Chapter Text
The second he woke up that morning, Peter knew his day was going to suck.
He awoke to pressure throbbing through his head and sinuses and festering in his joints, centered in a heavy weight on his chest. For a few fleeting moments he was stuck in memories of time gone by—masks filling his nose with the scent of ozone and albuterol, whispered assurances and hands in his hair. For a moment he could have sworn it was all real, until he finally peeled his eyes open and was brought back to the present by light stabbing into his eyes and the ringing in his ears fading out into the familiar beeping of his morning alarm.
The early sun streaming through the windows cut straight through him, sending waves of nausea and pain through his head and shivers down his spine. He winced and blindly dragged his hand around until he found his phone and silenced the screeching alarm.
He sucked in a deep breath, letting it out with a groan that caught in his throat, leaving him shaking with a deep and guttural cough. His eyes screwed shut at the pain that washed over him. It felt as if his lungs were filled with shards of broken glass, every breath tearing up the tender flesh of his chest walls. The fit left him reeling by the time it finally died down, arms wrapped tightly around his diaphragm.
What the hell?
He blinked himself back to reality, shaking his head in attempts to clear the fog from his head, but to no avail. His clothes stuck to him with a sheen of cold sweat that sent shivers over his sensitive and overheated skin. Each breath came out as more of a wheeze, and god everything hurt.
What's happening to me?
If he didn’t know any better, he’d say he was sick, but that was impossible. He hadn’t caught so much as a common cold ever since he was bitten, not to mention he had felt completely fine last night. How could he have gotten so ill so fast when he shouldn’t be able to be sick in the first place?
A few more rumbling coughs ran through him and he moaned in misery, curling up tighter into a ball.
“Good morning, Peter. You appear to be in distress and are currently running a fever of 102.1 degrees Fahrenheit. Shall I alert boss or another member of the team that you are in need of assistance?”
FRIDAY’s voice came as a shock, even though her voice was quiet and gentle as always. He couldn’t help but flinch slightly, his sharp intake of breath only bringing on another fit of coughing.
He sat up in bed, shaking his head vehemently, regretting the movement as it left him lurching with vertigo.
“N-no, FRIDAY,” He managed to croak, surprising even himself with how gravelly his voice was. He cleared his throat. “Don’t alert anyone, I’m okay.” He managed to keep his voice calm, even though he was honestly starting to become a bit concerned.
There was no need to worry anyone. He was completely fine, even if his head and chest ached further as if to deny it. He must just be having an off day, he doesn’t get sick- he can’t get sick. Fact was, he needed to get to school no matter what. He had already missed countless days due to his ‘spider-related activities’, and his grades would no doubt begin to suffer if he missed any more than absolutely necessary—not to mention MJ would wring his neck if he missed any more decathlon practices.
FRIDAY was quiet for a moment after his response, as if contemplating.
“Very well, Peter.” She acquiesced. “However, you must know that if your fever rises into a dangerous range or if you become unresponsive, I will have no choice but to alert the nearest avenger as well as boss of your condition. I recommend you rest and allow yourself to recover.”
Peter merely nodded, too afraid to risk another onslaught of coughing by talking.
Despite how his aching body protested, he swung his legs over the bed—taking a few shallow breaths in preparation before standing up, ignoring how his knees trembled. And if he had to grab onto the side table for a few moments to clear the black spots invading his vision, well, no one had to know.
It took him a pitifully long time to get ready, even while forgoing his usual morning shower in attempts to save time. He splashed cold water onto his face, but it did nothing to combat the all-encasing exhaustion he felt. Patting his skin dry with a towel, he winced at his reflection.
His skin was sickly pale, only accentuating the deep blue circles around his eyes which were glazed over with fever. The baby hairs around his hairline were slicked against his forehead in a slurry of sweat and tap water, and after a few half-hearted tries to tame it, he simply gave up. He sauntered out of the bathroom as shakily as a newborn foal, throwing on a pair of sweats and a baggy MIT hoodie he had stolen from Mr. Stark one time and had no intentions of giving back. He melted into the familiar smell of mechanics and cologne, the weight on his chest seeming to ease up slightly.
