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Peter Parker has been in the medbay for two full days now. Which… well, saying that out loud is rather concerning. He did wake briefly after surgery — eyes open, words slurred, stubborn as ever — but it hadn’t held. His vitals dipped. His blood pressure wavered. And Helen made the call to sedate him again before his body could do something irreversible.
It’s unlike the boy to stay down this long. Even when injured, he usually fights his way back to consciousness with irritating enthusiasm, at the very least grumpy about his temporary residence in medbay room number four — essentially his personal suite at this point. Peter comes in often enough that he has a favorite bed. Sometimes it’s nothing more than a stab wound that needs stitching. Sometimes it’s several. And on the rare occasion — it’s worse.
She hates when it’s worse. Not just for the obvious reasons, but because it turns her stomach in a way she despises. Turns it in a way that reminds her Peter Parker is still just a child behind the mask, no matter how enhanced his healing may be. She never intended for “removing bullets from a teenager” to become a line item in her career more than once. She’s done it five times now. This one was arguably the worst.
She sighs, looking through the narrow window in the door to room four. Tony is in the same chair he was in last night when Peter was supposed to wake up. The first full day of Peter remaining unconscious, even though she had told them — optimistically and confidently — that he would be awake within a couple of hours. Helen is rarely wrong with these things. Rarely. There is no physiological reason for him to still be under. No internal bleeding. No swelling that wasn’t managed. No neurological anomaly.
No reason at all.
She turns back to the nurses’ station, reaching for the StarkPad. “Any word on Parker?” she asks, directing it at Jodie, the resident on tonight — her favorite of the two employed here, though she would never admit that aloud.
“No change,” Jodie replies, swiveling slowly in her chair. “I’ve been reviewing the surgery footage through FRIDAY’s recordings and cross-referencing the scans. I’m… honestly at a loss. You did a model job.”
Cho exhales through her nose, long and controlled, before resting her forehead briefly against the cool edge of the counter. “I do not want to go in there right now.”
Going in Peter's room means dealing with Stark. And this version of Stark in particular is not her preference.
Snarky Stark is predictable. Snarky Stark makes cutting comments and rapid fire jokes and tries to test her footing in the room. That version she can handle in her sleep. She grew up in boarding schools and medical programs filled with men who wielded ego just like they did their scalpels. Tony’s wit does not reach her. It does not unsettle her. It barely registers.
Scared Stark, however, is different.
Scared Stark does not have limits. He hovers. He paces. He demands answers she has already given. He asks the same question in seven different ways as if phrasing might alter outcome. That version only exists for one person in her experience — Peter Parker. It waits behind that door now. Angry because he cannot fix this. Frightened because the one problem he cannot engineer his way out of is the one that matters most.
The great Tony Stark, who insists no problem is unsolvable, sitting powerless beside a hospital bed.
It is, admittedly, the most fascinating development she has witnessed in her years working for him and the Avengers. And that is saying something. When you are the head physician for one of the richest men in the world and the team tasked with defending the planet, you think you have seen every permutation of human behavior under pressure. Somehow, watching Peter Parker worm his way into Tony Stark’s guarded center takes over alien invasions and many near death experiences.
“Wish me luck,” she says flatly, pushing away from the counter.
“Good luck!” Jodie calls after her, far too cheerful for the tension sitting heavy in medbay room four.
Helen straightens her coat, composes her expression, and reaches for the door.
Schooling her features, she pushes into the room. “Stark.”
Tony blinks and shoots upright, like he’s been yanked back into his body. He must’ve been somewhere far away. “Cho — you said he’d be awake last night.” His tone is already edging toward accusation.
She doesn’t take it personally. She can’t. She knows he isn’t mad at her. He’s mad at the situation. Mad at the universe. Mad at biology for not adhering to his timeline.
“And I thought I told you to go get some rest. Or do some work. Sitting vigil is not medically productive,” she replies evenly, leveling him with her own tone as she dispenses sanitizer into her palms. It is perhaps not wise to prod a frightened man who could fund several hospitals without blinking. But she has learned that asserting herself is sometimes the only way to steady him when he starts to tilt.
