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Tony Stark was sick.
Not catastrophically. Not in a way that would make headlines. But enough that his body felt heavy and uncooperative. His head throbbed, his joints ached, and his throat burned every time he swallowed. His skin swung between too warm and uncomfortably cold, and the blankets stacked on the couch somehow made both worse.
The overhead lights were dimmed. A lamp on the side table glowed, highlighting bottles of cough syrup, sachets of fever reducers, and a nearly empty box of tissues. He should probably get up to replace it. But FRIDAY had demanded he rest. He tried to argue. FRIDAY won anyway. Mostly because he was feeling far more miserable than contrary in the moment.
And on his ceiling… there was a teenager.
He didn’t open his eyes. He didn’t sigh. He didn’t even react. Peter being on the ceiling wasn’t even comment-worthy anymore. He was simply part of the room.
“Kid,” he said, voice rough. “I’m already dying. If you fall on me, I’m haunting you.”
“Not gonna fall.”
The words came from directly above him. Tony could picture Peter flat against the ceiling, joints bent in ways that would hurt anyone else. He knew the posture without looking. He’d memorized it, the same way one would memorize the layout of a familiar room in the dark.
Tony shifted, trying to ease the pressure in his head, and regretted it immediately. His body protested, sending a sharp pain through his skull.
There was a quiet thwip. A bottle of water appeared in his hand, guided gently until his fingers closed around it.
Tony exhaled, eyes still closed. “Show-off.”
Peter didn’t answer. That told Tony more than words ever could.
He cracked one eye open and looked up. Peter was there, positioned exactly how he’d imagined. Upside down, hoodie billowing toward the floor. His curls fell in uneven spirals, and his eyes were fixed on Tony, fully alert, like he was tracking every small movement.
Tony squinted. “You planning on blinking, or is this a full surveillance situation?”
Peter blinked once. Then twice. “I can come down if you want.”
Tony closed his eyes again. “Nah.”
There was a brief pause.
“No?” Peter asked, voice laced with confusion.
“Nope.” Tony tugged the blanket higher. His joints ached. Everything ached. “If you come down, you’ll fuss. You’ll pace. You’ll try to check on me every thirty seconds, and I don’t have the bandwidth for that amount of fretting.”
Another pause. Longer this time. Then: “So I should just… stay here?”
“Yep.” Tony exhaled, long and exhausted. “You’re fine where you are.”
There was a shuffling noise above. Tony cracked an eye open and found the kid crouched directly over his head. He snorted, which turned into a coughing fit, pain flaring behind his eyes. Once it passed, he wiped at his eyes with a tissue and settled further into the couch.
“You look like some kind of anxious chandelier.”
Peter laughed, sending a small smile to Tony’s face despite his discomfort.
“Good placement,” Tony added, eyes closed again. “I can see you. You can see me. Nobody has to move.”
“I just wanted to make sure you’re okay.”
“Well, I’m still alive,” Tony half-heartedly quipped. “That counts for something.”
No reply came. He twisted to reach his phone but only managed to knock it off the side table. Before it could hit the ground, a thin strand of webbing caught it and dropped it onto his chest.
“Thanks,” he mumbled as he scrolled through his email. He expected one or two messages but found a dozen. His motivation to keep up with corporate happenings was gone. There would be plenty of time to sort it out later.
Time stretched. Tony drifted in and out of sleep. His thoughts blurred at the edges. A particularly harsh cough pulled him awake. He propped himself on his elbow to give his lungs more room to function.
As he lay back down, he realized Peter was still above him, brows furrowed into a knot.
“You know,” Tony said, chest tight but not with panic, just with the effort of breathing through congestion and fatigue, “I’m not actually in danger of dying, right? It’s just a cold or the flu or whatever biological hazard is going around the office.”
Peter pressed his lips together and nodded. “I know.”
“And you know you don’t have to keep watch. You can go do your thing, and I’ll just… lay here, feeling like a pile of over-baked mush.”
A small smile tugged at the corners of Peter’s mouth. “Over-baked mush?”
Tony didn’t elaborate. Instead, he opened his eyes and gave the kid a look. He was still hovering. Literally. But he didn’t look wound up. Just… observant.
“I just want to make sure you’re up there because you want to be, not because you’re scared.”
“Not scared.” Peter shook his head, curls swinging. “Just wanna be here if you need anything. That’s all.”
Tony hummed and gestured weakly toward the chair on the other side of the room.
“If you get bored, you can sit over there and read a book or turn on the TV.”
There was a brief pause. “I will.”
“Uh huh.” Tony raised a brow. “And don’t feel bad about it.”
There was no answer. Tony took that as agreement because he was too tired to interpret it any other way.
He rolled onto his side. Sleep pulled harder, aches dulling, the sounds of the tower softening around him. Just before he slipped fully under, he murmured, barely audible, “Gremlin child.”
Peter huffed a laugh but stayed where he was. Quiet. Watchful.
Tony let sleep pull him under, aware that somewhere above, his very stubborn ceiling spider was keeping watch.