He shoved his homework and textbooks into his backpack, the same muscles that could have lifted a semi just yesterday trembling under the meager weight. He swung the bag over his shoulder and was out his bedroom door before he could dwell on it.
Following the litany of voices, he wandered into the kitchen, finding Steve and Sam gathered around the island, laughing at something but still looking put together and radiating authority as always. They were both slightly sweaty and gripping water bottles, which Peter quickly deducted meant they had probably just returned from a run. They both turned to look at him as he padded into the room and slinked into a chair at the table, their grins quickly sobering into something more subdued at the sight of him.
He mumbled a quiet greeting before resting his forehead against the tabletop, relishing in the feeling of cool wood against his flushed skin.
“Hey webs,” Sam started, his brow furrowing as he scanned his eyes over his crumpled form. “You look like shit.”
Steve sent him a disapproving look and whacked him lightly on the arm, muttering something about language, and Peter turned his head to send Sam a half-hearted glare.
“Gee, thanks.” He retorted, cursing himself as his voice cracked. He closed his eyes and turned his face back against the table, pulling his arms around his midsection and willing himself not to cough.
“You feeling okay, Pete?” Steve asked gently, his voice as strong and caring as ever.
Against his better judgement, he nodded to the man, trying his best to put on a reassuring smile.
“Never better, Mr. Rogers.” He croaked. “Just a little tired, that’s all.” He smiled, but from the concern plastered on their faces, it fell flat. Before he could protest, Steve was by his side, crouching down to his height and laying a large but gentle palm against the side of his face. His brain was too sluggish for him to pull away in time before the man detected the fever, and he found himself almost leaning into the touch instead.
The Captain’s eyes widened momentarily before they were once again narrowed in concern.
“You’re burning up, Peter.”
Sam was suddenly standing next to Steve, wearing that same look while placing his own hand on Peter’s face as if to confirm it for himself. Peter accepted his defeat and let his eyes fall shut.
“FRIDAY, what’s his temperature?”
“Mr. Parker’s core temperature is currently resting at 103.7 degrees Fahrenheit and rising.” Came the AI’s curt reply.
Sam let out a low whistle. “Damn, kid. You’re really cooking, huh?”
Peter only hummed in response, too tired and aching to muster up words. Someone carefully ease his backpack off of his shoulder and place it aside, another hand smoothing back his hair.
“I don’t think you’re getting to school today, son.”
That served to wake him up a bit, his eyes cracking open and fluttering against his fatigue.
“No, Mr. Rogers, I have to go to school. I’m fine, I-” His objections died in his throat as something in his lungs seemed to shift, sending him spiraling into another painful bout of hacking, both hands finding their way up to his sternum in attempts to massage away the tight band that seemed to have formed around his ribcage.
In his frenzy, he barely registered the hand on his back rubbing circles in between his shoulder blades, and although he was sure someone was speaking to him, he couldn’t quite make out the words. Tears sprung to his eyes at the sharp pain shooting through his chest with every heave, and much to his dismay, they didn’t stop; even when there was no more air left in his lungs. At first, he wasn’t much worried about the attack and was confident it would eventually taper off like the others—that is, until he tried to bring a breath in only to find that he couldn’t.
That’s when the panic set in.
He was left choking, gasping as his own body betrayed him and tightened up even further. His lungs burned and screamed for air, blood rushing to his face and pounding through his ears. His head pulsed in agony under the pressure, leaving him doubled over and scratching at his chest in an instinctual panic to inhale.
The world around him fizzled out.
