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5:45 PM
Snow fell like powdered sugar over New York City, blanketing the skyline in shimmering white. Inside the warmth of Avengers Tower, every inch of the penthouse had been transformed into a Christmas haven. Twinkling lights glowed from every beam, wreaths decked the high-tech halls, and somewhere near the fireplace, Rocket had plugged a string of lights directly into a Stark Industries power port, strung them around Groot's arms, and hung colored bulbs from every branch.
“I am Groot,” Groot said proudly from the corner, arms raised.
“Yeah, yeah, sparkle stick,” Rocket muttered. “You’re the tree, we get it.”
"He does look festive," Mantis added brightly.
In the living room, Thor was crouched beside the massive pile of presents under the tree, lifting each one with gleeful curiosity and shaking them hard. “This one,” he declared, rattling a red-wrapped box, “this is a battle axe. I can hear the metallic clink.”
“It’s literally labeled for Vision,” Clint said from the kitchen counter, sipping cocoa.
“Perhaps a miniature battle axe?” Thor tried hopefully, then shook it again, louder this time.
“Put it down, Shaky McThunderhands,” Natasha warned. “You break it, you buy it.”
Meanwhile, Scott Lang was standing near the fireplace, arms crossed as he stared at the plate of untouched cookies left for Santa and watched as Bucky clicked through Christmas movies on the screen, toggling over The Santa Clause with Tim Allen.
“I just don’t get it,” Scott muttered
“What now?” asked Rhodey.
“The whole Santa thing,” Scott said, gesturing with both hands. “Cookies? Chimneys? A flying sleigh? Why are children so obsessed with this guy? Like—statistically speaking—breaking into every house on Earth in a single night violates so many laws of time and thermodynamics.”
Drax looked insulted. “You don’t leave food for battle guests on your planet?”
“Wow,” Sam said. “Way to kill the magic.”
“I’m just saying,” Scott added, “we normalize lying to kids about an obese immortal gift ninja with a snack problem.”
“You literally shrink to the size of a bug and talk to ants,” Clint replied. “Sit down.”
As laughter buzzed through the tower, Tony leaned against the doorway to the living room, scanning the scene with a warm, if tired, smile—until his eyes landed on Peter. He was curled up in one corner of the massive sectional couch, his hoodie pulled up over his head like a cocoon. One hand gripped a crumpled tissue, and the other was rubbing absently at the side of his head. Around him, the music system played a festive playlist—echoing softly from overhead speakers—but Peter didn’t so much as acknowledge it. His usual holiday cheer, his excited questions about movie marathons or web-swinging through Rockefeller Center, were lacking.
“Hey, Underoos,” Tony called, appearing behind him with a cup of cocoa in each hand. “You’re looking a little paler than your usual exhaustion. You sick, or just allergic to Quill’s cologne?”
"Hey!" Quill lifted his head in mock outrage from where he lounged upside-down in a recliner. "This happens to be a limited edition Xandarian musk!"
"Yeah, thanks, Quill," Rocket shot back with a sarcastic grin. "For sparing us all from the scent of intergalactic regret."
Peter sniffled again, more pronounced this time, and waved him off. “M’fine.”
Then he sneezed.
Loudly.
And again.
And again.
Tony Stark looked up from his coffee and glared at Peter over the rim of the mug. “You’re sick.”
“Seriously, Mr. Stark, I’m good,” Peter mumbled for what had to be the fifth time that hour. His voice cracked at the end, and he sniffled pitifully. “Just…allergies.”
“Wrong answer.” Tony arched a brow from the armchair beside him, arms crossed. “Allergies? In December? Yeah, I don’t think so. You’ve said that every December since I met you.”
“And every December I say I’m fine.”
“Liar, liar, pants on fire,” Tony said mockingly and annoyed at the kid.
Peter gave a weak shrug, pulling the blanket tighter. “I’m not lying. Just…optimistic.”
“Right. And I’m a humble guy.”
On the other end of the couch, Sam snorted into his mug. “Kid, you sound like you’re gargling nails. That ain’t optimism.”
Clint leaned over the counter, mug in hand. “Kid, I’ve got three younglings. I know that look. You’re going down.”
“Down where?” Drax asked with an oversized Santa hat hanging over his shoulder. “Into the ground? Is this a death ritual?”
