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Peter Parker was sick. Like, actually sick. Which was weird, because ever since the bite, he thought things like the common cold or the flu were officially behind him. Enhanced immune system, faster healing-he’d practically convinced himself he was untouchable when it came to normal human ailments. But nope. Life, as usual, loved proving him wrong.
His throat was raw, his nose was stuffed, and every time he shifted even a little, his head pulsed with the kind of pressure that made him regret existing. He lay sprawled in bed, cocooned under a pile of mismatched blankets May had tucked around him before heading off to work. The apartment was quiet without her, the faint hum of traffic outside the only background noise.
Peter groaned and squinted at his phone on the nightstand, screen still lit from the message he’d just sent Ned: Not coming to school today. Dying. Tell teachers I said hi. He hadn’t even bothered with punctuation. Ned had replied with about fifteen crying-laughing emojis and a “rip dude” which Peter was too exhausted to answer.
For a guy who had fought alien armies, he decided this was somehow worse.
He lay there for a while, trying to figure out what to do next. Even staring at his phone screen made his temples throb, each pulse of light stabbing behind his eyes like a migraine. The room felt too quiet, too still. When he finally swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood up, the floor tilted violently beneath him. His vision blurred, black spots creeping in at the edges. For a split second, he thought he was going to throw up right there on the carpet.
He swallowed hard and forced himself to steady. Instinctively, his hand reached for the one thing that always made him feel a little more…himself. From the back of his chair, he grabbed the worn, familiar Spider-Man mask and tugged it over his head. The fabric smelled faintly of detergent and city air.
“Karen,” he rasped, his voice muffled behind the mask.
“Good morning, Peter,” the AI replied, her calm tone filling the quiet of the room.
Peter let out a shaky breath. It was stupid, maybe, but he loved having Karen there. It made the silence feel less heavy, less lonely. Even on days like this-especially on days like this-having someone, even an artificial someone, to talk to helped keep his mind from spiraling.
The sudden buzz of his phone made Peter jump. He fumbled on the nightstand until his fingers closed around it, squinting at the caller ID. Tony Stark. His stomach dropped. For a second, he considered letting it ring out-but that wasn’t exactly an option when Iron Man himself was on the other end.
He swiped to answer, tugging his mask tighter over his face as if that would somehow hide the rasp in his voice.
“Hey, Mr. Stark!” he said, pitching his tone higher, trying desperately to mask the congestion clogging his throat.
“Kid, we need Spider-Man uptown. Now.” Tony’s voice was sharp, undercut with the hiss of repulsors and the clang of something heavy slamming into metal. “There’s this-ugh-goo monster with little goo…things. Cap, incoming!” His words cut in and out, the chaos of battle clear in the background.
Peter’s chest tightened. Goo monsters. Cap. Tony calling him. He couldn’t just say no.
“Okay, Mr. Stark, I’ll be there soon,” he replied quickly, trying to keep the weakness out of his voice.
He ended the call before Tony could hear anything else, dropping the phone back onto the table. The second his thumb hit end, he doubled over, hacking into his mask with a violent coughing fit he’d been holding back. His lungs burned, his throat raw, every cough stealing what little energy he had left.
“Peter,” Karen’s calm voice chimed through the mask, almost maternal, “I don’t recommend entering combat in your current condition. Your body temperature is 102.4°F. That is dangerously high for physical exertion.”
Peter pressed a shaky hand to his chest, still wheezing for breath. “Yeah, well,” he croaked, “tell that to Mr. Stark. Goo monster kinda sounds like it’s not gonna wait.”
Peter wrestled his suit on, nearly face-planting into the floor when his foot got caught in the leg of the spandex. He groaned, steadying himself against the bedframe before finally yanking the mask down over his fever-flushed face. His balance was already off, but he shoved open the window anyway.
The cool air hit him like a slap, making him shiver. Still, he launched himself out, web-shooters clicking as he swung clumsily into the skyline. Each arc of the web felt heavier than usual, every swing pulling at his aching muscles. He fixed his watery eyes on the glowing coordinates Stark had pinged to his HUD, willing himself not to pass out before he got there.
By the time he arrived, it was chaos. Iron Man streaked through the air, repulsors firing in sharp bursts that lit up the street. Captain America’s shield ricocheted through clusters of goo creatures, scattering them like bowling pins. Natasha spun and flipped through the mess with surgical precision, her kicks cutting through the smaller monsters like they were nothing.
Peter’s stomach clenched, whether from nerves or fever he couldn’t tell. Okay, big guy first. Cut off the head, the body dies. Or… the goo melts? Worth a shot.
He zeroed in on the massive creature at the center of the mayhem—an enormous blob-like monster, its surface bubbling and shifting with every movement. Its roar shook his bones as it flung slimy minions in every direction.