Pins and needles danced across his skin, and he felt tears leaking out from beneath his tightly shut eyelids. The room around him became alight with unease in a way he couldn’t quite comprehend, worried voices cutting through the rush in his ears before he was being scooped up in two strong arms and cradled against a sturdy chest, much too out of it to really care that he was being carried like a child.
His head lolled against his carrier’s shoulder as the figure ran. He wasn’t quite sure where they were headed, but he couldn’t find it in him to wonder any further as his vision blurred and darkened around the edges with lack of oxygen, his hands gripping the front of his hoodie so hard they shook. The sounds coming out of him were nothing less than pitiful, and he might’ve been embarrassed had he not been so sure he was dying.
Was this really it? Is it all over? Was everything he did, everything he struggled through, every late night sat up with his uncle next to a humidifier, every frenzied midnight car ride to the hospital while he took dose after dose from his inhaler wondering how much faster his heart could beat before it gave out, wondering how much longer he would be able to make it before the band around his chest finally crushed him, after every single morning waking up with a sore throat and heavy heart realizing he had pulled through, would it all be for nothing? Would he have struggled through all those years just to die of some mysterious cold that somehow managed to bypass his so-called impenetrable immune system?
He had plans, expectations to live up to, people to save and research to do and schools to attend and god, he never even got to graduate.
When was the last time he told May he loved her? How about Mr. Stark? MJ? Ned?
Would he never get to say goodbye?
They must have made it to their destination as there were suddenly people grasping at him, forcing him to uncurl from his protective ball. His spider-sense was absolutely blaring at that point, and he could do nothing but sob in utter hysterics as unfamiliar hands pulled at his limbs, leaving him no choice but to lay flat as he was too weak to fight back. Something was being pressed against his face and he thrashed weakly, the screams building up in his throat coming out as nothing more than broken squeaks.
Everything hurt and he couldn’t breathe and he was surrounded and he couldn’t defend himself and they were going to hurt him and—
Amidst the chaos, there finally came something he recognized; work-worn fingers gently threading through his hair, accompanied by a deep and warm voice lilting through his ears that spoke of love and security, ruffled hair and side-hugs.
Everything around him faded out into white noise, and he leaned desperately into the warm presence, a despondent keen escaping him the moment he had enough air. Things were coming a bit back into focus now, his shallow breaths coming easier.
“...know, kiddo. Calm down now, you’re alright, tesoro...”
The calmly spoken assurances soothed his raw nerves like a balm, the cool mist he hadn’t even realized he was breathing in smothering the embers in his chest and abating the burn bit by bit until he found himself finally relaxing enough to take a deep, shuddering breath.
“There you go, gioia mia, that’s it. You’re okay, kiddo, deep breaths.”
He held onto the voice like a lifeline, feeling tears still tracking down his cheeks, faint whines and whimpers of pain and confusion falling out of his mouth without his consent.
“Shhh... it’s okay, kid. You’re safe. Get some sleep, now. I’ll be right here.”
He pawed at his aching chest, mewling before a careful hand caught his, holding it tightly while another came to rub easing circles into his sternum.
“I know it hurts, cucciolo, I’m sorry. Take it easy, just relax and try and get some sleep, okay?”
At that point, he was too tired to fight, and found himself agreeing that sleep was a good idea. His tense muscles slowly unfurled as the pressure in his chest eased in the slightest, he curled closer to the warmth beside him and let out a stuttering breath.
“Get some rest, angioletto.”
-=☆=-
After experiencing the deep and all-encompassing terror he had felt every wretched night in Afghanistan, Tony thought it impossible to feel any higher level of fear than he had back then. With his head forced under murky water, the shrapnel embedded deep in his chest only withheld from his heart by some shoddy electromagnet sitting amongst torn tissue and bone and his whole life relying on a goddamned substandard car battery, he had for good reason believed that he had finally reached rock bottom—that was when life tossed him a shovel.
It wasn’t until he saw Peter looking so small in that hospital bed that he realized that it could get so, so much worse. When he heard the inhuman choked wheeze escaping the kid, each breath rattling as if there was a loose part inside him, he had never before been so scared.
