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This was supposed to be a fun night. Relaxing, one might say. Peter Parker has had the “Annual Stark Charity Ball” in his calendar since the beginning of the month when Tony had told him he was invited as his plus-plus one.
“Really?” Peter asked, caught off guard by the invite. It was a typical afternoon for the two of them, an after-school tinkering session in the lab while Tony’s Dad rock blared in their ears. Tony was re-assembling his old Iron Man suit for fun while Peter was experimenting with a new web formula.
“It’s just something we do every year,” Tony explained. “It gives investors and whatnot a chance to see what Stark Industries is up to.”
”And you want me there?”
Tony takes a look around the lab. “Do you see any other Peter Parker in here? If you find him, do let me know and tell him his invitation is open whether he says yes or no.”
Peter flushes slightly. “I’ll be there, Mr. Stark.”
”Good.” Tony adds some screws to his old Iron Man suit. “Pepper wanted me to ask today so she could finalize the seating chart.”
Peter turns up the heat on his Bunsen Burner. “There’s a seating chart?”
”It’s nothing you need to worry about; you’ll be sitting with me anyway.” Before Peter can respond, Tony begins to drill, sparks flying everywhere, a noise above all else.
Peter has a so-so poker face. It’s hard to contain his excitement about spending an evening with his mentor, seeing all the accomplishments of Stark Industries, including things he’s helped Tony construct. Immediately, he pulls out his Calendar app to put the date in his phone.
That was several weeks ago. Peter should have known better than to assume he’d been able to party. Right as the party began, there was an itch. A terrible and uncomfortable itch at the base of Peter’s throat. Peter’s stomach instantly dropped and his shoulders sagged. He swiped a glass of a sparkling something (hopefully Ms. Potts wouldn’t see if he had snagged champagne) and took a few sips, hoping to quell the ache. As Peter swallowed, the ache only intensified and thus, Peter accepted his fate.
It didn’t take long for the other symptoms to settle in. Nausea followed when dinner was served, the normally appetizing steak and potatoes feeling like mush in Peter’s mouth then stomach. Then, the impressive headache and just as awful body aches came as he watched the party guests twirl and whirl around the dance floor. He would have joined some of the other Avengers in taking videos of Clint’s middle-aged Dad moves but he was fighting simply keeping his head from resting on the table, a surefire way to fall asleep. Finally, the fever and chills. The human body was a curious thing, making one feel like they were in the depths of the tundra while their brains were actively cooking. Peter’s suit jacket was simply not enough to deal with the roiling chills coursing through his veins.
As the night dragged on, Peter realized he’d been glued to his seat. Try as he might, standing wasn’t really an option. He tried earlier, during dinner, to go get a glass of water, but the moment his heels left the ground, his head swam and his vision blacked out. He’d been able to brush it off as standing too fast but it wasn’t a chance he was willing to take again.
He has been in the chair for two hours. Two hours and the party was as lively as ever. The big band Tony hired was revitalizing some Rat Pack classics as Old Money elders traipsed on the dance floor. In Peter’s peripheral, Tony was engaging in a lively debate with Steve Rogers, something Peter couldn’t make out as his vision blurred more intensely. He figures he might give into the inevitable, the sleep that’s calling his name. Just as he finally lets his eyes slip close, a coughing attack takes him by surprise. His head throbs with the intensity of the fit and he nearly chokes on air. Suddenly, he feels a hand come between his shoulder blades, offering firm hits in the center of his back. A glass of water is thrust into his shaking hand and is tilted towards his mouth.
“Nice and easy, honey,” Pepper soothes. “Slow sips.”
Peter obeys her directions and feels his breath return to him. He’s noticeably weaker and is even more exhausted than before. Pepper sets the glass by Peter’s half-full plate and scoots a chair closer to him.
“I don’t like the sound of that cough.” Pepper’s got a manicured hand on his shoulder. She can feel the heat pouring off him in waves.
“I f-feel really cold,” Peter croaks, teeth chattering.
