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Peter’s never been the type to make heads turn, but as he walks into Midtown, all eyes are on him.
Even after the spider bite, muscles toned in ways they hadn’t been before, he’s continued to fade into the background – which is a good thing. Today, unfortunately, is the exception to the rule.
Peter gets it. He'd caught a glance of himself in the mirror earlier that morning, and it hadn’t been good at all. His reflection had sported a pair of deep eye bags, sunken cheeks, and a ghostly pale complexion.
He isn’t sick, though; no way. He’s a superhero. Superheroes don’t get sick. Superheroes do, however, occasionally have bad days, and today is just one of those.
Ned’s expression as he catches Peter’s eye does not support this statement.
“Dude,” Ned hisses, as they meet up by the lockers. “You look awful.”
“Wow, thanks, I appreciate it.”
A tiny crease purses itself in between Ned’s eyebrows, his teeth find the bottom of his lip. They reopen barely-healed wounds and drop spots of metallic blood onto his tongue. It hurts, but he barely registers the pain. He’s gotten good at that. It’s the downside of having a superhero as his best friend.
“R-Really, Peter,” Ned stammers. His stomach rolls, watching the sweat bead on Peter’s forehead.
(It’s by no means warm in the building.)
“I’m fine,” Peter groans. He rolls his eyes and, with slow and sluggish movements, puts the combination into his locker.
“Are you sure?”
“I told you, Ned. I am fine.”
To punctuate this statement, Peter grabs the load of books out from the locker and levels Ned with a triumphant look. But Ned doesn’t miss the way Peter stumbles with the addition of the weight, only just catching himself on the back of his heel. It’s not very subtle.
A loud bell chimes through the hallway. Ned cringes in sympathy, imagining how awful that noise must be with Peter’s enhanced hearing alongside his sickness.
Because he is sick.
“Well, y-you go on to History without me, I’ll catch up.”
Peter raises an eyebrow. “Suspicious.”
“It’s - I need – I need to go to the bathroom! Yeah. Just, uh, bursting.”
On a normal day, there’s no way that excuse would fly with Peter. But today, as Ned has already pointed out, is no normal day. Peter just doesn't have the energy to argue. So, with a slight nod, Peter turns on his heel and staggers over the tile, the rubber soles of his shoes consistently making an unpleasant squeaking noise.
Now. What is Ned’s plan, exactly?
He flips through various possibilities in his mind. Only one seems plausible, and yet it’s not exactly at the top of Ned's list. But he cares about Peter, and he knows Peter doesn’t care enough about himself, so what other choice is there?
He calls.
And Ned half-expects the man not to pick up at all, but he does, on the second ring.
“Fred,” the voice says. “This number is for emergencies only.”
There’s an immediacy in his tone that shakes Ned to his core, leading him to blurt out: “It’s not an emergency!”
There’s a pause. Ned can vaguely make out an exhale. “That’s my point.”
“Wait! I, uh – Peter's sick!”
“Okay?”
“No, Mr. Stark, he – he looks really sick.”
“That’s rough. I’m busy, Ted, call Aunt Hottie.”
“I can’t, sir, she’s at work. Please, I’m... I’m really worried about him.”
“So what do you want me to do?”
Ned takes a deep breath. “He’s sick. He refuses to admit this fact. You need to tell him that he is sick.”
There’s an awkward silence for a few moments before the call disconnects, and Ned slumps against the wall. He's tried, at least. All he can do now is just be there for his friend - as much as Peter will let him.
Tony is not having the best of days when he gets the call.
He’s zapped himself on Mark 47 at least seven times, the voltage a bit higher after each one. And Pepper won’t stop hounding him about some Stark Industries shit. Maybe Tony should know what that particular shit is, but he hasn’t been listening. She knows that. That’s why she keeps hounding him.
So when a bright red alert flashes on his holo-files, announcing an incoming call from Ned Leeds, Tony has a mini fucking heart attack feels the world crash down around him is a little freaked out.
He doesn’t even bother letting it ring his traditional four times.
“FRI, put it through,” Tony orders, and he grabs a piece of stray metal to glide under the pads of his fingers. He hears the telltale ding of the call connecting, and then immediately constructs a shield around his anxiety. “Fred,” he starts, even though he damn well knows the kid’s real name. “This number is for emergencies only.”
