Work Text:
Peter Parker was not sick.
That was what he kept telling himself. Even though his head felt foggy, his throat felt raw, and every time he took a breath everything hurt. He kept repeating the same phrase in his head: I’m Spiderman. Spiderman doesn’t get sick.
It wasn’t entirely true, of course. He was still human, still susceptible to flu season, still a sixteen year old who sometimes stayed up late finishing history essays while swinging across Queens in between. But denial had always been one of his stronger coping mechanisms.
So, when he dragged himself into the lab that afternoon, suit stuffed into his backpack and hoodie zipped up to his chin, he plastered on a smile and hoped Mr.Stark wouldn’t notice.
Spoiler: Tony noticed immediately.
“Kid, you look like a Victorian child,” Tony said, barely glancing up from the hologram floating over his desk. “What happened? Lost a fight with your chemistry homework?”
Peter laughed weakly. “No, I’m fine. Just… long day at school.”
Tony squinted at him, then swiped the hologram away and leaned back in his chair. “Uh huh. That long day wouldn’t happen to include looking like you’re auditioning for the role of Corpse Number Three on CSI, would it?”
“I’m fine,” Peter repeated, though his voice cracked halfway through. He winced, praying Tony would let it slide.
But this was Tony Stark. Sliding wasn’t really his thing.
“You sound like you swallowed a cheese grater,” Tony said bluntly. He pushed himself up, walked over, and pressed the back of his hand to Peter’s forehead before the kid could dodge. “And you’re burning up. Congratulations, Spiderling, you’ve officially joined the rest of us mortals. You’re sick.”
Peter groaned, shoulders slumping. “Mr.Stark I don’t feel so good.”
The words slipped out before he even thought about them.
Peter sank into the chair, his body sagged, head tilting to the side. He closed his eyes for just a second, telling himself he wasn’t falling asleep, just … resting.
When he blinked awake again, there was a blanket draped over him and Tony Stark of all people was sitting nearby with a glass of water and a bottle of Tylenol.
“Up and at’em, kiddo,” Tony said softly. “Take these, sip this. Doctor Stark’s orders.”
Peter groaned but obeyed, swallowing the pills with a shaky hand. “You don’t have to–”
“Yeah, yeah, I don’t have to, but here I am, wasting perfectly good sarcasm hours making sure you don’t keel over. You’re welcome.”
Peter smiled faintly. “Thanks, Mr.Stark.”
“Don’t thank me yet. I’m making you soup later, and I can’t cook to save my life.”