“Not dying,” Rocket snapped. “Just got the human flu or whatever.”
Tony pressed his forearm to Peter’s head. “F.R.I.D.A.Y., give me an update on Peter’s vitals.”The penthouse pinged with a blue light overhead and voiced out in the surrounding speakers, “Peter Parker is sitting at 100.2 degrees Fahrenheit and climbing. Proceed with caution.”
Tony sighed, setting his drink down. “Well, there goes my Christmas miracle theory. Thought we’d make it one holiday without the Parker Plague.”
By early evening, the Tower was in full holiday mode. A tree as tall as Thor stood in the center of the lounge. Stockings (some real, some holographic) were hung over the fireplace. Vision was floating ornaments into perfect mathematical alignment while Scott tried (and failed) to rearrange them for “Christmas chaos vibes.” Everyone had gathered in pajamas for a showing of the Guardians of the Galaxy Holiday Special on the oversized screen. The tree lights reflected in the polished windows, flickering like stars. Plates of cookies and warm drinks floated from Wanda’s magic to waiting hands. Peter was bundled on the couch, cheeks flushed and head lolling slightly.
“Dude,” Peter rasped mid-snort, his voice scratchy and half-broken. “How the hell did you not get arrested for kidnapping Kevin Bacon?”
Drax, who was sitting proudly cross-legged on the floor, grinned. “We returned him unharmed! That is the key.”
“We gave him the best Christmas of his life,” Mantis chimed in, nodding so hard her antennae bounced. “He even said thank you!”
“Still pretty sure that was technically a federal offense,” Natasha said from the armchair.
Tony, sipping from a Stark-logoed mug, nodded at Bruce. “Well, good news, Banner—looks like the Parker immune system might’ve rallied. He’s upright and vaguely conscious. That’s a win.”
“Maybe this’ll be the first Christmas without Peter hacking up a lung,” Rhodey added with a hopeful grin.
But Tony wasn’t listening. He narrowed his eyes, watching Peter squint and wince slightly as he shifted. Then he noticed Peter tilt his head, as if he was trying to relieve pressure. His brows were knit, his hand occasionally drifting to his ear with a soft grimace. Not the usual cold symptoms.
“Hey, you keep clawing and tilting that ear. What is that? Some new holiday spider-tic?” Tony said, reaching out to tap gently under Peter’s jaw. “Chin up.”
Peter blinked, then obeyed, sluggish and bleary-eyed. Tony flicked his gauntlet on. A soft, clinical blue beam glowed from his palm. He used his hand to tilt the kid’s ear sideways and peered in with the light.
“Don’t move WedMD,” Tony muttered. “Always wanted to practice outpatient head and ear surgery.”
“Ow—hey! That’s sensitive, man!”
“You know what else is sensitive? My patience. Quit squirming.”
Tony leaned in, scanning the ear. His brow arched. “Well. That’s festive. You’ve got more inflammation in here than Cap has emotional repression. F.R.I.D.A.Y., thermal reading?”
“Localized temperature reads elevated—signs of inflammation and possible infection. Body temperature: 101.9 and climbing.” F.R.I.D.A.Y. replied.
Tony grabbed a cold compress from a nearby tray and tossed it to the kid, half haphazardly. “Stick that on your ear before it bursts like microwave popcorn.”
Peter groaned and flopped back into the couch, tugging the blanket over his head.
Tony waved a hand. “Yep, that’s the joy of the human body, Parker. It betrays you the second you need it most. Like an ex with a vendetta.”
Bruce gave Tony a look. “Quite the comforter, aren’t you?”
“I have a PhD in sarcasm and high-functioning concern. That’s good enough."
Across the room, Sam and Bucky were continuing their never-ending pop culture argument, voices rising slightly over the soundtrack.
“I’m telling you,” Clint said, looking at Bucky and Sam, “Marv and Harry from Home Alone? That’s you two. It’s uncanny.”
Bucky scowled. “Why am I Harry?”
“Because you’re grumpy and keep falling for obvious traps.” Sam retorted.
Clint grinned from the sofa. “He’s not wrong. You literally walked into a glitter bomb last week.”
