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THE STARK CABIN - A MORNING OF TENSION
Morning at the Stark cabin started off deceptively calm. Soft light filtered in through the windows, catching the steam rising from a fresh cup of coffee. The kitchen smelled like toast and something warm and buttery, and Pepper Potts moved quietly between the counter and stove, her hair pulled into a loose, messy bun, one of Tony’s old shirts hanging off her shoulder.
For a moment—everything felt normal.
Then—
Thump… thump…
Small, uneven footsteps padded down the hallway.
Pepper glanced up and immediately stilled.
Peter Parker stood in the doorway.
He looked… wrong.
Too pale.
Too still.
His curls were flattened on one side, sticking out wildly on the other. His eyes were glassy and unfocused, lids heavy, as if it took effort just to keep them open. His cheeks were flushed, but the rest of him looked washed out—as all the color had drained away.
He sniffled thickly.
Then coughed.
It was deep. Barky. Painful.
Pepper set the spatula down immediately. “Hey… hey, honey.”
Peter didn’t answer right away. He just shuffled forward, slow and dragging, one hand coming up to rub under his nose—only to realize it didn’t help. It was completely clogged.
“I don’t feel good…” he mumbled, voice hoarse and scratchy.
Pepper was already moving toward him.
“I can see that,” she said gently, crouching in front of him. “Come here.”
Peter stepped into her without hesitation—almost collapsing into her arms. The second she touched him, her expression changed.
“Oh, you’re burning up…”
Peter let out another rough cough against her shoulder, then whimpered softly. “I’m cold…”
Pepper pressed her lips to his temple. “Your head feels hot, sweetheart,” she murmured. “You’ve got a fever.”
Meanwhile, Tony Stark stood in the kitchen, phone pressed tight to his ear, pacing in short, sharp lines across the tile, already irritated.
“No, Ross, that’s not how this works,” Tony snapped, dragging a hand through his hair. “You don’t just show up and start rewriting protocols like you own the place—”
An annoying, clipped voice barked back through the speaker that made Tony’s jaw clench harder. “I built the place,” he shot back. “So yeah, I’m gonna push back a little when you start treating it like your personal playground.”
Pepper barely glanced over.
Her focus stayed on Peter.
“Alright,” she said softly. “We’re going upstairs.”
Peter gave a weak, protesting whine. “No…”
“I know,” she said gently, already lifting him. “But you need help cooling down.”
The bathroom filled quickly with steam. Pepper tested the water carefully—cool, but not cold—before setting Peter down on the edge of the tub.
He swayed.
“…I don’t want a bath…” he muttered.
“I know,” she said again, her voice steady and calm. But it’ll help your fever.”
Peter didn’t argue much.
He didn’t have the energy.
But he wasn’t happy about it either.
The second his feet touched the water, he flinched.
“Cold!”
“It’s okay,” Pepper soothed, guiding him gently down. “Just a little.”
Peter immediately started to fuss—small kicks, weak squirming, his hands grabbing at her arms as if to pull himself back out.
“I don’t like it!”
“I know, I know,” she murmured, steadying him. “You’re okay.”
He sniffled, then coughed again—harder this time—his body curling forward with it.
“I can’t breathe…”
Pepper grabbed a cup, scooped water gently, and poured it over his shoulders. Warm steam mixed with the faint scent of eucalyptus.
“Slow breaths,” she encouraged softly.
Peter tried.
Failed.
Coughed again.
Tears started slipping down his cheeks—more from frustration than anything.
“It hurts…”
Pepper’s heart squeezed.
“I know,” she whispered, brushing wet curls off his forehead.
The whole bath was like that—Peter shifting, whining, trying to push her hands away one minute and clinging to her the next. Not fighting hard—just uncomfortable in every possible way.
By the time she drained the tub, he was quiet again.
Too quiet.
Wrapped in a soft towel, then dressed in fresh clothes, Peter barely had the energy to protest anymore. Pepper Potts sat on the couch with a very flushed, very unhappy six-year-old in her arms. Peter Parker was fresh out of a bath—hair still damp, curls clinging to his forehead, skin pink from heat and fever. She’d managed to wrestle him into a fresh set of clothes, but just barely.
Now?
He had had enough.
“No—no—no!” Peter whined hoarsely, twisting in her hold as she tried to bring the thermometer toward his ear.
“Peter, sweetheart, I just need one second—” Pepper tried gently. “Come on, now..”
“No!” He shoved weakly at her hand, voice scratchy and breaking. “I don’t like it!”