Pepper shifts her hand to rest on the bare skin of his neck, then his cheek, and forehead. She feels Peter shrink away from her touch. Her heart swells.
“You’re burning up, Peter. You need to be in bed, resting.”
A look of uncertainty crosses Peter’s face. It’s January, so of course the heating in Peter and May’s apartment decided to break while the maintenance guy was still on a holiday vacation. Plus, May herself isn’t even in New York, she’s visiting a college friend in beautiful sunny Florida, having left the day after Christmas. So, Peter would be by himself in a cold and lonely apartment. There was also absolutely no way he was gonna call May to come back because of a silly little cold. She had one more week of vacation.
“Peter?” Pepper squeezes Peter’s shoulder to bring his focus back to her. “Do you want me to call May to come get you?”
Peter shakes his head, regretting the movement when it causes his fleeting vision to swim. “She’s in Florida. On vacation.”
Pepper nods. “We at least need to get you out of here.”
Peter’s glassy and feverish eyes come to meet Pepper’s worried ones. “I can stay for a little longer. Mr. Stark still needs to give his speech.”
Pepper hums sympathetically. “Peter, you don’t need to stay for that. Tony will understand. Besides, we need to worry about getting you home.”
Before Peter can respond, he can hear Tony crossing over to where Peter and Pepper are. He says something about using Peter to prove his point in their oafish argument before he takes in Peter for the first time that evening.
“Kid, what’s going on?” Tony kneels in front of Peter, trying to catch the boy’s gaze.
“Not feeling good,” Peter rasps, voice fading. “M’sorry.”
Tony rests a hand atop Peter’s head, fingers meeting sweaty curls that have melted the gel Peter used earlier when getting ready.
“Nothing to be sorry for, bud. You want to go home?”
“C-can’t. The heating broke.”
“I thought it was only cause May was out of town,” Pepper chimes in.
“S’both.” Peter looses a couple of wet coughs.
Tony and Pepper exchange worried glances. Pepper gestures to her diamond-encrusted Rolex, noting that Tony’s due to give his speech in twelve minutes. Tony acknowledges this and pivots.
“Here’s what we’re gonna do: I’m gonna dial Happy to pull the car round back and get you back to the Tower. It was supposed to be a surprise, but I’ve got a room for you to spend the night in that’s yours. Not a guest room, yours. It belongs to you. I wish you were breaking it in under better circumstances.” Tony offers a comforting pat to Peter’s shoulder. “I’ll give my speech and Pepper and I will come straight home and you better be in bed or so help me, Parker, I’ll kick your ass into next Wednesday.” Peter gives a lifeless chuckle.
Tony taps his cheek to make sure Peter’s listening. “We got a deal, kid?”
Peter nods, coughing harshly into his fist. A small whine slips from Peter’s lips but he’s too tired to care about how childish he must look right now.
“Pep’ll sit with you until Happy gets here, so don’t move out of her sight.” Tony jabs a joking finger in Peter’s sore chest, leaving the two of them while he prepares to take the stage.
A voice comes over the PA system asking for people to take their seats for Tony’s speech. The room settles around Peter, a blur of colors and noises. The most he registers is the other Avengers coming to sit at their table and his head coming to rest on Pepper’s shoulder. She’s taken to rubbing soothing circles on Peter’s back as he fights the urge to cough once more.
“You don’t have to hold them back, sweetheart,” She chides gently. “Cough if you need to.”
The last thing Peter remembers is the sweet sound of Pepper’s whispers and the feeling of her circular ministrations before finally falling asleep.
///
In the haze of the fever, Peter registers some jostling and some simultaneously firm yet gentle manhandling. He hears a familiar voice, but the words aren’t exactly coming across as clear.
As soon as the kid was dropped off in his back seat, Happy accepted he was working with a zombie for the evening. The kid, normally an overeager conversationalist, was grunting and barely responding to any questions Happy had. It didn’t help the small pool of worry in his gut when the kid was also pretty much dead weight when they arrived back at the Tower. Happy was nearly carrying Peter by the time they reached Peter’s new bedroom. Happy managed to at least remove Peter’s tie and suit jacket before considering his job done.
