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Ow.
“Peter!” May calls from the kitchen. “Get up!”
“Ugh,” Peter groans. He rubs at his eyes blearily.
“Peter! You’re going to be late!”
“One second!” Peter yells back. There's a nasal tinge to his voice. He cringes.
A pause, and then May appears in his doorway, concern etched into her features. “Are you feeling okay, baby?”
“Yeah! ‘M fine!”
Totally fine, except for the fact that he can hardly breathe through his nose and his throat feels like it’s on fire. Fine!
May raises an eyebrow, clearly smelling the bullshit.
“Somehow, I don’t believe you.”
Before Peter can protest, she heads into the room and kisses his forehead, her lips cool against his skin. She crinkles her face in sympathetic pain.
“You’re really hot, Pete, I’m going to go call you in sick.”
“N-No, May, I can – I can -” Peter is inconveniently cut off by a fit of sneezes, which leave him dejectedly staring at May. Weakly, he finishes, “I can go.”
“How would you feel if you spread your sickness to Ned and MJ?”
“Well -”
“Don’t protest, Peter, it’s not worth it.” Peter crosses his arms and sticks his tongue out petulantly, but May ignores him and goes to alert Midtown of his absence.
What she doesn’t know is that while she’s in the living room, Peter is desperately trying to pull himself out of his bed and clean up his appearance, to show Aunt May that he really is fine, but to no avail. He gives up, throwing his head against his pillow when she returns with a thermometer in her hand.
As she sticks it his tongue, Peter grasps at straws. “You know, these things aren’t entirely accurate.”
He’s hardly intelligible – it’s the combination of his stuffy nose and the blockage under his tongue – but May gets the basic idea, clicking her tongue against the roof of her mouth as she brushes Peter’s cheek with her hand.
“They aren’t?”
“I mean... nothing is.”
“You tried, honey,” May says with a small smile, pulling the thermometer out from Peter’s mouth as it beeps. Her eyes roam over the number and Peter anxiously attempts to read her expression. “100.8. Not terrible, but definitely a fever.”
“Aw, come on, May, I’m fine -”
“Nope.”
“I feel so much better already, now that I woke up a bit.”
May taps his nose playfully. “I’m not going to fall for that, Pete. I’ll go grab a cold rag and then I’ll be back to take care of you, okay?”
Peter grumbles. “You don’t need to take care of me, May, I’m 15 -”
“Exactly. You’re 15.”
With one last apologetic pat on the knee, May leaves Peter alone with his thoughts for a few minutes. (They mainly consist of panic – he's missing a science test because of these dumb germs.) Soon, she returns, an old laptop under her arm and a wet washcloth in her hand.
She sets up the laptop on Peter’s nightstand, frowning as she tries to navigate the software, before eventually managing to open up Netflix and click on a random episode of The Office. She knows him too well. He’s immediately drawn into the show, too distracted to protest when May begins dabbing his warm face with the rag.
(Sometimes, he forgets that he’s a child. It’s easier that way.)
As the iconic jingle begins playing, she finishes the task, leaving the newly-room-temperature cloth on his forehead.
A tickle begins to build up in his throat. Desperately, he tries to force it down. The area hurts enough already; it doesn’t need any more irritation. But he’s fighting a losing battle, and a burst of phlegm and air soon erupts from his throat. The cough turns into a coughing fit. He doesn’t have full control of his faculties but he’s vaguely aware of May adjusting his pillows and propping him up against them, rubbing his back as he continues hacking out a lung.
The coughing eventually subsides, leaving behind a searing pain in his lungs and a dull ache in his chest. He groans slightly.
“I’ll go get some tissues,” May decides, though she seems hesitant to leave him. “You’ll be okay by yourself?”
“It’s just for a few seconds,” Peter rasps. Then cringes back and gently pinches at the skin over his throat.
“Okay,” May says. She bites her lip and rubs her thumb over the pocket between Peter’s thumb and pointer finger. “I’ll be back in one second, baby, keep watching your show.”
Peter won’t admit it to himself, but in the few seconds that he’s alone in his room, his sickness feels much more daunting. Yeah, he’s Spider-Man, and he should be able to handle a little cold by himself, but... it’s nice to get taken care of sometimes.
“I’m back,” May sings, tossing the cardboard box onto Peter’s bed. He catches it without glancing up, eyes glued to the computer screen. “Wow, since when did you have such good reflexes?”
