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There was nothing wrong with him. He was fine. The constant ache that had settled in his stomach was just an inconvenience. A mild discomfort at best. He could handle it and finish movie night with Mr. Stark. Peter just had to sit through another 40 minutes, and he’d have a free pass.
Mr. Stark was already giving him worried glances ever since he’d declined dessert—a rare event. The excuse of being full from dinner was weak, at best. Quoting Mr. Stark, Peter was never not hungry. Except tonight, when his stomach was aching, and he was swallowing the feeling of nausea.
Another bout of it attacked him, distracting him from whatever was happening on screen. He squeezed his eyes shut, exhaling softly. He had to stay quiet. No attracting attention. He could practically feel Mr. Stark’s gaze flicking toward him every few minutes, so Peter straightened up and forced a smile.
But oh, crap. He was going to vomit. All over the stupid fancy couch and the soft grey blanket Mr. Stark had thrown over him earlier when he’d started shivering. He steadied himself with a hand, pulling himself upright.
“Bathroom,” was all he said before leaving Tony behind, walking as casually as he could. Don’t throw up here. Not here. Wait.
The pain wasn’t just a dull throb anymore. It was sharp, searing. It felt like someone was jamming a hot knife into his side, twisting it until all he could think about was the burn. He clenched his fists, swallowing down bile as he reached the bathroom.
The bathroom was lit with a soft white glow as he threw the door shut and dropped to his knees at the toilet bowl. He emptied his stomach until there was nothing left. When he finally felt as if he was running on empty, Peter rested his head against the cold ceramic, his hands protectively wrapped around his stomach.
Ouch. That hurt. Why did it hurt so much? Even the stomach flu he’d had last season hadn’t been this bad. What horrible food poisoning was this? Maybe that hot dog from patrol? Ugh, just thinking about food made his stomach churn again.
“I must inform my boss that you are unwell,” Friday’s voice floated across the room, and Peter froze. He didn’t even want to know how the AI knew he was sick—there weren’t any cameras in the bathroom.
“Please, Fri, I'll tell him as soon as it gets worse.”
“I must inform you against this as you already have a fever over 101 degrees, but I will stick to your wishes until I find them unreasonable.”
Peter forced a smile at the ceiling. “Thanks, Fri. I owe you one.”
A fever? That wasn’t sounding good at all.
After taking a deep breath to steady himself, Peter made his way back to the living room. He felt the tremble in his legs as he walked, but forced his expression into something neutral, hoping the dim lighting from the TV would hide his pale face.
Mr. Stark twisted to look at him, and Peter prayed his discomfort wasn’t too obvious.
“Kid, I was starting to wonder where you disappeared to. Wanna finish?”
“I, uh… actually, I thought I should go to bed. School day tomorrow and everything, you know?”
Peter leaned against the doorway, trying to look casual, even as he used it to support his weight. The pain was getting worse. He had to get out of there.
“Eh, it’s only like 10. Aren’t you usually up much later with patrol?”
Peter could almost feel the raised eyebrow from across the room.“I’m tired. And an early bedtime is, like, super good.” His voice wavered, panic creeping in. He couldn’t stand here much longer. It hurt.
“Sure you’re okay, kiddo? First, the ice cream, and now an early bedtime? Not turning into a responsible adult, are you?”
Peter forced a smile, trying to play it off. This was good. He was going to pull this off. No problem.
“Mr. Stark, how could you?” Peter shot back, mock-offended. “I’m not eating my vegetables tomorrow, just because.”
But then Mr. Stark stood up, stretching, and Peter realized he was running out of time. If Tony came any closer, he’d notice the fever for sure.
You could just tell him you don’t feel good, a voice in Peter’s head reasoned. You don’t have to suffer. That felt like something Friday would say. He really should tell him. At that moment, his stomach decided for him, and Peter vomited all over his clothes and the floor. His cheeks burned with embarrassment.
"Peter!” Tony yelped, rushing over. It was clear Peter was about to be fussed over. He just knew it.
“I’m fine…”
“You’re not fine. You just threw up. Why didn’t you tell me you were sick? Friday?”
Tony was already ushering him toward his bedroom, keeping a hand hovering inches from Peter’s back, not quite touching him. Which, fair, Peter thought, he was feeling gross and covered in vomit.