“You’re burning up,” she said, trying to keep her tone calm as she bounced him lightly. “We need to check—”
“I don’t care!” he cried, eyes watering.
“I know. I know,” Pepper soothed, pulling him closer as he coughed harshly against her shoulder. The sound was rough, barking, and painful.
He sniffled thickly, nose completely clogged, then whimpered again when it didn’t help.
“I can’t breathe…”
Pepper pressed a kiss to his temple, worry written all over her face. “I know. I’m trying to help you.”
She reached for the small medicine syringe on the table.
“Just a little medicine—”
“No!” Peter cried louder, turning his head away, burying his face into her neck. “It’s yucky!”
Pepper sighed softly, switching tactics. She grabbed the juice instead.
“Okay. How about some juice? Just a sip—”
Peter pushed it away weakly. “No…”
“You need fluids—”
“No!” he cried again, tears spilling now. “No juice!”
Across the room—Tony’s argument hit its peak.
“I don’t care what your clearance level is—!”
He yanked the phone away and slammed it down onto the counter. The sound echoed.
“Easy with the hardware, sir,” J.A.R.V.I.S. chimed smoothly. “Your temper will not help the situation.”
Tony exhaled sharply. “JARVIS. Mute.”
Behind him, Peter let out another broken, miserable cry. Tony turned—And immediately softened. Pepper was still bouncing him gently, Peter clinging to her, shaking with exhaustion and frustration.
“…He’s worse?” Tony asked quietly.
Pepper nodded, brushing damp curls back. “He won’t take medicine, won’t drink anything, won’t let me check his temperature. He’s just… miserable.”
Peter coughed again, then whimpered, voice barely there.
“My throat hurts…”
Tony’s jaw tightened. “…I’ve gotta go to the compound,” he said reluctantly.. “Let me take him.”
Pepper blinked. “You sure?”
“Bruce is usually there this time,” he said quickly. “And I need to show my face to the Secretary of Stupid.”
Peter sniffled weakly, clinging tighter.
Pepper nodded once. “Alright.”
Out in the driveway, the morning air was cool and quiet—the kind that still carried a hint of leftover rain. Peter Parker sagged against her shoulder, all limp weight and warm skin, his cheek pressed into her collarbone, giving a weak, congested cough. The bright orange Audi R8 gleamed in the driveway—far too flashy for how quiet and miserable the moment felt. Pepper opened the back door and gently eased Peter down into his booster seat.
“No…” he whined hoarsely, small hands grabbing weakly at her shirt as she tried to guide his arms through the straps.
“Shh… I know,” she said gently, brushing his curls back as he squirmed.
She worked carefully, buckling each strap over his shoulders, across his waist—making sure nothing pressed too tightly against him. He fussed the whole time, small kicks and tired protests, but there wasn’t any real fight left in him. Pepper tugged the blanket up over his lap, tucking it gently around him. Then she cupped his face in both hands.
“Hey… look at me.”
It took a second, but Peter’s heavy eyes lifted to hers.
“Dr. Banner’s going to help you feel better.”
Peter swallowed, lower lip trembling. “…okay…”
Pepper leaned in and pressed a long, gentle kiss to his warm forehead. She lingered just a second longer—thumb brushing under his eye to catch the tear—before stepping back and closing the door. On the other side of the car, Tony Stark was already in the driver’s seat, watching the whole thing with a tight jaw. Pepper walked around and tapped lightly on his window.
He rolled it down.
“Call me later,” she said.
“I will,” Tony nodded.
She leaned in, pressing a quick kiss to his cheek.
“Drive safe.”
Tony gave her a small, reassuring look. “Always do.”
The engine purred to life, smooth and controlled, as the Audi pulled away from the cabin. Inside, it was quiet—except for Peter.
Soft sniffles.
A congested cough every few breaths.
The faint rustle of his blanket as he shifted.
Tony glanced at him through the rearview mirror. Peter had curled slightly to one side, cheek resting against the seat, Chewbacca tucked tight under his chin. His eyes were half-closed, lashes heavy, but he wasn’t fully asleep—just stuck in that miserable in-between. The Audi swept smoothly into the Avengers compound garage, tires whispering against polished concrete. The space was sleek—almost gallery-like. Tools lined the walls in precise rows, metallic and gleaming under cool overhead lights, like carefully curated art rather than equipment.
Tony parked and cut the engine.
For a second, everything went still.
Then—a cough.
Sharp.
Echoing.
It bounced faintly off the high ceilings.