It’s a joke, but it still makes Peter shiver.
“I - I don’t know, May...” He lets out a fake chuckle and then sticks his hand into the tissue box, pulls out a few sheets, blows his nose.
May looks on with a grimace and fidgets with her necklace. “You need some chicken soup,” she decides. She walks over to Peter’s bed to comb her fingers through his matted curls.
“You’ll burn it.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll head over to Delmar’s. Once he hears you’re sick, I’m sure he won’t mind fixing some up for you. He makes the best chicken soup.”
He really does, but Peter wants May to stay here. “Could I have some toast instead?”
“Hm,” May mutters, cocking her head to the side as she continues stroking Peter’s cheek. “Does your stomach hurt?”
“N-No, I just don’t really want to make this a whole thing, y’know?”
May gets the drift. She’s lived with him long enough to understand his secret cries for comfort – the ones he isn’t brave enough to share explicitly – and who is she to deny him that comfort?
“A whole thing. Okay.” She stands up and arches her back with a crack. “I’ll go make you some toast.”
“And -”
“And don’t burn it, yes, I know.”
“Because you always -”
“Burn it, Peter, I’m aware.”
May blows him a kiss and pulls open the door with a pleasant creak. And while she's gone, Peter, once again, tries to clean himself up a bit. He's only slightly more successful this time.
He pushes his used and crumpled tissues into a little pile in the corner of the bed, grabs the discarded washcloth and wipes the sticky sweat off his face. He even attempts to comb his unruly curls into some sort of presentable hairdo. It doesn’t work – he really just rearranges the tangles – but at least he’s tried.
Soon, May returns, holding a plate with two slices of (burnt) toast and a glass of orange juice. Peter doesn’t remark on the... charring of the bread, though. She put effort into it, and Peter won’t criticize that effort.
(Even though it’s really, really burnt.)
He takes the first slice of bread in his fingers. Some of the burnt parts flake off under his fingers and dust over his spread of blankets. Then, slowly, Peter cautiously brings the meal to his mouth. It tastes like he's eating charcoal.
“How is it?” May asks, glancing between Peter and the computer screen.
He knows that she won’t be offended if he tells her the truth – she’ll probably have a good laugh with him about her awful cooking skills – but she’s being so nice and he doesn’t want to tell her the truth.
“It’s - it’s good, May. I mean, it tastes like toast.”
It's taking some effort to really chew the toast up, seeing as how it's closer to coal than bread. Peter swirls the bite around in his mouth, mixes it with saliva so that it’ll head down his throat easier. The clump of food lies on the back of his tongue. Waiting to be digested. Cringing in preparatory disgust, Peter takes a deep breath, and then swallows, immediately grabbing the glass of orange juice and pouring it down his throat.
Something burns his throat, but that’s probably either the dry toast or the citrus in the OJ.
“Thanks, May,” Peter manages, once he’s recovered from the stinging.
(They both notice that he doesn’t eat any more of the toast, but neither comment on it.)
“Hey, does this juice smell weird to you?” Peter asks suddenly. There's a bit of an aftertaste lingering on his tongue - a prickling, tingling sensation. A doubt stings at the edge of his mind. His spidey-sense buzzes softly.
May raises an eyebrow and sniffs at the glass. She frowns, shakes her head. “Smells like orange juice. Why, do you smell something?”
Yes. “N-No, I think it’s just my nose.”
He’s not convinced, and from the way May raises her eyebrow, she’s not, either. But they leave it at that.
He isn’t sure when it first starts, but it must have started at some point, because it’s an intense change.
His cold had been manageable – fine, really. Not ideal, but fine.
This is not fine.
Peter heaves once more, his throat searing as bile comes up and hits the toilet water with a splatter.
“Oh, Peter,” May sighs. She’s bent over along with him on the cool tile floor, rubbing his back while he vomits.
Sniffing, he tries to brace his sweaty palms against the toilet, but a wave of dizziness sweeps him back down, along with another wet burp.
Once Peter gets out all of the toast and water, he continues burping up nothing, dry heaves convulsing in his empty stomach. He whines softly, his gut rolls and rolls.
“Let me take your temperature,” May says, after he's flushed the toilet and is resting his head on the toilet seat. “You don’t look so good.”