Please say this is a prank call, please say this is a prank call, please say this is a prank call -
"It’s not an emergency!”
It’s not an emergency. Peter is fine. Everything is fine. It’s fine. It’s fine.
And that is all the confirmation Tony needs. It’s selfish, sure, but when has he not been selfish? Peter’s alive, and as long as that fact remains true, then Tony sees no reason to fuck up the kid’s life any more. Distance is important. Especially when it comes to Tony.
“That’s my point.”
“Wait! I, uh – Peter's sick!
Can the kid even get sick? How bad is it? Does he need medical attention? Cho’s just landed in New York, surely she can take a quick look at him -
No. He’s not Peter’s father.
“Okay?”
“No, Mr. Stark, he – he looks really sick.”
“That’s rough. I’m busy, Ted, call Aunt Hottie.”
(Peter’s real guardian, on paper and in everything that matters.)
“I can’t, sir, she’s at work. Please, I’m... I’m really worried about him.”
“So what do you want me to do?”
“He’s sick. He refuses to admit this fact. You need to tell him that he is sick.”
Seriously? Ted must be joking. If anything, Tony would probably make him more sick. Give him a bowl of ice cream and then cringe as he upchucks. That’s the type of person Tony Stark is. Not – not a paternal, loving, caregiver.
What would he do if Peter started crying? What would he do if Pete looked up at him with those goddamn doe eyes and said: help me?
help him for fuck’s sake
Tony hangs up.
“FRI,” Tony begins, hesitating. “What do I do with a sick kid?”
“For starters, Boss, I would suggest that you go pick him up.”
“I’d just hurt him, though, right? Just make things worse?”
“I do not believe that it is the appropriate time for a therapy session, sir. I assure you that taking Mr. Parker out of school is the correct choice.”
“But -”
“Shall I alert Miss Potts?”
“No!” Tony exclaims, holding up his hands placatingly. “No need for that. I’ll be on my way now. To...”
“To pick up Mr. Parker.”
“Yep. On my way.”
Tony doesn’t move for a few minutes. He’s thinking about Howard and Peter and breaking the cycle of shame, if you must know, but FRIDAY, unfortunately, cannot read minds just yet. (Huh. That could actually be interesting.)
“Boss,” she says, a warning in her tone. “Mr. Parker.”
"Okay, yes, I see your point," He says. "But I raise you -" A dramatic pause, and then: "I don't want to get sick."
"I believe you were saying something to Miss Potts the other day relating to 'turning over a new leaf,' and there was something there about selfishness, too, Boss..."
"What if he's contagious?" Tony whines. "And he gets his grubby little fingers all over my shit?"
"Then you'll get sick," she says simply. "Now, Boss, I believe that an ill teenager is waiting for you."
Tony blows a breath out from between his lips and rubs the backs of his hands into his eyes. “Yeah, yeah,” he finally mutters. “I’m going.”
He slides his keys off of the lab desk, fingers the tiny Iron Man and Spider-Man keychains, and then heads out to the garage.
He’s Tony Stark. He’ll figure something out.
Midtown High School of Science and Technology is taunting him.
He’s Tony Stark: Iron Man, and yet he almost falls flat on his fucking face as he jogs up the front steps.
It really seems like a sign of what’s to come, and Tony would like to state for the record that when this all goes to shit, it’ll be FRIDAY’s fault.
Grumbling similar sentiments under his breath, Tony swings open the door and flashes a smile at security.
“Y-You -”
“Tony Stark, nice to meet you.” (No, it isn’t.)
“I - I – Yeah! Yeah, you too! Uh, you can just go right on, er, right on through?”
Yes, yes he can.
Tony nods and steps past the officer, sniffing as he glances through the halls where Peter spends his days. It’s a pretty nice school, he guesses. Clean. Decent-looking.
He could improve it, though.
(“FRI, remind me later to make an anonymous donation to Midtown.”
“On it, Boss.”)
Tony is sitting across the desk from Principal Morita, and therefore Principal Morita is sitting across the desk from him. Principal Morita appears to be especially thrilled about this fact.
“ - And, well, I guess my love for science really started with Stark Industries’ Green Initiative way back when it was your father’s company; they did some great work. Not – not that I’m saying you don’t do great work, Mr. Stark -”
“I get it,” Tony forces out. He doesn’t love talking about Howard. In fact, he avoids it whenever possible. The things he does for this kid. “Anyway, I’m here for Peter Parker?”