The poor kid’s eyes were darting around with such intense paranoia that even Tony felt anxious, thrashing feebly against medical personnel grabbing at him and trying to stick him with various syringes and monitors that he obviously didn’t understand were meant to help him. Despite knowing they were only trying to treat the boy, he couldn’t help the overprotective surge he felt well up within him, and it took everything he had not to throw everyone out, wrap the kid in layers of blankets, hold him close and promise he never had to see another doctor again if it meant he never had to see that awful look in his eyes ever again.
Tony fixes things. That’s what he does, that’s what he’s always done, and it hurt him more than he cared to admit to know that there was nothing he could do to fix his kid. All he could do was hold his hand and talk him down, and damnit all that’s what he did. He sat his ass next to that bed and stayed, long after Peter had been sedated and multiple doctors tried to get him to leave the room. He sat there and he waited, never once moving or taking his eyes off Peter until he finally started to stir hours later.
He woke up with a heartbreaking whimper, eyes darting around beneath closed lids, his head lolling to the side. Tony was on his feet before he could even realize he was moving, his hand immediately coming to rest in the mess of sweaty curls.
“Welcome back to the land of the living, kid,” He smiled softly. “And here I was starting to think you didn’t enjoy my company.”
At his voice, Peter’s eyelids flickered open; revealing those big brown doe eyes that kicked the air out of Tony’s chest every time he saw them.
“Misser’ S’ark?” He murmured, a hand wrapped with blue tape over an IV line coming up to lazily rub at his eyes, mouth growing wide in a sleepy yawn that would have been absolutely precious had it not ended in a fit of rumbling coughs.
Tony felt a brief stab of panic before he was leaning forward, hand running up and down the boy’s heaving chest in hopes of relieving some of his obvious discomfort.
“Easy, tiger,” He soothed, free hand pushing back the hair slicked against the kid’s forehead, frowning at the heat he felt. “Geez, what am I gonna do with you, kid? Look at all the grey hairs you’re giving me.”
Peter smirked despite the pain, his eyes half lidded. “I think that’s just cause you’re ancient, Mr. Stark.”
Tony couldn’t help but feel a wave of relief at the quip, hiding it with feigned offence and a dramatic hand over his heart.
“You wound me, spider-ling—l seem to recall gifting you a multimillion-dollar suit not too long ago, you ungrateful child.” He retorted, though no bite shone through the smile on his face.
Peter chuckled lightly, wincing at the flare in his chest. Tony continued to run his hand against his sternum, but the shivering that usually dwindled away as he calmed remained despite the ministrations. Peter took a look around him, frowning at the white walls and various medical materials.
“How’d I get here?” He rasped, brow furrowed with poorly concealed nerves. Tony made a face to match.
“Steve carted your sorry butt down here after you nearly hacked up a lung at the kitchen table.” He explained, trying and failing to keep his voice nonchalant. “When they called me here, your lips were blue, Peter. You scared the crap out of me.” He sighed, shooting the boy a pointed look.
Peter whispered a faint apology, letting his eyes fall shut as a particularly violent chill ran through him before pulling the thin medbay blanket further around himself. Tony’s brow furrowed with the twinge of worry in his gut. He sighed again, some of the tension falling away from his shoulders.
“You cold, bud?”
Peter peeked one eye open, shooting him an incredulous look. “You’re not?”
The man took in the boy’s prone form.
His skin was so deathly pale that it was competing with the sheets beneath him, the only colour in his face dusted across the apples of his cheeks and the tip of his nose. Sweat poured off of him in buckets, sticking the baby hairs against his forehead and glossing him over in a feverish glow. The kid looked much more dead than he did alive, and the thought itself made Tony’s stomach turn. He laid a tentative hand against the boy’s cheek, his face scrunching up as he realized just how high his temperature was.