Meanwhile, Thor was loudly rattling boxes under the tree like a kid hopped up on eggnog. The sound of crinkling paper and clanging contents filled the lounge as he lifted packages, gave them a solid shake, then grunted at the results.
“THIS ONE IS OBVIOUSLY A TOASTER!” Thor bellowed, shaking a rectangular box so hard the bow flew off.
“Could be a brick,” Scott offered. “Maybe Santa’s passive-aggressive this year.”
“It’s a board game, you lunatic!” Clint shouted.
“Maybe it explodes,” Natasha added dryly. “In which case, go ahead. You’re doing great.”
With most of the gifts now rumpled or dangerously close to detonation, Thor finally settled cross-legged on the rug, eyes glittering with curiosity. His attention shifted as Rhodey wandered by, plate of cookies in hand. Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone quickly became a conversation starter.
“So,” Thor said, forehead creased, “this Harry Potter… he is a wizard, yes? Like Strange, but with less facial hair?”
Rhodey blinked. “Pretty much, yeah. The kid attends wizard school and fights against the forces of evil. You know the drill.”
“Ah,” Thor said gravely. “And this Voldemort—he cannot be named?”
“Yeah, it’s a whole thing.”
Thor nodded seriously. “We have something similar in Asgard. We call him Steve’s Cooking.”
“You know I can hear you, right?”
Unbothered, Thor added, “Fear of the name increases fear of the meal itself.”
“Now that’s accurate,” Sam muttered, walking past with a mug of cocoa.
From the kitchen, Steve called out without missing a beat, “Still right here, guys.”
12:58 AM
Then, the calm was shattered. Every watch in the Tower lit up in sync.
DING! DING! DING!
“F.R.I.D.A.Y., what the hell?” Tony said sharply, standing so fast his drink hit the floor.
“Peter Parker’s temperature has risen rapidly in the last two minutes. Heart rate is elevated and unstable. Breathing shallow. Oxygen low.”
“Shit!” Tony exclaimed.
Across the Tower, doors flew open. Footsteps thundered. The once-peaceful hush of sleeping Avengers was replaced by urgent motion. Steve and Bucky were the first up the stairs, both in sweatpants and barefoot, hair tousled from sleep. Wanda and Vision emerged from their suite just as Sam and Clint came running down from the balcony level.
Thor crashed out of his room with Stormbreaker in hand. “Is it an attack? Where is the threat?” he demanded.
“Medical,” Bruce called as he shoved his glasses on. “It’s Peter!”
Tony threw open the door to Peter’s bedroom—and froze. Peter lay sprawled on top of his blankets, drenched in sweat. His hoodie clung to him like a second skin, his body trembling. His chest rose and fell in shallow, uneven breaths. He was twisting, caught in a nightmare, mumbling words no one could make out. Bruce approached the bed with urgency and put a hand on Peter’s shoulder.
“Kid, wake up!” he said firmly, hoping to pull him from a nightmare without startling him too much. He could feel the heated temperature radiating off Peter as if he were cooking from the inside out. “Damn, kid, you’re throwing all kinds of heat waves.”
Tony looked over at Bruce and moved his hand to Peter’s forehead. “F.R.I.D.A.Y, update on Pete.”
“Current body temperature is sitting at 103.9 degrees Fahrenheit."
“Yeah, that’s not good.” Tony went back to shaking Peter’s shoulder. “Peter, come on, kid. You gotta wake up!”
Peter’s lips moved slightly. "Mmr... Sstark..."
“Yeah, kid,” Tony acknowledged. “Just hang on.”
Then, the unimaginable. Just as everyone believed the worst to be over, Tony’s head snapped back as he saw the kid tense up. His eyes rolled back, and everyone watched as he started to convulse.
Tony’s heart stopped. “BRUCE!” he exclaimed in panic. “He’s seizing up!”
Bruce ran in there in a flash. Although he was in human form, his steps still shook the penthouse like the Hulk. He came to observe Pete’s state. “Okay, new plan. We’re moving him to Medbay. Now!”
Tony barked, his heart hammering as he knelt. “F.R.I.D.A.Y., prep the med bay! Complete diagnostics, now.”
“Right away, sir.”
“Wanda?” Tony turned to her.
“Already got him,” she said, lifting her hands.
With a surge of red energy, Peter’s trembling body rose gently off the bed. Wanda floated him forward, carefully yet swiftly. The others followed closely.