“Ah, yes,” Morita smiles and taps his desk. “Our star pupil. Your intern, of course. Would you like to discuss his progress? I can call in the guidance counselor.”
“No, I’d actually like to take him out of school.”
Morita’s eyebrows shoot up for a moment before he schools them back down. “That’s normally the job of a guardian.”
These words don’t hurt him, because he isn’t Peter’s guardian. It’s a fact. Facts don’t hurt.
“Yeah, well, official internship business and all that.”
“W-W-Well,” Morita stammers. “Normally, it is the job of a guardian to – oh, never mind then, I see right here. My apologies, Mr. Stark, I can -”
"Hold on, see what?”
“Er, that you’re Peter’s emergency guardian.”
Tony chokes on his saliva, his eyes flickering in alarm behind his large sunglasses. “Emergency guardian?”
“Did... you not sign this?”
“I don’t sign anything, it’s all Pepper,” Tony mutters, grabbing the computer screen Morita turns towards him. Sure enough, right there in bold print, it lists him – Anthony E. Stark – as Peter B. Parker’s emergency guardian.
Fascinating how Pepper hadn’t felt the need to mention this extremely important piece of information to him. What do emergency guardians do? Tony isn’t equipped for this! Hell, he hadn't even planned on coming for Peter today.
He’s already failing, huh?
“Well,” Tony says, clearing the knot from his throat with a wet cough. “I’m taking him out of school.”
“Yes, yes, of course, I’ll call him in right away.” Morita scrambles to find the microphone on his desk underneath the clutter, and presses the ON button on the base.
“Peter Parker to my office, please, Peter Parker to my office.”
He clicks the intercom off and clasps his hands together, grinning at Tony.
The silence is awkward and Tony’s too emotionally raw to deal with it. He has to admit, though, Morita seems like a good enough guy. A bit eager - sure - but a good guy nonetheless. Some of the best guys are eager, too. Like Peter.
Speaking of Peter, he creaks open the door a few moments later, peeking his head in before sulking and walking forward. And, holy shit, Peter does not look healthy.
“Why am I here,” Peter grumbles, collapsing into the seat beside Tony. He's not asking, he’s just complaining.
“Official internship business,” Tony says, knocking Peter’s wrist playfully. “Up and at ‘em, kid.”
Peter immediately brightens up. It’s not too much of a change, considering his body is still for the most part slack, but the resignation is gone from his eyes.
“O-Okay!” Peter exclaims. He runs the back of his hand under his nose (which, ew) before standing up, and then steadies himself on the arm of his chair. “Let’s go!”
Wow. The kid is stubborn, Tony will give him that.
“Well, uh, Mr. - Mr. Stark, you can see him out, then,” Morita says, still glancing between Peter and Tony, before turning his attention to a stack of papers. He doesn’t do much other than shuffle them around, not-so-subtly watching the duo out of his peripheral vision.
“Alright, Pete,” Tony mutters, still not quite comprehending the list of duties he now has to take on as Peter’s emergency guardian. In fact, he is not at all sure what compromises this list.
Peter grabs onto Tony’s arm for support, blinking hard as he takes his first step. Oh, Jesus, what if he vomits all over Tony’s shoes? Those are expensive, goddamnit!
And how awful would it make Peter feel?
Peter sticks to Tony as they walk through the hallways, his hand latched to Tony’s jacket sleeve, stumbling into the man every now and again. Tony doesn’t mind, he’s really just concerned.
Fuck. This emergency guardian-ship is already turning him into a marshmallow.
Once they breeze outside, Peter wastes no time in collapsing against the wall.
Tony blinks at the sad mess of a teenager in front of him. And then blinks again. Who does he think he’s fooling?
“You feeling okay, Underoos?”
“Yep!” Peter’s response is much too quick. “I mean, y-yeah, totally, w-w-why do you ask?”
“It’s nothing. We, uh, need you for a mission.”
Peter’s eyes light up. “Wait, a – a real one? Are we going to take down HYDRA? Or fight aliens? May says I can only fight one alien battle per month, so we have to make sure there’s not going to be another.”
“Um. Yes.”
“Yes what?”
“Yes. HYDRA.”
This is apparently the correct answer.
