Work Text:
The lab hummed around Peter in a familiar symphony of soft whirs, repulsor calibration tones, and the low murmur of Tony Stark muttering to himself somewhere across the room. Blue light washed over everything, reflecting off metal surfaces and half-disassembled tech. Normally, it was Peter’s favorite place to be—safe, focused, purposeful.
Right now, it felt like it was tilting.
He blinked hard, once… twice… trying to clear the fuzz creeping into his head. The thin wires he was threading through the compact housing of one of Tony’s auxiliary drones swam in and out of focus, edges blurring like watercolors left in the rain.
You can do this, he told himself.
Peter leaned closer, tongue peeking out in concentration as he guided the wire through a narrow channel barely wider than a needle. His fingers were steady—at first. He ignored the faint pressure building behind his eyes, chalking it up to too much screen time or not enough sleep.
Minutes passed.
Then his hands started shaking.
Peter frowned, pulling back slightly. The wire slipped from his grasp and sprang back with a faint ping. He sighed under his breath, frustration flaring hotter than it should have.
“Come on,” he muttered.
His palms were suddenly slick. He wiped them on his jeans, leaving faint dark smears of sweat behind, then picked the wire up again. His fingers trembled, but he forced them to behave, inch by inch guiding the wire through the tight space until—finally—it clicked into place.
“Yes,” he breathed, sagging in relief.
That relief lasted about half a second.
His stomach lurched violently, nausea rolling through him in a sickening wave that made his throat tighten. Peter froze, swallowing thickly as his mouth flooded with saliva.
Woah.
He squeezed his eyes shut and breathed slowly through his nose. The lab felt too warm all of a sudden. His T-shirt clung uncomfortably to his back.
Peter reached blindly for the water bottle sitting next to his stool and took a long drink, gulping desperately. The coolness helped—barely.
He glanced over at Tony.
Tony Stark, genius billionaire inventor, was hunched over his workbench, completely absorbed as he fine-tuned Peter’s web shooters per a very enthusiastic request involving faster recharge time and improved tensile strength. His brows were furrowed, dark eyes sharp with focus, tools moving with practiced ease.
Normally, Peter would feel nothing but pride and awe watching him work. Right now, he mostly felt like the room might spin him straight into the floor.
Did I… forget to eat?
The thought hit him with unpleasant clarity.
Peter’s mind scrambled backward through the day, piecing it together hour by hour. He woke up late—alarm never went off. Panic. Clothes grabbed at random. Out the door with his backpack half-zipped.
No breakfast.
He’d run to school because the bus was already gone, lungs burning, legs pumping, refusing to web-swing across Brooklyn without his suit. Classes blurred together in a haze of notes and lectures.
Lunch… barely counted. Flash had been on him, loud and obnoxious as ever, and then the sudden, stomach-dropping realization that he’d forgotten to turn in an assignment. He’d taken maybe two bites of soggy spaghetti. One bite of an apple.
That was it.
It was four in the afternoon.
Peter stared down at his hands as another dizzy wave hit him, even though he was still sitting.
Oh. That’s bad.
Really bad.
His metabolism already burned through calories at an insane rate. Add spider-enhanced everything on top of that? He probably needed ten thousand calories a day just to function properly.
He swallowed again, throat tight.
He needed food. Immediately. And he needed to hope his body would actually let him eat before it decided to shut everything down.
“Mr. Stark?” Peter said, voice weaker than he intended.
“Hm?” Tony replied, not looking up.
“Can we take a break?” Peter asked. He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, fingers coming away damp. “Maybe… eat something?”
“Yeah, yeah—almost done,” Tony said distractedly. “Just gotta finish this calibration.”
Peter nodded even though Tony wasn’t looking. His gaze dropped to his knees. The lab lights smeared into streaks of white and blue, vision pulsing in and out.
His head started pounding, a deep, rhythmic ache that made his teeth feel like they were vibrating.
And then the realization slammed into him—hard and sudden.
I’m going to pass out.
“M-Mr. Stark—” Peter tried again, but the words tangled on his tongue. “Can we… maybe eat now?”
Tony finally looked up.
The tool slipped from his hand and clattered onto the workbench.
Peter was pale—ghostly pale. Sweat soaked through the collar of his T-shirt. He swayed on the stool, barely upright, eyes unfocused and glassy.