“I don’t feel so good,” Peter grumbles. “I think something was up with that orange juice.”
“Hm.” May ruminates on the thought, and then shakes her head. “I had some last night and I’m fine. Let me take you temperature again, Pete, you’re scaring me.”
Peter weakly raises his arm and gives May a thumbs-up, too dizzy to nod his head. She offers him a weak smile, grabs a paper cup from the cabinet, fills it from the tap, sets the water down by the toilet.
“Try to take a sip of that, yeah?”
Another wave of dizziness knocks into him and it takes all of his willpower not to start dry heaving again, leaving May’s question unanswered. She lets it stay that way, though, and dusts her hands off on her pants as she returns to Peter’s room, retrieving the thermometer.
When she reenters the bathroom, Peter looks pretty much the same; his eyes are still sunken, his skin is still clammy, and his body is still limp.
“Open up,” May says. She prepares the thermometer, sticks it under his tongue.
Unfortunately, this activates his gag reflex, and he feels his stomach lurching while focusing on keeping the thing in his mouth. May must be saying something, but he can’t hear her. He bites down on his tongue and traps the thermometer in there, squeezes his eyes shut and attempts to mentally separate himself from the current situation.
Distantly, Peter hears a beeping noise and feels the instrument leave his mouth, but his mind is starting to bend into itself. Colors and shapes blur together; his thoughts are left incomprehensible. He glances up and shuts his eyes hard, reopens them and sees the same sight.
“Ben?” He whispers hoarsely.
Ben doesn’t answer. If he does, Peter can’t hear it.
The world starts spinning.
Peter closes his eyes and doesn’t open them.
“Oh, God,” May mutters, hot fear rushing through her body as she looks at the numbers on the screen. 105.2. Peter needs to get to the hospital. Now.
“Ben...?” Peter asks, raising his eyes to meet May’s.
“No, no, sweetie,” May responds. She frantically pulls her cell phone out of her jean pocket. “It’s May.”
Peter mutters something incoherent and then slumps further over the toilet bowl, his sweaty cheek sticking to the porcelain.
There’s no time. If his fever keeps rising, Peter could get permanent brain damage. As much as she dislikes the man, she knows who she needs to call. The phone rings three times before crackling to life.
“Tony Stark.”
May doesn’t waste any time. “It’s Peter.”
She can hear his sharp intake of breath, the way the air ties itself in his lungs. “What about Peter?”
“It’s -” May swallows the lump in her throat. It catches, so she swallows again. “He had a low fever earlier and it – it rose, Tony. He’s over 105 degrees, he’s throwing up, I – I think he’s hallucinating -”
“I’ve already sent med evac, ETA ten minutes. How is he now?”
“Tony, you don’t -”
“Let me do this, May.”
Her pride, her stubbornness - none of this matters right now. Peter's health takes precedent. “Okay. Okay.”
“How is he now?”
“I don’t - he’s unconscious.”
“Has he been sick since -” Tony hastily cuts himself off with a cough. “When’s the last time he was sick?”
“I'm not sure, he’s been pretty healthy lately. Last time I remember... a few months ago. After that Oscorp field trip.”
Tony chuckles humorlessly. “Oscorp, huh?”
She’s about to speak when she catches sight of a red-and-gold colored truck, siren blaring. “That wasn’t ten minutes.”
If she didn’t know better, she would say that Tony sounds hesitant when responding. “Yeah, well...”
“Alright. I’m going to go bring Peter out. See you in a few.”
“Bye, May.”
“Bye.”
He hangs up first, and she vows to disconnect the call the next time.
“He’s a strong boy, May. He’ll be okay.”
May adjusts her position in the lush velvet couch, brushing a piece of lint off the fabric. She crosses and uncrosses her legs.
“He is, Tony.”
“Uh. Yeah. I know.”
“He'll be okay. Really.”
“Correct me if I'm wrong, but I'm pretty sure that I'm supposed to be the one reassuring you in this scenario.”
May looks up from her lap and stares right into Tony’s hard eyes. They’re clearly shielding something. She doesn’t comment on this, simply shaking her head, a ghost of a smile appearing on her lips.
“You don’t even know.”
“Know what?”
May smiles at Tony – a real, genuine one – and opens her mouth to reply when Dr. Cho enters the room.
Tony stands, licking his lips. He moves them but no sounds come out.