Tony was out of the car in seconds, opening the back door. Peter stirred, blinking slowly as the world shifted around him. Tony unbuckled the straps carefully, guiding them off Peter’s shoulders. The elevator ride up was quiet—but not silent. Each small sound felt amplified.
A sniffle.
Echo.
A cough.
Echo.
Even Peter’s uneven breathing seemed louder in the enclosed space.
The elevator dinged.
Doors slid open.
AT THE COMPOUND
The compound hit them all at once.
Noise. Movement. Voices layered over voices. Footsteps echoing off metal and glass. The low hum of machinery mixed with sharp, clipped orders being thrown across the floor.
It wasn’t chaos.
But it was close.
And it was too much.
Tony Stark had barely shut the car door before—“Stark.”
Of course.
Secretary Ross was already striding toward him, posture rigid, expression tight, like he’d been waiting specifically to pounce.
Too close. Too fast.
Not even a glance toward the small, sick kid at Tony’s side.
Tony didn’t bother hiding the irritation. “…Ross.”
“We need to discuss your lack of cooperation,” Ross said immediately, voice sharp and formal.
Tony let out a dry breath. “I was on the phone with you ten minutes ago.”
“That conversation was insufficient.”
“That conversation was complete,” Tony shot back. “You just didn’t like the answer.”
Behind them, Peter Parker stood small and unsteady, one hand clutching Chewbacca so tightly the plush was slightly twisted in his grip. His other hand hovered near his face, like he didn’t know whether to rub his nose or cover his ears.
Every cough echoed.
He sniffled hard.
His face crumpled slightly, eyes glassy as he shifted closer to Tony’s leg.
“Your refusal to comply—” Ross continued.
“—is not changing today,” Tony cut in flatly. “Try again tomorrow.”
Ross’s nostrils flared, his patience clearly thinning. “This is not optional, Stark.”
Tony gave him a tight, humorless smile. “Funny. It feels optional.”
Peter coughed.
Sharp.
Barking.
It echoed off the high ceilings.
He flinched at the sound of it, immediately pressing his face into Tony’s side.
Tony’s hand came down instinctively, resting against the back of his head.
Ross didn’t even pause.
“Debriefing room. Ten minutes,” he said, each word clipped. “If you don’t show, there will be consequences.”
Tony exhaled slowly through his nose. “Yeah, I’m trembling.”
Ross held his stare a second longer—then stepped back just enough to make it clear he wasn’t done… just postponing. And that’s when—
“Tony?”
A familiar voice cut cleanly through the tension. Bruce Banner stepped out from the elevator, brows already pulling together as he took in the scene—the tension, the proximity, the very obvious problem.
Tony huffed lightly. “Oh, good. Just the person I wanted to see.”
Bruce glanced between Tony and Ross, then back again. “…Everything okay?”
Tony gestured vaguely at Ross without even looking at him. “Define ‘okay.’”
Bruce’s attention shifted—and landed on Peter.
He stopped.
The flushed cheeks. The glassy eyes. The way he was leaning into Tony, like standing up was optional. The way his breathing hitched between congested sniffles.
“…Hey, bud,” Bruce said softly, lowering himself just slightly to Peter’s level. “What’s going on with you?”
Peter didn’t answer. He just sniffled thickly and pressed closer to Tony, hiding his face.
Tony sighed, running a hand briefly over Peter’s hair. “He’s been sick the past couple of days. Worse this morning.”
Bruce nodded slowly, expression softening immediately. “Yeah… I can see that.”
Peter coughed again—quieter this time, more tired than sharp—and tightened his grip on Chewbacca.
Bruce’s voice dropped a notch. “Hey, it’s okay. You’re alright.”
Before the moment could settle, another voice entered the space.
Another presence.
Alexander Pierce.
Ross straightened instantly, tension spiking even higher.
Tony glanced over, then muttered under his breath, “Oh, great. The party’s complete. Should we invite the rest of the nightmare committee while we’re at it?”
Bruce flicked a look between Ross, Pierce, and Tony—then back to Peter.
That made his decision for him.
“…Hey,” Bruce said gently, shifting his focus fully to Tony. “Why don’t I take him for a bit?” Tony hesitated. Bruce gave a small, reassuring nod. “I’ve got some work in the lab anyway. He can help me out.”
A faint attempt at lightness.
“Assistant duties,” Bruce added.
Peter barely reacted.
Just sniffled again, leaning harder into Tony like gravity was winning.
Tony looked down at him, softening.