Peter’s body language changes in an instant, fueled by excitement. He can almost pass for healthy.
“Am I going to get to meet Captain America?! I mean, I know I’ve technically met him before, but -” Peter cuts himself off, a miserable expression washing over his face. A tinge of green slips into his complexion.
Tony has learned today that he hates seeing Peter sick, but he also can’t help the slight relief that comes with the topic change. Steve is a delicate subject. He's thought about calling a few times, but it won’t be the same. It never will be. Not since the chill in Siberia – the chill that he can still feel in his bones -
“I’m convinced that Ned totally manifested Cap’s de-icing, by the way. We were in fourth grade and I was drinking an apple juice box, and Ned came over to me and started talking to me about how he was sure that Captain America was secretly living on the moon and then the next week -”
Peter shudders and secures his hands around his stomach, his breaths coming in short pants. Tony's about to start worrying about what he'll do if the kid vomits, but then Peter squeezes his eyes shut and starts to hum, the tension in his shoulders slowly melting away.
Damn. That sure would have come in handy back in the golden college age.
“Everything... okay? Kid?”
“Huh? Yeah, I’m fine. So are we meeting Captain America or not?”
(Not.)
“Yep, the whole team’s waiting on us. Throw on your suit, kid.”
“Y-Yeah!”
Peter smiles, a brief light in a sea of ghostly pale clammy skin, and jogs over to the side of his school.
"Alright, FRI,” Tony mutters, tapping the side of his sunglasses. “You connected to Karen?”
“Always, Boss. Once Peter is inside of the suit, I will be able to conduct a full scan.”
Tony bites down on a patch of skin inside of his cheek and starts awkwardly walking around in a circle, staring up at the cloudy sky. What is he going to do when he knows definitively that Peter is, in fact, sick? The kid is ill – there's no doubt about that – but there’s also no doubt that Tony is not qualified to take care of children, let alone sick ones.
As he reflects on this yet again, Peter rounds the corner and gives a half-hearted hop. “All ready for the mission Mr. Stark!”
Yeah, no.
“FRI, give me a read.”
“What -”
“101.7 degrees Fahrenheit, Mr. Stark,” Karen announces from Peter’s suit.
“Karen, you traitor!” Peter yelps, and then he sighs and sinks back against the wall. Any fight left in the kid is immediately extinguished. His spandex-coated shoulders slump, his head lolls slightly to the side, and he crouches down to balance himself.
“So. No mission.”
“Yeah, no mission. Come on, kid, you’re sick. How about you regale me with that simply riveting story about Ned and juice boxes and I’ll take you over to the Tower?”
Peter presses the spider emblem in his chest, causing the suit to deflate and bag around his thin frame. (Seriously, should the kid be that thin?) He pulls on his clothes with some effort, balls up his suit and tosses it weakly at Tony.
“I’m fine.”
“Sure.”
“I can go on the mission.”
“Kid - there’s no mission.”
“Oh. Yeah, I guess that makes sense. Then I can just go back to school.”
Tony sighs and shakes his head, before pulling the reluctant boy into his side.
ThisIsCloserThanThey’veEverBeenBeforeCloserThanThey’veEverBeenBefore -
"Alright, kid,” Tony says, attempting to stem the flood of thoughts that’s pouring through his mind. “Let’s get you home.”
Even in his feverish state, stumbling along the sidewalk and gripping Tony’s suit jacket, Peter catches Tony’s mistake.
“Home?”
Tony blanches for a moment. He regains his composure with a short indifferent sniff at the sky. “My home.”
“Oh.” For a moment, Tony thinks Peter looks almost disappointed, but it’s probably just the sickness. “Y-Yeah, that makes sense. Sorry.”
“No problem, kid.”
They reach the car and Tony hesitates for a moment, debating if he should help the kid in or not, but Peter answers that question by promptly going limp in Tony’s arms.
“Uh,” Tony mutters. He pats Peter’s shoulder. “Everything alright?”
“Mmph,” Peter responds. A small and probably involuntary whine leaving his throat.
Tony scrubs his hand down his face and opens the passenger door, inwardly cringing as he all but shoves Peter into the seat. The boy doesn’t really seem to notice the change. That can’t be good.
“Bud? You with me?”
“Bud,” Peter whispers with a smile. “Ben used to call me that.”