“Alright, goo-zilla, let’s dance,” Peter muttered, firing off rapid webs that wrapped around its body. For a second, it looked like the plan might work. But the webbing dissolved almost instantly against its shifting, viscous surface, hissing like acid as it burned away.
The recoil yanked Peter forward, and he landed in an awkward crouch, coughing so hard his chest rattled. His mask muffled the sound, but he knew it wouldn’t go unnoticed for long.
The monster surged toward him, and Peter barely rolled out of the way, his head spinning with the effort.
“Spider-Man, focus!” Natasha’s voice crackled sharply through the comms, her tone all business. Peter winced under the mask. She hadn’t heard the cough, thank god, but he knew she’d noticed his sloppy aim.
“Right-focus. Got it,” he muttered to himself, forcing his body back into motion.
He dropped down to the street, landing in a crouch beside Steve. The Captain was a steady force in the chaos, shield whirling through goo creatures like a boomerang. Peter, on the other hand, was running on fumes. His webs were useless against the sludge-like bodies, so he relied on spinning kicks and hard punches-every move jarring his fever-wracked body.
Each impact churned his stomach like he’d just stepped off the world’s worst rollercoaster. He swallowed hard, fighting the rising nausea. Do not puke in the mask. Do not puke in the mask. That’s, like, top-five worst-case scenarios.
He drove his foot straight through the gelatinous throat of another minion, goo splattering across the pavement. The monster collapsed into a puddle of slime, but Peter barely had time to register the win.
His chest heaved. His head was swimming, the world tilting and warping around him. Steve shouted something-Peter couldn’t make it out over the ringing in his ears. The edges of his vision darkened, narrowing into a tunnel.
“Not good,” Peter rasped, though he wasn’t sure if he said it out loud.
Then his knees buckled. The last thing he felt was the rough pavement under his palms before everything went black, his small frame crumpling to the ground amid the chaos of battle.
S
When Peter finally blinked awake, the first thing he saw was three looming figures: Captain America, Iron Man, and Black Widow, all staring down at him with varying degrees of concern. The street around them was quiet now, no more screeching or roaring—just the sticky aftermath. Goo covered the pavement in thick, steaming piles, the stench so strong it burned his nose even through the mask.
“Hey, kid. You with us?” Tony’s voice cut through the haze. His helmet was up, and he was crouched close, tapping Peter’s cheek with a gloved hand.
Peter groaned. He felt like absolute garbage, but he couldn’t exactly tell Tony Stark that. He wasn’t even sure he could get words out without gagging. Instead, he weakly pushed Tony’s hand away and gave a stiff nod. Summoning what little strength he had, he tried to sit up. The world immediately tilted. His arms gave out, and he toppled back onto the rough concrete, the back of his head knocking against it with a dull thud.
“Whoa, stay down, kid,” Steve said firmly, kneeling beside him. His hands pressed gently against Peter’s shoulders, keeping him from trying again. “Did you get hurt in the fight? You just…kinda dropped out there.”
Peter shook his head-or at least attempted to. The motion sent his stomach into a violent spin, bile rising faster than he could stop it. Panic flared. He shoved Steve’s steadying hands away, scrambled up to a sitting position, yanked his mask up just above his nose-
-and vomited all over the sidewalk.
“Whoa.” Natasha’s sharp reflexes had her stepping back instantly, Steve following her lead. The goo smell mixed horribly with the sour stench of sick.
Tony didn’t budge. Instead, his hand went to Peter’s back, patting between his shoulder blades as the boy heaved miserably. “Easy, kid. Just get it out,” Tony muttered, softer now, concern etched deep in his voice.
Peter coughed, spit, then wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, mortified. His cheeks burned hotter than the fever already had them. He wished the ground would just open up and swallow him whole.
When Peter finally finished, he tugged his mask back down over his mouth, shuffling away from the puddle on the sidewalk before the smell could set him off again. His head felt like it was full of wet sand, but at least the heaving had stopped—for now.
Tony’s hand stayed on his back, rubbing slow circles. “Underroos,” he said carefully, “are you sick?”
Peter hesitated. He knew lying was pointless now; his face probably looked like death warmed over even with the mask half on. “Maybe,” he admitted weakly.
Tony shot him a look—the kind of look that said I’m pissed, but you’re sick so you’re getting away with this for now. “And why didn’t you just tell me you were sick before throwing up on the sidewalk?”
Peter blinked up at him, scrambling for an answer. “Because you needed my help and there were goo monsters!” he said, voice cracking a little. “I couldn’t miss that!”
Tony pinched the bridge of his nose and let out a long, exasperated sigh. “Kid…” He shook his head, muttering under his breath, “Unbelievable.”
Then, louder: “Does Aunt Hottie know you’re sick?”
Peter’s cheeks flushed hot under the mask. “Please stop calling her that, Mr. Stark. And yes-she thinks I’m still at home.”