“I worked all day from right here,” he shoots back immediately. “You know who didn’t do anything all day? You. Because he’s still exactly the same as he was this morning. And last night.”
She is painfully aware of that fact. She does not need to be reminded.
“Sometimes the body needs additional time,” she says, moving to Peter’s bedside and checking the monitors. “His healing factor is progressing at baseline. His vitals are stable. His scans are clean. There is no physiological indicator that something is wrong. He is simply… taking longer.”
She adjusts the IV line carefully, taking in the still presence of the boy. “When it is time to worry, I will let you know.”
Her tone is dismissive, clinical. It has to be. Because the truth is she is a little worried. Not medically — medically, the data supports her. But personally. She has grown to like Peter Parker. Most people do.
If you are not immediately enamored, it happens quickly enough. She was not in the first category. His over-eager, puppy-like curiosity had initially tested her patience. The questions. The chatter. The way he narrates what she is doing as though she is hosting a masterclass just for him. It is… a lot. Particularly when she would prefer her patients under anesthesia and quiet.
But he listens and comes back with research he’s done on his own. He asks better questions the next time. He absorbs. There is a sharpness there that mirrors Tony’s, but without the ego. Watching him learn is — against her better judgment — gratifying.
“I pay you hundreds of thousands of dollars a year,” Tony’s voice spikes, frustration bleeding through now, “and that’s the best answer you’ve got?”
“If you would prefer to invest that salary elsewhere, you are welcome to,” she replies without looking at him, her tone level as she checks the drainage output.
He huffs, incredulous.
“But there is no one better than me,” she continues calmly. “So if you would like to place your son’s life in the hands of someone less qualified, that is your prerogative. You should, however, understand that if I were any other doctor, the last two days might have been spent planning a funeral instead of waiting for him to wake.”
It is sharp. Intentionally so. When Tony spirals, softness does not cut through it. Precision does.
He goes quiet. The fight drains as quickly as it flared. He drops back into the chair beside Peter’s bed and scrubs a hand over his face.
“I know,” he mutters after a beat. “I know. I just…” His voice falters, something close to a laugh but not quite. “I miss the constant talking. It’s too quiet.”
Helen hums in agreement, allowing herself a brief glance over her shoulder. He looks deflated. Ego abandoned somewhere on the tile floor beneath Peter’s bed. Who would have thought a fifteen year old enhanced child would be the undoing of Tony Stark?
There is the faintest twitch beneath Peter’s eyelids. Subtle. Barely perceptible. Not enough to announce consciousness, but enough to tell her that this will not last much longer.
She permits herself the smallest smile before smoothing her expression back into neutrality as she turns toward Tony again.
“He will wake up, Stark. You have my word.”
He gives her a resigned nod. It is all she needs for now.
Fear is an unpredictable thing. It reshapes people without asking permission. It narrows vision, warps logic, turns brilliant minds into frantic ones. She has seen it in parents before — in sterile hospital rooms nowhere near a billionaire’s tower. Tony is not unique in that way.
He is, perhaps, a bit more dramatic.
She has never loved anyone the way Tony loves Peter. She does not intend to have children. But she has treated enough of them to recognize the look in a parent’s eyes when the world proves it can still take something from them. The difference here is that this child chooses the danger. Runs toward it. With a self-sacrificing streak that rivals the man sitting at his bedside.
May Parker. Tony Stark. Pepper Potts. They will never be able to make him entirely safe. They can only mitigate the damage.
So yes — she gives Tony a little grace. All things considered, he has earned that much.
It’s only a few hours later, nearing nine o’clock, when FRIDAY pings her personal device in the quarters she uses on nights like this. Peter Parker is awake and responsive. The alert is concise, efficient — just the way she prefers it. With a system as advanced as FRIDAY, she knows there’s no need to sprint. If there were instability, a drop in vitals, confusion, anything of consequence, she would already be halfway down the hall by force of alarms.