Scott, wide-eyed, dropped into step beside Vision, watching the glowing magic carry Peter down the corridor. “Okay… that’s freaky. Like, really freaky. This is some next-level Hogwarts stuff.”
Vision tilted his head, intrigued. “Hogwarts?”
“You know, Harry Potter, witches, floating things, emotional damage. All the classics,” Scott said. “Except instead of a wand, she’s got jazz hands and ancient chaos magic.”
“Oh,” Vision said as he and Scott rushed in the direction of Medbay. “She’s got much more than that. Wanda’s power goes far beyond any fiction,” he said quietly. “And right now, it’s the only thing keeping him steady.”
Scott sobered, nodding as they followed the group into Medbay.
2:00 AM
After hours, down in the Tower’s private med suite, Peter lay curled on a cushioned medical bed, his face turned toward the wall. The soft beep of monitors echoed in the sterile white room. The Guardians had gone quiet. Even Thor stood still, storm-blue eyes dark with concern. Clint stood like a protector against Peter’s bed, and Natasha lay her head against Clint’s shoulder. Rhodey, Bucky, and Sam stood in the corner, watching as Peter took slow, deep breaths, and Tony was just there.
Just then, the automatic doors slid open as Bruce stepped in, holding a tablet and looking grim but calm. "Tony," he said carefully.
Tony turned toward him, not letting go of Peter’s hand. "Talk to me, Banner."
Bruce adjusted his glasses. "It’s a combination of two things. One—Peter’s body is still adjusting to the latest Spider-Man tech upgrade. That includes some enhanced metabolic strain, which on its own wouldn’t be so bad. But two—there’s also the winter, compounding things. The original spider that bit him wasn’t exactly hibernating, so his system goes a little haywire in cold months."
Tony frowned. "So this isn’t a one-time thing?"
"No," Bruce said gently. "It’s fairly common—monthly, even—for someone Peter’s age and size, especially when powered enhancements are involved. I just… didn’t think it would hit this hard."
Tony looked down at Peter, who stirred slightly, connected to the oxygen tube. "So, what, he’s more vulnerable than we thought?"
"Not permanently," Bruce assured him. "He’s just… not as immune to the side effects of Avenger-level wear and tear. Not yet. But he will be.”
"What does that mean, will be?" exclaimed Thor, arms crossed. "Look at the kid. I could snap him in half if I wanted to. He looks worse than Steve did before he got the whole steroid package." Thor glanced over at Steve.
Steve just rolled his eyes. “Thanks.”Bruce turned around and rolled in a cart with several sleek syringes lined up. "Okay, I'm not saying this is an instant fix, but this should speed things up. With a bit of luck, it'll enhance his immunity and help his system sync up better. No more nervous glitches." Tony, still by Peter’s side, watched as Bruce carefully injected the sleeping teen. Hope flickered across his features. "And hopefully it won't shock him from the inside," Bruce added under his breath.
Natasha turned sharply. "Excuse me?"
Tony snapped to attention. "What the hell do you mean, hopefully?
“He’s kidding,” Natasha laughed as she tried to ease Tony.
Bruce gave a sheepish smile and a slight laugh. "Yeah, kidding. Just a… bad joke."
Natasha stepped closer, arms folded. "You were kidding, right?"
Bruce hesitated. "Totally kidding. Sort of."
4:15 AM
Then, Peter stirred.
Every head snapped up.
He shifted slightly, his fingers twitching, eyes fluttering like he was booting up from a system crash. His nose wrinkled at the sterile, lemon-sharp scent in the air—ugh, antiseptic. He hated that smell—a thin plastic oxygen tube prickled against his nostrils. Something tugged at his hand—an IV line. A pulse oximeter clipped onto his finger glowed faintly red. He blinked slowly, trying to make sense of the soft beeping beside him and the weight in his limbs. There were two screens mounted on the wall in front of him. One displayed a colorful grid of digital vitals—heart rate, oxygen levels, blood pressure—all things he definitely didn’t know how to read. The other screen was playing Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone. The wizard’s chess scene. His favorite part. The rooks exploded just as Peter blinked back into full awareness.
He smacked his dry lips. His voice came out cracked and hoarse. “Wha…?”