“Don’t worry, Tony,” Dr. Cho says with a smile. “It’s nothing to worry about. His fever is already going down, now that we’ve flushed everything out of his system.”
For an instant, a change comes over Tony. His shoulders slacken and a weariness seeps into his expression. Just as soon as it comes, though, it leaves, and he reconstructs his shield.
“Flushed what out of his system?”
She chuckles humorlessly and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “Well, uh, lets just say that spiders don’t really like citrus.”
“Ah,” Tony nods, thanking her with a smile. “Thank you, Helen.”
“Um, excuse me,” May says. Her pitch rises. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
Dr. Cho’s eyes widen, she taps the back of her clipboard apologetically. “I... should get going. I’ll leave you two to discuss.”
Her guilt-filled gaze flicks to Tony before she leaves the room.
May’s hands are curled into fists and she’s breathing heavily. Rage is clearly just pumping through her veins. Taking a deep breath, she repeats her question.
“Tony. What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
Tony hesitates, fingers his engagement ring, and then shrugs in defeat. “I think you know what it means, May.”
The dam bursts.
“What the hell, Stark?! That is my baby. My fifteen-year-old baby. Spider-Man was in Germany during that bullshit ‘civil war.’ Spider-Man was in – holy shit, holy shit – Spider-Man was in – Peter was there at the – at the ferry, and D.C - and his homecoming dance -”
“May -”
“No. You do not get to talk, Tony. What if he gets hurt? What if he... do you really want Peter’s blood on your hands?”
“No, May. I want nothing less in the world, I promise you.”
“I’ll tell you this right now. If his blood does ever end up on your hands, you can be damn sure that your blood will be on mine.”
Tony’s left, shocked, as she snatches up her purse and storms off into Peter’s recovery room. He knew Aunt Hottie packed a punch, but he hadn’t known just how much of a punch.
Good, he thinks. Peter deserves no less.
After gathering himself for a few moments, he follows May into Peter’s recovery room. Peter's stirring, May sits alongside him.
“Mmph,” he groans, blinking awake.
“You are in big trouble, mister,” May says. She glares at Peter.
And Tony doesn’t know how exactly she does it. Peter looks so damn small and cute in his flimsy hospital gown. All Tony wants to do is build a suit around the kid.
“Oh nooo,” Peter says, looking over at Tony. “She found out about -” Peter’s eyes dart around the room and he lowers his voice to a loud whisper. “Spider-Man?”
Barely concealing his snort, Tony nods. “Yeah, buddy.”
Peter turns to May, eyes wide with frantic anxiety. “I - It’s a secret, okay? You can’t tell Aunt May, because she’ll totally freak out and - and - and ground me until the end of time."
May can’t help it.
She laughs.
“Someone’s on some superhero drugs, huh?”
“Superhero?!” Peter screeches, gaping. “I’m a superhero?!”
Sighing, May pats Peter’s hand. “We’ll talk when you’re less loopy.”
“Okay!”
Tony watches the exchange, hands in his pockets, from the corner of the room. It’s nice watching the pair interact, even when Peter’s high as hell. Cute. Domestic.
“Holy shit!” Peter exclaims, looking over at Tony again. His jaw physically drops; his eyes flicker over to May and then back to Tony. “Is that Tony Stark?”
Fuck.
Did the kid forget about him?
Is he so forgettable that -
“Aunt May, don’t tell him, but – but Mr. Stark is like my dad.”
Tony stumbles backwards, his mind short-circuits. He – he can’t be a dad. That isn’t... he isn’t cut out for that.
Before his mind can rear down an awful Howard-themed road, May shoots him a look. He recovers. He has to. His feet walk without his instruction - he finds himself by Peter’s bedside.
“We won’t tell anyone, kiddo, but... but I’m sure that he sees you like a son.”
Peter’s face positively lights up, every feature being pulled up into its own individual smile. “That’s awesome.”
He yawns, and the noise is cute enough to rub itself against Tony's heartstrings. Maybe he even coos involuntarily, but he'd never admit to it.
“Okay, I’m going to go to sleep now,” Peter says, his speech garbled by exhaustion. “Night night.”
“Night night, baby,” May says.
Once his eyelids close, flickering softly before staying shut, May’s soft gaze hardens and turns onto Tony. “We’re not done here, Stark. Not even close.”
Tony gulps.