Oh. Oh no.
Tony is not equipped nor mentally prepared for this conversation, so instead he reaches over Peter’s lap and pulls on his seatbelt.
“Alrighty,” Tony mutters, walking around the car and pulling himself into the driver’s seat. “If you feel like you’re going to puke, tell me.”
“Not gonna puke in your car, Mr. Stark.”
Tony would love to pretend that he wouldn’t care, but he would. Vomit is disgusting and this car is expensive.
“If you have to, there’s a bag over there,” Tony glances over at Peter as he starts driving. “Better to throw up in the bag than the car, yeah?”
Peter hums thoughtfully. “Not gonna throw up.”
“But if you have to -”
“Okay!” Peter groans, and he throws his head back against his seat with a thump.
There’s an awkward silence for the rest of the trip. Tony is, once again, thinking about Howard, because the man left a permanent stain on Tony’s life. And Peter is, of course, worrying about Tony kicking him off the team. If either chose to vocalize these thoughts, they’d probably have a much-needed conversation. But in what universe would that ever happen?
Tony pulls into the Tower’s garage and glances over at Peter.
“Doing okay, kid? Think you can walk to the elevator?”
“Y-Yeah.”
“Bullshit.”
He parks the car with a sigh. How exactly is he going to do this?
“’S okay, Mr. Stark, I can -”
Peter pushes open the car door and falls flat on his face, his skin scraping against the concrete with a painful-sounding scritch.
"Yeah, right, buddy.”
Tony grabs Peter from underneath his arms and hoists him up off the ground. He takes the kid’s face in his hands, gently tilting it from side to side to inspect the damage. There are a few angry red marks, but nothing too serious.
“Oh my god, Mr. Stark, you’re acting like May,” Peter complains as he swats Tony’s hand away.
Tony is not in the right mental space to unpack that sentiment, either, so instead he tugs his arm around Peter’s waist and starts helping the boy over to the elevator. Contrary to Peter’s previous answer, he does, in fact, need help.
Once they manage their way into the elevator, Peter promptly falls over again.
“Jesus!” Tony yells, only barely catching Peter’s head from slamming against the wall.
“S-S’ry,” Peter slurs. “Really tired. ‘M sick.”
“FRI, common room.” The elevator whirs to life and Tony holds Peter’s head in his hands again. “Nothing to be sorry for, Pete. Everyone gets sick, okay?”
“Weak.”
“Being weak isn’t the end of the world, kiddo. Besides, I think you’ve certainly demonstrated the fact that you’re not weak today, but it’s time to give your body some rest and let it fight the infection. Yeah?”
He’s not sure if Peter internalizes anything he’s said - or even hears it at all - but the elevator dings open before he can follow up.
“Mr. Stark?” Peter asks, while Tony escorts him out of the elevator.
“Tony.”
“Tony. D’you think you could tell Captain America my Ned story? I’ve been a bit of a bad friend and I want to make it up to him, y’know?”
They reach the sofa and Tony sets the kid down, draping his legs over the edge and patting his sweaty cheek. “We’re not exactly on speaking terms right now, buddy.”
“Exactly, Mr. Stark. You gotta miss him.”
Tony clears his throat and throws his sunglasses onto the coffee table, rubbing the stinging sensation out of his eyes. “I think it’s bedtime for sick spider babies.”
“Not tired.”
“Of course you’re not.”
“Not a baby, either.”
“Fine, not a baby. How about I get you some water, yeah?”
Peter grumbles and turns on his side, shutting his eyes with a sigh.
“Nice work, kid,” Tony says, patting Peter’s leg as he stands up with a groan.
When he reaches the kitchen, he grabs a glass and fills it up from the tap – pre-filtered, courtesy of FRIDAY.
“Alright, Pete, got your water here...” Tony trails off and looks suspiciously at the teenager.
Is he... asleep?
That’s - that’s good, right? That’s good. Yeah.
With a smile, Tony sets the water down on the table and brushes some of Peter’s curls away from his eyes.
“’Night, Pete,” Tony mutters, mindlessly threading his fingers through Peter’s hair. “Feel better, bambino.”
Tony lingers for a little while longer, absorbing the comfort, before he stands up with a groan. “Dim the lights, FRI, and take me to the lab.”
As he leaves the room, Peter blinks and eye open and grins.
Bambino.