“…Hey, kid,” he murmured quietly. “Why don’t you go hang out with Bruce for a little while?”
Peter didn’t move at first. Tony brushed his thumb lightly along the back of his neck.
“Let me deal with… all this,” he added dryly, flicking a glance toward Ross and Pierce. “Trust me, you’re getting the better end of that deal.”
A small pause.
Peter shifted slightly, pulling his face away just enough to glance—barely—toward Bruce.
Then back to Tony.
“…okay…” he whispered hoarsely.
It was barely audible.
But it was enough.
Tony nodded once, gently guiding him forward.
“Alright,” he said. “Go on.”
Bruce stepped in carefully, not rushing, not crowding.
“Hey, bud,” he said softly. “You wanna come with me?”
Peter gave a tiny nod.
And let go.
IN THE LAB
The lab was quieter than the main floor—but not quiet enough. Machines hummed. Screens flickered. Soft beeps and low mechanical whirs filled the air, blending into a constant background noise that never really stopped.
For most people, it was manageable.
For Peter Parker, right now, it was a lot.
At first, he tried.
He really did.
Bruce Banner had set him up beside one of the lower workstations, pulling over a small stool so Peter wouldn’t have to stand. Tools were laid out neatly—nothing sharp, nothing dangerous—just simple things.
“Think you can help me out?” Bruce had asked gently.
Peter nodded. “…yeah…”
His voice was barely there—thin, scratchy, almost swallowed by the congestion clogging his nose and chest. Bruce kept things easy.
“Alright,” he said, holding out his hand. “Can you pass me that one?”
Peter blinked slowly, eyes heavy, then reached for the tool. His fingers fumbled slightly before he managed to pick it up and place it into Bruce’s hand.
“Perfect,” Bruce said quietly.
Peter gave the smallest nod. For a minute or two, it worked.
Bruce would ask.
Peter would hand him something.
Slow. Careful. Trying to stay focused.
But it didn’t last.
Every few seconds—a thick sniffle.
He rubbed at his nose with the back of his hand, frustrated, then tried to sniff again. He blinked hard, eyes watering from the coughing and the pressure in his head.
Bruce crouched slightly, bringing himself closer. “You can sit if you need to.”
He sank to the floor, legs folding under him awkwardly, back pressing against the side of the workstation. For a second, he just sat there.
Small.
Still.
Then his face crumpled.
And he started crying.
Not loud.
Not dramatic.
Just quiet, shaky breaths that turned into soft, defeated tears. The kind that came from being too tired to fight it anymore.
Bruce was beside him immediately. “Hey—hey,” he said softly, dropping to one knee. “What happened?”
Peter shook his head, scrubbing at his face with his sleeve. “I don’t feel good…” he whispered.
His voice cracked on the last word. The sound echoed slightly off the lab walls, and it made him flinch at his own voice. He curled in on himself, instinctively reaching for Bruce, pressing his face into Bruce’s shoulder like he was trying to hide from the feeling.
Bruce didn’t hesitate.
He wrapped an arm around him, pulling him in close, one hand coming up to rest on the back of his head. Peter clung weakly, small fingers gripping the fabric of Bruce’s shirt as another cough shook through him. Bruce rubbed slow, steady circles along his back.
“You’re okay,” he said quietly.
Peter cried. “…hurts…”
“I know,” Bruce said softly. “Being sick is the worst.”
Peter nodded against his shoulder, tears still slipping down, mixing with the heat of his fever. “…everything hurts…”
Bruce exhaled slowly, tightening his hold just a little. “Alright,” he said gently. “That’s enough work for today.”
Peter didn’t argue.
Didn’t move.
Bruce shifted carefully, sliding one arm under Peter’s legs and the other around his back. “Let’s get you checked out,” he said softly as he lifted him.
Peter let out a small, tired whimper—but didn’t resist.
THE MEDBAY
Bruce barely made it through the medbay doors before things unraveled.
“Okay, up we go,” Bruce said as he carefully began to set Peter on the exam table.
Peter Parker had been quiet in his arms on the walk over—small, clingy, worn out—but the second Bruce stepped into the exam room and shifted his weight to set him down—Peter panicked.
“No—no—no!” he cried, voice cracking as he clutched tighter, arms locking around Bruce Banner’s neck.
His legs kicked weakly, feet bumping against Bruce’s sides as he tried to keep himself from being put down.
“I don’t want to—!” he choked, pressing his hot face into Bruce’s shoulder.
Bruce immediately stopped the motion.