Tony, who hadn’t left his side, sat up fast and leaned into Peter’s line of sight. “Hey, kid,” he said, gently lifting a straw to Peter’s mouth. “Look who’s back from the dead.”
Peter sipped slowly, eyes still adjusting—then winced as the fluorescent light above him glared like a spotlight straight into his brain. “F.R.I.D.A.Y.,” Tony said without missing a beat, “dim overheads by fifty percent.”
"Of course, sir."
The lights softened instantly, fading into a cozier, golden glow. The twinkle of strung holiday bulbs across the wall became a gentler background shimmer, and Peter blinked a little easier. Everything was still fuzzy, like a dream wrapped in cotton.
“Where…?” he rasped, voice barely audible.
“On your left,” Sam said with a grin, standing near the bed.
The room was warm, and the world was still. He rubbed at his eyes groggily, blinking blearily—then froze. His entire room was filled. Sleeping bags covered the floor. People were curled up on pillows, sprawled out on beanbags, or leaning against walls. The Avengers as a whole team had stayed. For him.
Peter's throat was tight. “Wha… why’s everyone…?”
Clint smiled. “You scared the hell out of us, that’s why.”
Peter looked around. Wanda stirred next, waving a hand to float a steaming cup of lemon water to his side. “You’re okay,” she whispered.
Tony stirred from his chair, red-eyed and rumpled. “Welcome back, Underoos.”
“Mr. Stark…” Peter croaked, overwhelmed.
“Don’t talk,” Tony said.
Peter nodded weakly. “Was gonna say thank you…”
Tony smirked. “Okay. That one I’ll allow.”
Clint gave Peter’s shoulder a gentle squeeze. “I’ve had three kids come down with scary things like this. The only difference is that none of them had radioactive spider blood, making things worse.”
“Even Groot wouldn’t go back to his pot until he knew you were okay,” Quill replied.
Peter turned his head weakly, and sure enough, curled up under one of Rocket’s arms was Groot, holding what looked like one of Peter’s old action figures in his tiny branches.
“I am Groot,” came the sleepy voice.
“Yeah, yeah, you love him more than all of us. We get it,” Rocket grumbled, half-asleep beside him.
Near the window, Steve stretched from where he’d been sitting upright, a heavy wool blanket draped over his legs. “You’re a strong kid. Stronger than most people I know.”
“Speak for yourself,” grunted Drax.
“Speak quieter,” groaned Bucky, pulling a pillow over his head. “It’s too early for inspiration.”
“See? What did I tell you? Grumpy.” Sam replied to Bucky.
Peter looked around again, eyes wide and overwhelmed. Thor was snoring with his mouth open, arms crossed on his chest like a warrior at peace. Rodney and Nat were leaning back-to-back against a wall. Scott had fallen asleep mid-sentence with a candy cane sticking out of his mouth. Mantis was curled beside Groot, her hand resting gently on his little shoulder.
They were all here. All of them.
He swallowed again, blinking away the tears as he sank deeper into his pillow. “...Why are you all here?”
Tony stood and leaned down, brushing his hand across Peter’s hair once more, gentler than usual. “Because you’re our kid, Pete.”
Clint gave a small laugh and nodded. “Because you’re family.”
Peter’s voice was small, choked up, and full of warmth. “You guys didn’t have to…”
“Yeah, well,” Scott said, scratching his head. “You don’t have to take care of your little brother, either. But you do it anyway.”
Vision nodded once. “We protect our own.”
Peter felt overwhelmed by the sight of everyone—every hero he’d ever looked up to, every person who had once seemed so far out of reach—sprawled out in his room like a chaotic, mismatched family of warmth, laughter, and fierce loyalty. They’d stayed. For hours. For him. Not because they were assigned to, or because he was some mission-critical teammate, but because they wanted to. To them, he wasn’t just Spider-Man. He was Peter. And as he lay there, held steady by the soft hum of Wanda’s magic, the quiet vigilance of Vision, and the steady presence of Tony Stark beside him, Peter finally let himself believe the truth that had been slowly blooming inside him since the day he first walked into the Tower.
He wasn’t just part of the team. He was part of the family.
No sickness, no upgrade, no villain, and no winter storm could ever take that away.
He wasn’t just the youngest Avenger.
He was home.