Tony is likely there already — knowing him he never left. He's undoubtedly smothering the boy, and she intends to give them a moment. At this hour, Pepper probably is there too. May Parker is harder to predict, dependent on whatever shift she’s managed to juggle around Peter’s habit of nearly dying. Either way, the boy is not alone. And if he needed her immediate intervention, FRIDAY would escalate.
So she gives it twenty minutes.
Enough time to change into fresh scrubs, to drag a brush through her hair, to allow the worry she didn’t admit aloud that she was carrying to settle. By the time she heads back toward medbay room four, she is composed.
Jodie looks noticeably brighter at the nurses’ station.
“May just left — early morning shift,” she says. “But Miss Potts and Mr. Stark are in there.”
Helen nods once before Jodie turns back to whatever low-voiced conversation she’s having with the night nurse.
She pauses outside the door for a moment, watching through the small window.
This is her preferred version of Stark.
Not snarky.
Not spiraling.
He’s arranged himself awkwardly in the oversized hospital bed beside Peter, long limbs folded into space not designed for him, one arm hooked loosely around the boy’s shoulders. Peter is animated, hands moving as he talks, clearly mid-retelling of whatever incident landed him there this time. Pepper sits in the chair pulled close to the bed, one hand resting over the blanket at Peter’s leg, listening intently to the boy.
“— and I know you said to call you! And I really tried, Da - Mr. Stark… really, I called as soon as I saw the gu—”
Helen pushes the door open just in time to hear Tony cut in gently.
“I know you did, Pete. I watched the footage from the baby monitor protocol. I’m just glad you’re okay, kiddo.”
Peter curls instinctively toward him, and Tony tightens his hold instinctively.
Helen finds herself smiling before she can stop it. She clears her throat softly. “Sorry to interrupt the family bonding. I just need to check Peter over quickly.”
Tony exhales dramatically before peeling himself off the bed, joints cracking in protest.
A loud groan follows. “I don’t know when you conned me into doing that, kid, but every time my bones file a formal complaint,” he mutters.
“Three visits ago,” Helen supplies dryly as she sidesteps him and moves to Peter’s bedside.
“Huh?” Tony blinks.
“Six weeks ago,” she clarifies, already shining a penlight into Peter’s pupils. “Today makes the fourth time.”
Peter doesn’t even wait for instructions anymore. He follows the light automatically and knows next she'll check his breathing.
“Oh,” Peter and Tony say in unison.
She doesn’t have to look at Pepper to know she’s smiling. Pepper, perhaps more than anyone, has had a front row seat to the transformation. What began as mentorship, then reluctant guardianship, has settled into something far more permanent. Tony may not use the word father. But he occupies the space with startling devotion.
“Wait — fourth visit in six weeks?” Tony shrills suddenly, catching up.
This time Helen does allow herself a small grin.
“You’re shaving years off my life, Parker,” Tony grumbles.
“Now you know how I feel,” Pepper interjects smoothly. “Except I get it from both of you.”
“Hey,” Peter protests, “you guys keep me around knowing the risks.”
“And we wouldn’t have it any other way, kid,” Tony says, the sincerity unmistakable.
Helen finishes checking sutures, monitors, responsiveness. Everything is tracking precisely as she expected now that he’s awake.
“Well,” she says, straightening, “you look stable. One more night for observation. If everything holds, you’re clear to go tomorrow.”
Peter beams. “Thanks, Dr. Cho. You’re the best.”
She flicks her gaze to Tony. “See? Even your child has discernment.”
Tony rolls his eyes.
She looks back at Peter. “Let’s attempt to make it at least two weeks before the next incident.”
He nods solemnly, then immediately ruins it with a grin. He holds up his fist.
She bumps it once, firm and brief.
Then she steps back toward the door, leaving the three of them to go back to their familiar banter — satisfied that for tonight, at least, medbay room four is no longer quiet.