Tony raised an eyebrow. “Good. Because I’m taking you back there. You’re not swinging home when you could pass out mid-swing and become a spider-shaped splatter on the Chrysler Building. Just-” his eyes flicked down to his suit “-for the love of God, do not throw up on my suit.”
--
Iron Man’s thrusters roared as he soared through the city sky, Peter cradled awkwardly in his arms like a feverish sack of potatoes. The kid’s head lolled against his chestplate, mask tugged up just enough to let him breathe.
“Almost home, Underoos. Just hang on—” Tony started, but the words died as he felt Peter tense.
“Oh no.”
Peter gagged once, twice, then promptly threw up—directly onto the arc reactor, the spray splattering across gleaming red-and-gold metal before the wind carried the rest away.
Tony groaned loudly. “Why do I even talk?”
--
Tony angled through the familiar window of Peter’s room, repulsors whining as he carefully set the kid down on his feet. Peter barely lasted two seconds upright before yanking his mask off and chucking it onto the floor. Without a word, he bolted, sprinting down the hall with one hand clamped over his mouth. The bathroom door slammed shut a moment later, followed by the unmistakable sound of retching.
Tony sighed through his nose, muttering, “Welcome home, kid.”
He made his way into the kitchen, peeling off one gauntlet and wetting an old rag under the sink. Most of the mess had been caught by the air and wind on the flight, but enough clung to his suit to make him grimace. He wiped it away with practiced efficiency—he’d cleaned far worse off this armor—but he still grumbled under his breath the whole time.
By the time he finished, the bathroom door creaked open again. Peter shuffled back into the room, pale and glassy-eyed, his Spider-Man suit swapped for an oversized t-shirt and sweats. He didn’t even bother with words—just collapsed face-first onto the couch with a dramatic flop.
“Classy entrance,” Tony said, heading back into the kitchen. He returned with a large mixing bowl and set it down on the coffee table within easy reach.
Peter peeked up, his face burning red. “You didn’t have to—”
“Trust me, kid, I did.” Tony cut him off, settling beside him on the couch. He lifted his gauntleted hand and tapped it gently to Peter’s forehead. “Fri, what’s his temp?”
“101.2°F, Boss,” Friday’s voice answered smoothly.
Tony let out a low whistle. “Kid, you’re basically a furnace.”
Peter groaned and pulled the throw blanket off the back of the couch to cover himself. “It’s actually gone down since before. It was 102.4 earlier.”
Tony gave him a flat look. “Yeah, like that makes it any better.”
Peter didn’t answer—he just gave a weak shrug, burrowing deeper into the blanket.
Tony shifted on the couch, about to sling an arm around the kid, when Peter doubled over in a sudden coughing fit. The harsh sound rattled in his chest, and Tony immediately thought better of the idea. The kid had already thrown up on him once today—he wasn’t eager to test how contagious this mystery bug might be.
“Alright,” Tony said, pushing himself up with a groan of hydraulics as the suit adjusted. “Your hot aunt should be home soon. I’m gonna head out before I catch whatever plague you’ve got going on here.”
Peter lifted his head from the blanket, his eyes watery but sincere. “Alright, Mr. Stark. Thanks for… y’know… bringing me home. And, uh—sorry for even leaving in the first place.”
Tony waved him off with a casual shrug, though his expression was softer than his words. “Just don’t do it again, alright? Goo monsters can wait, but you passing out mid-battle can’t.”
Peter nodded, guilt flickering in his eyes, but exhaustion quickly weighed them down again. He sank back into the cushions, the blanket pulled up under his chin.
Tony lingered a moment longer, watching the kid’s uneven breathing settle. Then, with a final shake of his head, he turned toward the window.
--
Later, Peter’s phone buzzed. He squinted at the screen-Ned, of course. He didn’t know why Ned would be calling, but he figured he might as well answer.
“Hey dude, what’s up?” Peter said, trying to sound casual, though his voice still had that scratchy, feverish rasp.
On the other end, Ned sounded…hyped. Way too hyped. “Dude! You’re viral! Like, literally viral! You-as Spider-Man-throwing up on the sidewalk in front of the Avengers? It’s everywhere!”
Peter felt his stomach drop all over again. He shoved the phone slightly away from his ear and scrambled to open social media. His worst fears were confirmed. There it was: clips, memes, gifs, captions-his humiliating moment broadcast for the entire city (and probably the world) to see.
“Oh great,” he moaned, flopping his head back against the couch cushions, the blanket sliding with him. His cheeks burned hotter than his fever ever had.
Ned’s voice piped up, full of uncontainable excitement. “Dude, this is amazing! You’re famous!”
Peter groaned so hard it rattled the blanket. “Yeah…famous…for being sick and projectile vomiting on Iron Man. Just what every teen dreams of.”