“I could toast a marshmallow over your forehead right now, bambino.”
Luckily, before Tony could worry himself into an early grave, Bruce took that moment to stride into the room following a few friendly knocks.
“Good morning, Peter.” He greeted, smiling timidly. “How are you feeling?”
Tony watched on with a smirk as the little colour left in the boy’s face drained away, his eyes growing wide as he visibly tensed. Although he had met the man before, he didn’t know him well enough yet to be comfortable around who he had dubbed ‘the greatest scientist to have ever walked this earth.’
“G-good morning, Dr. Banner, sir,” He stuttered out, glancing nervously between the doctor and Tony. “I’m doing well.” He added, but the cough he barked out at the end of his sentence was unconvincing to say the least. Thus, the colour on his face returned with renewed fervor as he flushed bright red. Bruce smiled.
“Right,” He replied, scribbling something down on a chart before picking up a stethoscope. “Mind if I have a listen to your chest?”
Peter shook his head, though he looked a bit regretful afterward as his face twisted up slightly with nausea. He winced as Bruce tucked the end of the stethoscope beneath his sweatshirt and laid the cold metal against his back, pulling his arms slightly tighter around himself.
“Could you take a few deep breaths for me, Peter?”
The boy looked reluctant but obliged nonetheless and began taking controlled breaths as deep as he could muster, his eyes falling shut in concentration as he tried desperately not to spiral into another fit of coughs. The room delved into silence, allowing Tony to really hear the unnerving whistling escaping the kid’s lungs.
He switched his focus to Bruce as the man listened closely, moving the end of the stethoscope every so often. The look of concern growing on his face did nothing to quell Tony’s own increasing worry.
He hummed non-committally, swinging the stethoscope around his neck.
“You have asthma, Pete?” The man asked, though it sounded closer to an observation than a question. Tony perked up at that, eyes darting to Peter.
Tony could practically see the gears turning in the boy’s head, conflict flashing over his face as he shook his head uncertainly. He coughed into his fist a few times before answering.
“I mean, yeah, I guess,” He muttered, hand in a protective claw over his sore chest. “But also no? I mean, I used to, but uh- not since the um... bite.” He looked up, eyes looking up at Bruce before shifting to Tony. “I haven’t even been sick since then, no colds, no allergies, no flu, no nothing. I don’t- I don’t know what’s happening to me.” He swallowed thickly, looking at Tony with fear in his eyes.
Bruce nodded, considering. “Okay, no worries.” He placed a placating hand on Peter’s shoulder with a tight smile. “We’ll figure it out.”
A little bit of awe sparked in Peter’s eyes as he looked up at Bruce, and Tony had to cover his mouth with his fist to stifle his ear-splitting grin.
“I’m assuming you’ve had nebulizer treatments before?” The doctor spared a glance to the boy, bustling around the room and pulling various materials from drawers.
Peter faltered a bit at that, his shoulders drooping with that sick and miserable look returning to his face. He nodded defeatedly.
“Perfect, then you know what this is all about then.” Bruce said, situating a mask over Peter’s face. “In here’s a dose of albuterol to open up your airways. You were given a treatment earlier as well, but I’m not sure you recall. You were understandably a bit distressed, so there was a bit midazolam mixed in there as well to help you calm down.”
Peter nodded along absentmindedly, breathing in the medication and leaning back against the bed, a look of relief washing over him face that bled into Tony as well. Before Tony could even realize what he was doing, his hand was petting tawny curls away from the boy’s face, a gentle thumb stroking his cheek. Peter’s eyes fluttered lazily and he leaned into the hand, his breaths finally evening out to something almost normal.
Bruce sent Tony a knowing smirk as he backed out of the room, to which Tony replied with a glare that held no malice. It was silent for a few moments after that, only the hum of the nebulizer and Peter’s soft breaths filling the room. Tony couldn’t help but smile.
“God, kid. Leave it to you to make me go all soft.”