess I’ll just bleed out then.”
“No you won’t! I know where Mommy keeps more!” she exclaims, jumping up.
Peter frowns. “Well, you probably shouldn’t use the real ones…” he begins, starting to get up from Morgan’s pink bean bag chair, but she pushes him back down quickly.
“No no you can’t move!” she insists. “You’re really sick.”
At the little girl’s stern look, Peter settles back down into the bean bag. “Alright, alright, I’ll stay here. But don’t use too many, okay? They’re supposed to be for real owies.”
“Okay,” she agrees, scurrying off down the hall.
While he waits, Peter checks his phone. There’s a Baby Yoda meme from Ned, along with a two-paragraph rant from MJ about pigeons being soulless creatures that he’s just started to skim when Morgan bounds back into the room.
“I got them!” she cries happily. “I got the big bandaids.”
Peter glances up to see the five-year-old run over and dump an armful of colorful square-shaped items out onto the floor in front of him. His eyes widen as realization dawns.
“Wait, uh, Morgan? I don’t think those are—” he stammers. “I mean, uh… where did you find those?”
Morgan is already tearing open one of the pastel floral wrappers. “In Mommy’s bathroom drawer,” she reports as she unfolds the white pad inside.
Peter feels his cheeks flush. “Right, but, uh, I don’t think they’re really, um…”
As he speaks, Morgan peels off the final strip of paper over the adhesive and sticks it to his elbow. “They’re for big owies.”
“No, Morgan, listen,” Peter protests, starting to take it back off. “These aren’t—”
“Hey!” She swats his hand away. “You need to keep that on! Or it’s gonna bleed!” she emphasizes.
Covering his face with his hands, Peter blows out a deep exhale. “Morgan…”
“Oh no!” she gasps, causing Peter to lower his hands to look up at her. “You got another owie!” From the pile of pads on the ground, she produces another and tears the wrapper off.
Peter holds up a hand. “Wait, wait, we can’t use all your mom’s…” he trails off when Morgan tilts her head to the side questioningly, “uh, supplies.”
“She’s got more,” Morgan says with a shrug, peeling off the paper. “There’s lots in the bathroom. And more in her purse.” Adhering the pad to his opposite arm, she explains, “You got another owie there.”
Peter glances down at the new pad-bandage the little girl is wrapping around his elbow. “Oh. Bummer,” he sighs. “Guess I should be more careful.”
“Don’t worry,” she assures him, leaning forward to press a quick kiss to the top of the pad. “I’m gonna make you all better.”
X
Ten minutes later, Peter has just crunched his way through at least ten tablets of SweetTart “medicine” and is sipping room temperature water from one of Morgan’s tiny plastic tea set cups when the bedroom door creaks open to reveal a surprised-looking Tony standing in the entryway.
Peter’s eyes widen in horror. “Mr. Stark! I can explain!” he blurts.
Tony blinks at him. “Please don’t.”
“Hi Daddy,” Morgan says, waving at him.
Tony inclines his head in the direction of his giggling daughter. “Morgan,” he greets. Then shifting his gaze to the red-faced teenager—on which every exposed area of skin is covered by sanitary napkins—he gives him a solemn nod. “Pad-Man. You two having fun?”
“Uh huh!” Morgan says brightly. Gesturing to Peter, she says, “We’re playing hospital. He’s the sick guy, but he’s all better now.”
“Oh yeah?” Tony chuckles and Peter's face flushes. “What was the diagnosis, doc?”
“He had...”—her expression screws up in thought—“broken everything.”
Tony winces. “Ooh. That’s rough.” He steps over and gestures to the pad stuck across Peter’s forehead. “And these are…?”
“Big bandaids!” Morgan says cheerfully.
“Ah. Got it.” Tony nods, the corners of his mouth turning up into a grin. “For all the blood. Of course.”
Feeling his cheeks burn, Peter mutters, “Just kill me now.”
“But you just got better,” Morgan complains.
Tony smirks. “You know, Pete, if you ask Pepper really nicely, she might share her chocolate stash with you. That always makes her feel better.”
Morgan lets out an excited whoop at the prospect of candy, while Peter just covers his face and groans.