“Hey—hey!” Tony was moving before the second word left his mouth.
Peter tipped forward, and Tony caught him just in time. Peter’s head hit Tony’s chest with a dull thud, his breathing ragged and uneven.
“Peter, what’s wrong?” Tony demanded, panic sharp in his voice.
Peter didn’t answer. His eyes stared through nothing, unfocused, lashes fluttering weakly.
“Peter?” Tony cupped his cheek, immediately recoiling at how clammy his skin was. “Hey—nope, don’t you dare.” Still no response from Peter.
This isn’t working, Tony thought grimly.
He hooked an arm around him and hauled him off the stool. Peter was heavier than he looked—dense with muscle, spider-strength packed into every limb. Tony lowered him carefully to the floor, laying him flat.
“Come on, kid,” Tony said, forcing steadiness into his voice. “Stay with me.”
Peter’s body started to shake, subtle at first, then more visibly—fine tremors running through his arms and legs. His hand lifted weakly, fingers curling in the air like he was reaching for something that wasn’t there.
“M’hungry,” Peter slurred.
Tony blinked. “Hungry?”
Oh. Oh hell.
“Okay. Okay, I got you,” Tony said quickly, standing and bolting for the cabinet.
He yanked it open, hands shaking now, grabbing the first thing he saw—protein bars, emergency stash for his own terrible eating habits. Not nearly enough, not even close, but it would have to do for now.
He rushed back and knelt beside Peter, lifting his head carefully and cradling it against his arm.
“Peter,” Tony said firmly. “You gotta eat. Just a little, okay?”
He tore open the wrapper and pressed the bar to Peter’s lips.
Peter’s mouth opened sluggishly. Tony guided the bar in, barely restraining the urge to panic as Peter bit down and began chewing, slow and uncoordinated.
“That’s it,” Tony murmured. “Good. You’re doing great.”
“Mhm,” Peter mumbled, eyes half-lidded.
Tony watched him like a hawk, relief and frustration twisting together in his chest.
“What am I gonna do with you, kid,” Tony sighed, brushing damp curls back from Peter’s forehead.
The lab hummed on around them, unaware that its youngest genius had finally hit his limit.
———————————
Peter made it about halfway through the protein bar before his stomach reminded him—violently—that it was not on board with this plan.
He swallowed hard, throat working as a sour wave rolled up his chest. His body tensed without permission, shoulders hunching as he shifted uncomfortably in Tony’s hold.
“—hnn,” he whimpered softly.
Tony noticed immediately. “Hey,” he said, tightening his grip just a little. “What’s wrong?”
Peter didn’t answer right away. He pressed his lips together, breathing shallow, one hand curling into the fabric of Tony’s shirt like he needed the anchor.
“Let’s get you some real food, okay?” Tony said, trying for calm as he helped Peter sit upright.
Peter’s head lolled forward, curls falling into his eyes. His expression twisted, anxiety flashing across his pale face.
“What is it Peter?” Tony asked, heart already starting to race.
“I… I don’t—” Peter swallowed again, face going green. “My stomach hurts.”
Tony’s stomach dropped straight through the floor.
“…Are you gonna throw up?” he asked carefully.
Peter blinked a few slow, unfocused times, like the answer had to swim through fog to reach him. Then he nodded.
“M’so sorry, Mr. Stark,” he mumbled, mortified even through the dizziness.
“It’s okay, Underoos,” Tony said quickly, even as panic buzzed under his skin. Low-key freaking out. High-key freaking out.
He grabbed the trash can to his right and shoved it gently but decisively into Peter’s lap.
Peter clutched it immediately, knuckles white, jaw tight as he tried desperately to swallow back whatever was clawing its way up.
“Did you eat at all today?” Tony asked, rubbing slow circles between Peter’s shoulder blades.
“D-does… a couple forkfuls—of spaghetti… a-and a bite of an apple… count?” Peter asked weakly, words thick and slurred as another dizzy spell hit.
Tony frowned deeply. “It definitely does not count, kid.”
That was all Peter needed to hear before his body gave up the fight.
He gagged once—twice—and then threw up what little he’d managed to eat. His whole frame shook with it, shoulders jerking, breath hitching as his stomach emptied itself completely.