Peter wakes to nausea bubbling to the surface. He scrambles before finding a trashcan to empty his guts into. His gut spasms as he upchucks the half eaten dinner and painfully constricts when he starts dry heaving. When he finishes, Peter’s got the good sense to start making camp in the bathroom that is also apparently in his bedroom, something he’d enjoy the idea of more if he weren’t currently sick to his stomach. Sluggishly, he grabs a blanket from a basket beside his bed as he trudges to the bathroom. He collapses against the wall closest to the toilet, sinking to his feet as he awaits the next bout of throwing up.
Time feels like it hasn’t moved. Until a pajama-bottom clad Tony Stark enters to find a delirious and half-asleep Peter.
“Kiddo?” He whispers. “Y’alright?” He hovers in the doorway, afraid he’ll trigger what he’s assuming is yet another vomiting episode.
Peter’s eyes are bleary and bloodshot when they shoot open at Mr. Stark’s voice. “Misser Stark?”
Tony cringes. “Yeah, it’s me, kid. You sound like you swallowed some glass. What happened to being in bed? Don’t you remember I said I was gonna kick your ass?”
Peter tries to laugh but it comes out like a shaky inhale. “Been throwin’ up a lot.”
“I see that.” Tony gets closer to where Peter is on the floor, knees screaming as he kneels in front of his charge. His very sweaty charge.
Peter’s normally buoyant curls have fallen limp against his pale forehead, tendrils sticking firmly against it.
“How long have you been back?” Peter rasps.
“Just got in. You left around 8.” He checks his watch. “It’s almost 10:30 now.”
Tony pushes these tendrils aside, a palm resting on Peter’s burning forehead. From his pocket, he brings out a thermometer. One of the ear ones, so Peter doesn’t have to do much while Tony looks for a specific number. He presses it gently into Peter’s ear.
“Sheesh,” He says to himself when the thermometer beeps. “That’s high, kid.”
“How high?” Peter croaks.
“Higher than Cheech and Chong that’s for sure. 103 even.”
Peter lets out a humorless chuckle, which inspires a wicked coughing fit. The hacks flush Peter’s pale cheeks red and he finds himself gripping the toilet seat again. The coughs turn into gags and the gags turn into bile. It burns going up Peter’s throat as it has many times before, only this time, there’s a surprisingly gentle presence rubbing circles on his back and repeating soothing phrases. Before long, Peter is dry heaving and Mr. Stark is putting a glass of water in his hands.
“Just a couple sips, Peter.” Tony is helping Peter tilt the glass up as his hands are shaking far too much to hold it steady.
“I hate this,” Peter pouts, eyes prickling with tears. He feels childish for simply saying it, but no truer words have been spoken. He deteriorated so fast, and it hit him so hard. His body aches fiercely and he feels like a pathetic mess in front of his mentor.
Yet, nothing about this seems pathetic to Tony. He just pats Peter’s head affectionately and says, “I know, bud. I’m sorry.”
They wait it out for about ten more minutes before Tony makes the executive decision to get Peter in bed. Peter is uncertain, to say the least.
“You’re gonna get a crick in your neck, on top of the flu, kid. You have to get into bed at some point.” Tony is standing now, leaning against the sink.
“Can’t.” Peter says, defiant. “ ‘M gonna throw up in bed and all over myself.”
“I’ll put a trashcan beside your bed.”
“Won’t reach it in time.”
Tony sighs. Not annoyed. It’s a very parental sigh. The kind they do when they want their kid to understand something.
Tony puts his hands in between Peter’s face. “If you do, we will clean you up.”
Peter’s eyebrows furrow. Tony notices his eyes watering and he can’t tell if those are budding tears from emotional breakthrough or insane sinus pressure. Probably both. “You will?”
