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Peter sniffled under his mask and wondered if Mr. Stark could consider adding a Kleenex protocol for his suit.
Probably not, common sense told him, Mr. Stark would just want him to use an actual Kleenex, would want him to eat soup and lay around on the couch, but Peter couldn’t do that.
He had a neighborhood to protect and a bank robbery to stop.
Glass shattered as Peter jumped through the window of the Bank of New York.
Sure, he could’ve used the door, and sure, he felt a little bad about whoever was gonna have to pay for the window he broke, but he took after Mr. Stark.
He loved a dramatic entrance.
Besides, it had the effect he’d wanted. The amateur with the gun whipped his head around and stared at Peter through the holes in his ski mask, his eyes going wide with fear when they locked with Spider-Man’s.
His finger was pressed against the trigger of his web-shooter when he got distracted by someone behind him.
“Hey Spider-Man!”
Peter turned, both as reflex and because his cold was making his brain hazy, was making him stupid. Even worse, it made him slow. When he turned, he barely comprehended that the person who shouted his name had a gun, that it was pointed at Peter, and that he’d pulled the trigger.
He got the memo when the bullet hit his leg and he crouched down, covering the wound with his hands, and cursing under his breath.
“You shot Spider-Man!” screamed one of the robbers. “Dude you just killed Spidey!”
Peter frowned. Did people really think he was weak enough to be taken out by a single bullet in the leg? It hurt like hell, but it was hardly something to throw a funeral over. He straightened out, ignoring the pain radiating in his leg, and pointed his web-shooter at the man who’d shot.
“That’s really rude,” said Peter, webbing up his gun, rendering it useless. Without looking, he sent a few webs at the other robber, sticking him to the wall. “Now I gotta fix the suit. Mr. Stark’s not gonna be happy. Blood’s hard to get out.”
He looked down at his leg, sniffling again, and figuring he should probably give Mr. Stark a call.
*
Peter was sitting on the floor of the bank, watching the two bank robbers get loaded up into the back of a police van, when Mr. Stark showed up.
He arrived as Iron Man, marched over to him, clanking his loud, metal covered feet across the floor, and stood in front of Peter. He looked down at him and crossed his arms.
“What happened to resting?”
“This seemed like more fun,” said Peter, watching the blood ooze from the bullet wound in his leg. “And besides, New York needed Spider-Man.”
“Or the police force,” said Mr. Stark, as he bent down and got a closer look at Peter’s leg. “Though I gotta admit you’re more effective.”
Peter smiled under his mask, then sniffed again. “Maybe we can install a Kleenex protocol in my suit.
“How about a common sense protocol?” asked Mr. Stark. “It’d be more useful.”
“You can’t see it but I’m rolling my eyes.”
“Yeah, yeah,” said Mr. Stark. “Let’s get you to the Tower. Have someone take that bullet out of your leg.”
Peter nodded and let Mr. Stark slung his arm around him and help him stand.
“I’ll give you a lift,” he told him. “Like a piggyback ride. I hear children love those.”
Peter grumbled and did some more eye rolling that would go unnoticed, but ultimately climbed up on Iron Man’s back and held on tight when he propelled both of them into the sky.
*
A few hours later Peter was lying on the couch in Mr. Stark’s penthouse, with bandages around his leg, a blue slushy in his hand and a strew in his mouth. Mr. Stark had been kind enough to suit up and fly over to a 7/11 and buy one for him, as long as he promised he’d stay on the couch and under the covers.
Peter was happy for both the slushy that soothed his throat and turned his tongue blue, and a reason, a good reason, to large his responsibility and rest.
“How did you get shot anyway?” asked Mr. Stark. “Doesn’t your Peter tingle usually kick in when someone has a gun pointed at your head?”
“I’m gonna kill May,” muttered Peter, somewhat under his breath. His complaints were cut off by a sneeze. “Think it’s the cold. Think it’s messing with it.”
“Oh, it’s a good thing you decided to stop an armed robbery, then,” said Mr. Stark, sarcastically. He made a show about lifting his sleeve up and checking his watch. “Although you have gone three whole hours without putting your life in danger. Has to be some kind of record.”
“I only put my life in danger cause I know you’ll show up if I need you,” said Peter, taking an extra loud slurp of his slushy. “So, in a way, it’s kind of your fault.”
Mr. Stark looked like someone had just smacked him across the face. “Kid that’s the most ridiculous thing – “
“It’s sort of true, though. I mean half the things I do I wouldn’t be able if I hadn’t seen you do them first,” said Peter. “And – and it’s just sort of nice knowing you’ve got backup when you need it.”
Peter realized his words were coming out wrong. That it sounded like he was saying he was free to be reckless and stupid, to put Mr. Stark’s protectiveness to the test. He also realized Mr. Stark knew him better than that. That somehow, over the years, he’d learned how to decipher what Peter was really trying to say without him having to explain it.
That Peter felt safe doing his insane stunts, because as long as Iron Man in the city, there was no way anything bad was happening to him.
“You do, kid,” said Mr. Stark. “Got back up whenever you need it.”
“And blue slushies,” said Peter, holding the plastic cup in the air.
“Uh, no, the offer doesn’t extend to slushies” said Mr. Stark. “In fact I’m thinking about taking that one away from you.”
Peter brought his slushy to his chest, protecting it, but only succeeded in squeezing it too hard and making the blue slush spill out on his shirt. He groaned. Mr. Stark exploded into laughter before rising up off the couch and coming back with a towel.
Peter supposed that, while backup wouldn’t always include slushys from 7/11, it would include towels and a comfortable couch to lie on while he fought a cold.