Tony grimaced but didn’t move away. One hand stayed steady on Peter’s back, grounding him.
“Okay, okay,” Tony murmured. “It’s out. You’re okay.”
So now he’s truly on empty, Tony thought worriedly.
When Peter finally slumped forward, shaking and breathless, Tony lifted the water bottle to his lips.
“Here. Small sips.”
Peter tried—but the second the water hit his stomach, he coughed, choking it back up with a miserable sound.
Tony’s jaw tightened.
“Alright,” he said, keeping his voice even despite the knot in his chest. “That’s fine. We’ll slow it way down.”
He absolutely did not sign up for this. But here he was.
Once Peter’s stomach finally settled into unhappy silence, Tony helped him to his feet. Peter’s legs wobbled immediately, body trembling like he might fold in half at any moment.
“Your truly on empty kid,” Tony says.
“I’m— I’m sorry,” Peter said again, voice cracking. His eyes were glassy, rimmed with tears he stubbornly refused to let fall. Shame, pain—probably both tangled together.
“I’m not mad,” Tony said firmly. “I just want you fed. We’ll do something light so you don’t redecorate the tower.”
He wrapped an arm around Peter’s waist and guided him forward slowly, carefully matching his pace so he wouldn’t collapse.
“Friday,” Tony said as they left the lab, “clean up in here, would you?”
“Of course, boss,” Friday replied smoothly.
The elevator ride was quiet except for Peter’s soft groans. He leaned heavily into Tony, eyes fluttering open and shut, breath uneven.
“Stay with me, Peter,” Tony said, squeezing his side.
They stepped out onto the common room floor, kitchen lights already bright. Tony guided Peter to the couch and helped him sit.
Peter immediately slumped into the cushions, exhausted beyond words.
“I don’t feel good,” he whispered, voice trembling.
“I know, bud,” Tony said gently.
He helped Peter peel off his sweat-soaked T-shirt. His skin was slick and overheated beneath Tony’s hands.
“Friday,” Tony said, “turn the temperature down a few degrees.”
“Done, sir.”
“Alright,” Tony said, easing Peter down flat. “Lay here while I attempt to make soup.”
Peter gave a weak, barely-there nod.
Tony hurried into the kitchen, muttering to Friday for help with every step—how long to heat it, how much salt was too much, whether soup could somehow explode if done wrong.
Back on the couch, Peter stared up at the ceiling. The lights blurred. The hum of the tower faded. His body finally gave in.
“Peter has fainted, sir,” Friday announced bluntly.
“Oh God,” Tony said, abandoning the stove just long enough to glance over—before forcing himself to finish the soup in record time.
He poured it into a bowl, added a few crackers on the side, and rushed back.
Peter was out cold. Pale. Clammy. Mouth slightly open, breaths shallow.
“Hey—hey, Peter,” Tony said, kneeling beside him. He shook him gently at first, then harder. “Come on, kid. Wake up. I made food.”
Peter’s eyes fluttered open.
“Huh…?” he mumbled, dazed.
“You passed out,” Tony said, propping him up with pillows.
“W’h… r’lly?” Peter slurred, blinking slowly.
“Really,” Tony said, exhaling.
He lifted a spoonful of soup to Peter’s mouth. “Eat slowly.”
Peter obeyed. His shoulders relaxed just a fraction as warmth spread through him.
“M-Mr. St’rk,” he said softly, words still clumsy. “It’s ac’tually g’d.”
Tony snorted. “Why are you so surprised?”
“Fr’day h’ped you,” Peter added with a crooked, knowing smile.
Tony shook his head, but he couldn’t stop himself from smiling back. “Yeah, yeah. Just eat.”
Hours later, Peter was curled up under a blanket, color finally returning to his face. The soup stayed down. The dizziness eased. His breathing evened out.
Tony sat nearby, lecturing him about eating properly, carrying snacks, not trying to outsmart his own biology.
Peter nodded through all of it, apologizing at least five more times and promising—sincerely—to do better.
“I’m just glad you’re okay,” Tony said finally, ruffling his curls.
“Thank you, Mr. Stark,” Peter said quietly. “Really.”
Tony huffed. “Don’t scare me like that again, kid.”
Peter smiled—small, tired, but real.