“You’re my kid, aren’t you? That’s kind of my job. As gross as it might be, Pep and I would rather you be comfortable and clean than lying in a puddle of your own stomach contents. You deserve that much, at least, Peter.”
Tony feels Peter’s body relax in his hands. As if a burden has been released from his soul.
“…I don’t know if I can get up without help,” Peter admits, a little sheepish.
“Don’t worry, kid, I got you.”
It’s sort of awkward to maneuver Peter’s gangly limbs that are currently without their normal strength but they manage to make it back to the bed. Tony rests a few more pillows than average so Peter’s head remains elevated and able to remove some sinus pressure.
“FRIDAY, turn the humidifier on at 20%,” Tony commands, bringing the covers around Peter’s torso.
“There’s a built-in humidifier in here?”
“Hush, you ask too many questions.”
Peter watches Tony disappear from his room briefly but he returns just as quickly. In his hand, he has an unlabeled bottle of a dark green liquid. If Peter didn’t know Tony, he’d think it was poison.
“Relax, I’m not trying to kill you,” Tony says, reading Peter’s mind and body language.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, you scaredy cat.” Tony gently flicks Peter on the side of the head. “This is a special little concoction Dr. Feelgood and I came up with in the event something like this ever happened.”
“Dr. Feelgood?”
“The Artist formerly known as Dr. Bruce Banner.”
“Oh.”
Tony shakes the bottle and opens the cap. “It’s like NyQuil but on steroids. Constructed especially for those with mutant DNA. Specifically, your mutant DNA”
“Like those industrial strength pills Mr. Rogers takes when he has like, a headache?”
“Exactly,” Tony says as he pours the correct dosage. “You also have a pill form, I just figured liquid would be much easier on your throat.”
Tony hands Peter the little cup of murky green liquid and the kid downs it like a shot. For a brief second, Tony thinks he’s too good at it and makes a mental note to talk with the kid later to make sure he’s not committing any underage crime as a self-appointed upholder of the law.
“That should kick in pretty soon, so I’m gonna turn these lights down and let you sleep.” Tony reseals the specially made NyQuil. “FRIDAY, put the house lights at half, please.”
“House lights at half.” The lights in Peter’s room grow gradually dim and in its place, the walls and ceiling are bedazzled with…constellations?
“Wha-?”
“Counting sheep is kind of lame so I thought you might like counting the stars. It’s an exact map of where the stars and planets are at this moment in time and said map changes when their positions change.” Tony shrugs, admiring his own work and the kid’s naive fascination.
“I-It’s great,” Peter stutters, still in awe. “Thank you.”
Tony pats his head again. “Anytime. Need anything else?”
Peter shakes his head then yawns. That medicine worked fast. “Think I’ll just sleep.”
Tony readjusts his blankets one last time. “Best idea you’ve had all day, pal. Goodnight.”
“Goodnight.”
Tony makes his way towards the bedroom door. When he turns to take one last look at Peter, his breath has already evened out and the crease in his eyebrows has faded. Asleep at last. He exits, a fond smile across his face.
Pepper pads down the hallway in her pajamas and one of Tony’s old college sweatshirts.
“How’s he doing?” She asks.
“He’s dealing with a nasty fever and some wicked flu symptoms but he’s Peter. He’ll be okay,” Tony assures her, arm slung over her shoulders as they walk back to their own bedroom.
“And you’re gonna make sure of that?” Pepper asks, knowing she knows the answer.
“Yeah, I am. And Helen. I’ll have her look him over tomorrow. For now, he just needs sleep.”
Pepper kisses Tony’s cheek.
“Well, golly, Miss Potts. What was that for?”
Pepper shrugs. “Nothing. He’s just good for you.”
Tony huffs out a small laugh.
“Yeah. Yeah, he is.”
Peter will be down with the flu for the rest of that week. It will be brutal and painful and downright agonizing but the blows of a coughing fit or vomiting session are softened when Peter knows he’s got people to lean on. He wouldn’t have it any other way.