The smell of it curled around his senses, almost causing him to gag again. Definitely gross.
Friday’s voice chimed in: “A fever of 102 degrees, sir.”
“Friday!” Peter whined. “I trusted you.”Tony raised an eyebrow. “My AI, my loyalty,” he teased, though there was worry etched into his features. Peter wasn’t too scared about being murdered for not telling him earlier.
“Okay, kid, let’s get you cleaned up and in bed. Sound good?”
“Yeah...” Peter mumbled as they walked into his room. He really didn’t want to shower right now. More like curl into a pathetic ball of patheticness, but he had to clean up.
“I don’t feel very good…”
“Yeah, kid. Vomiting over everything kind of gives that away.”
“Not everything,” Peter muttered, his embarrassment flaring up again. Tony’s expression softened as he ruffled Peter’s hair affectionately.
“I know, bud. I’m just joking.”
With a grumble, Peter wiggled out of his shirt, tossing it onto the floor. Without it and his trousers, he was technically clean. No need for a shower. He could deal with that tomorrow. Probably.
“Pyjamas, kid. I’m getting something to help with the nausea. Guessing you have a stomach bug again?”
Peter only shrugged in response before Tony left him alone. He exhaled sharply, trying to chase away the shitty feeling clinging to him like a second blanket.
Pyjamas. He could get dressed. Easy.
Sure.He stumbled to the dresser, staring unimpressed at the contents. Everything felt irritating—like it would rub his skin the wrong way. After what felt like forever, he finally settled on a pair of bottoms and one of Tony’s MIT hoodies draped over his chair. It was definitely comfortable.
****
A few hours later, Peter’s peaceful rest was shattered by stabbing pains in his stomach. He groaned, curling up tighter in his desired ball, hugging the ache away. He thought he was better after the medicine Tony had given him, but now it hurt even more.
The movement stirred Tony awake. The man had insisted on staying the whole night, for emotional support or something, but Peter hadn’t cared. He could hardly breathe, his breath coming out in ragged pants.
“Pete?” Tony mumbled, half-asleep. Peter wanted to answer, but the words wouldn’t form, and only a whimper slipped out.
"Kid?” Now Tony was awake, switching on the light and flooding the room with brightness. Peter squinted against it, his eyes tearing up from the pain.
“Where does it hurt, baby?” Tony brushed a hand through Peter’s hair, trying to comfort him. Peter panted out, “Stomach.”
“Uncurl for me, kiddo. I want to check something.” Peter moved slowly, each shift making the pain flare. He cried out, but did as asked, uncurling completely, tears welling in his eyes.
Tony’s hands pressed gently on Peter’s stomach, testing different spots. “Does it hurt here?” He pressed a bit above the middle. Peter shook his head. The prodding continued until Tony’s fingers hit the lower right side, and Peter yelped in pain.
“Shit. Kid, I think we need to get you to the medbay. Friday, call Bruce for me. Tell him it’s an emergency.”
“What? No! I’m fine,” Peter tried to argue, even as he lay there, unable to move.
“I think your appendix might disagree with you on that one.” Peter’s eyes widened in panic, groaning again. Would he always have bad luck?
****
Tony leaned his head against the wall, appendicitis. Of course his kid would get it the one week he was staying over at the compound. And of course he would keep it to himself for some time too.
He would probably have to call Aunt Hottie sometime today. A basic requirement to fill in Peter’s aunt but first he needed some time to chill out.
Gosh. Appendicitis.
After nearly a decade of struggling, he got Peter to the medbay. The kid wanted to be cooperative, Tony was sure, but walking proved to be a challenge. And keeping body fluids inside oneself. The elevator took the causality of being drenched in vomit this time.
At least Peter was well on his way to recovery, sleeping peacefully in the hospital bed after Brucie helped out and removed certain rogue organs.
Tony breathed out, rubbing a hand across his face. The kid was fine. An organ lighter, sure, but fine. Tony didn’t need to worry about him that much. A few hours under, and he would have his hyper spider kid back, still the anxiety gnawed at his chest.
Loving people come with this. Worrying. Because he really did love the kid. The honesty settled in a part deep inside of him.
Love. Yeah.