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“I think you should stay home.”
“May, I’m fine!” Peter said, as he blew his nose for the fourth time. His voice was hoarse, and his words were punctuated with a cough that he tried, and failed, to stifle.
“You don’t look fine. You’re pale as a sheet!” She reached out and grabbed Peter’s hands, her frown deepening. “And you’re clammy!”
“I’ve got stuff to do today; I can’t just stay home,” Peter protested, though the congestion in his voice undercut his determination.
“The hell you do! What’s more important than your health?” May scowled, crossing her arms with the kind of authority that made Peter feel twelve again.
“I have errands to run. I need to drop off my extra credit papers, for starters.” He hesitated, knowing he was losing this argument, then quickly added, “And I have to pick up some cold medicine from the bodega.”
May narrowed her eyes, her sharp gaze darting to his trembling hands as he clutched his jacket. She didn’t miss the way he leaned against the counter for balance. “No.”
“No? You can’t just say no.”
“I can, and I am, Peter Parker. You’re shaking. If I took your temperature, you’d have a fever. I can practically hear your teeth chattering. Now, I want you to go upstairs, get into some long johns, put on two pairs of socks, and come back down so I can make you tea while I start some soup.”
Peter opened his mouth to argue, but the weight of her stern expression stopped him. “Yes, ma’am,” he mumbled, dragging his feet toward the stairs like a chastised schoolboy.
“That’s what I thought, now go.”
As he trudged away, May shook her head, muttering, “Stubborn, just like Ben.” Her voice softened as she added, “But he never knew when to quit either.”
He hated being coddled, but deep down, he knew she was right. Peter climbed the stairs slowly, each step reminding him how heavy his body felt. His legs ached, his head throbbed, and by the time he reached his room, all he wanted to do was collapse. Wrapping himself in the thickest throw blanket he could find, he shuffled back downstairs.
When Peter returned a few moments later, he glanced sheepishly at May. “Maybe you were right.” He admitted, just as another shiver ran through him. Peter sank into a chair at the kitchen table. “I think I do have a chill.” Another shiver wracked his body, and he pulled the blanket tighter.
“Of course I’m right,” May said, tipping a cutting board of chopped carrots into a pot. She moved on to the celery and the rhythmic sound of her knife against the board was oddly soothing.
The kettle whistled and May took it off the fire, pouring out two cups of water over their waiting tea bags. She swirled the bags in their cups before bringing them to the table with a jar of honey and a lemon she recently sliced. The steam curled upward.Peter tried to smell the tea, but his congestion blocked the aroma.
“It’s ginger.” May said, returning to her cutting board.
Peter sat, wrapping his hands around the mug she placed in front of him. The heat seeped into his fingers, a welcome relief from the chill still clawing at his bones. As he stirred in honey and squeezed a lemon, the rising warmth began to ease the tension in his chest.
He brought the mug to his lips and Peter felt the hot liquid slide down his throat and spread warmth through his belly. After the third or fourth sip, his shoulders had relaxed and he was starting to be able to smell the chicken and veggies May now had boiling in the pot.
With each sip, the tea worked its magic, spreading a soothing heat through his body. The blanket slipped from his shoulders without him noticing. May, ever watchful, replaced his mug with a fresh cup.
She pressed a hand to his forehead, then his cheek, her brow furrowing slightly. “Still warm, but the tea’s helping.” She clucked her tongue and returned to the pot of soup, stirring it with a long wooden spoon.
“Thanks, May,” Peter murmured, his voice softer now.
“Of course, dear,” she replied with a quiet smile.