“Hey—okay, okay,” he soothed, adjusting his hold so Peter felt secure again. “We’re not doing anything yet. You’re okay.”
Peter shook his head against him, breath hitching, fingers gripping tighter in the fabric of Bruce’s shirt.
“Alright,” Bruce said calmly.
He glanced around the room for a second, then reached over with one hand and tapped the control panel on the wall. A soft click. The large screen mounted across from the exam bed flickered to life. And, as if the universe decided to throw them a bone, Blaster fire lit up the screen. The familiar hum of a lightsaber followed.
Star Wars.
Bruce blinked once.
“…Well,” he murmured. “That’s lucky.”
In his arms, Peter stilled—just a little.
A tiny shift.
Then, slowly, he lifted his head from Bruce’s shoulder. Red-rimmed, glassy eyes peeked upward at the screen.
He sniffled.
“…Star Wars…” he croaked softly.
Bruce smiled faintly, one hand coming up to gently pat his back in a slow, steady rhythm.
“Yeah,” he said. “Looks like it.”
Peter didn’t fight anymore.
Didn’t cry.
He just watched.
Still clinging—but quieter now.
Bruce took a few steps forward and sat down carefully on the cushioned exam bed, keeping Peter settled in his lap. The kid leaned into him, eyes locked on the screen, breathing still uneven but calmer—every now and then a small sniffle, a soft cough, but no more panicked struggling.
Bruce kept that same rhythm going on his back.
Slow.
Grounding.
Consistent.
“You can stay right here,” Bruce murmured. “We’ll just watch for a minute.”
Peter nodded faintly, barely paying attention to anything but the lightsabers flashing across the screen.
Another minute passed.
Then another.
The tension slowly melted out of his small frame.
His grip loosened just slightly—not letting go, just… not clinging as hard.
That was Bruce’s window.
Carefully—very carefully—he shifted his hold.
Still patting his back.
Still letting him watch.
He eased Peter just a few inches away from him and gently guided him down onto the exam bed beside him.
Peter didn’t protest.
Didn’t even look away from the screen.
Bruce kept one arm loosely around him for a moment, making sure he stayed settled.
“Doing okay?” he asked softly.
A small nod.
“…yeah…”
Bruce smiled to himself.
“Alright,” he said quietly. “Let’s take a quick look, yeah?”
Peter sniffled, eyes still glued to the TV.
“…okay…”
And just like that—distracted, calmer, and finally not fighting—Bruce began the exam.
“Now, let’s see what ‘s making you feel so bad.”
Every inhale sounded wrong.
Too shallow. Too forced.
“I can’t…” Peter sniffled hard, eyes filling again. “…breathe…”
Bruce stepped closer, voice dropping even softer. “Okay. We’re gonna fix that.” He reached for the thermometer first. “Quick temp check, alright?”
Peter didn’t argue—too tired, too uncomfortable. He opened his mouth just enough. Bruce slid the thermometer in gently.
“Close your lips,” he coached. “There you go.”
Peter sat there, breathing through his nose—bad idea.
He sniffled.
Failed.
Then made a frustrated little noise around the thermometer.
Bruce kept it light. “Almost there.”
The beep came fast.
Bruce glanced at it and removed it quickly.
“…103,” Bruce said quietly.
Peter whimpered.
“Yeah,” Bruce murmured. “That explains a lot. Can you open your mouth one more time for me, buddy?” Bruce asked gently.
Peter hesitated. “No..”
Bruce didn’t push.
Peter shook his head, eyes already glassy again, but then sighed with a frustrated groan.
“Ugh, fine.”
Peter slowly opened up. Bruce’s expression softened. He angled the light, peering into Peter’s mouth.
“…Yeah,” he murmured. “That’s pretty red. That can’t feel good.”
Peter shut his mouth immediately, wincing.
“It hurts…”
“I know,” Bruce said softly.
Bruce tilted Peter’s chin up gently.
“Let me see your nose.”
Peter pulled back weakly.
“No…”
“It’s alright. Just looking,” Bruce reassured.
He checked quickly—swollen, inflamed.
“…Okay,” Bruce murmured. “No wonder you can’t breathe,” he said softly.
Peter’s chest hitched again, panic creeping in. “I can’t breathe well…”
Bruce immediately rested a steady hand on his back.
“Hey. Look at me.”
Peter blinked at him.
“Slow breath,” Bruce said, demonstrating. “In… and out.”
Peter tried. It came out shaky—but it was something.
“There you go,” Bruce encouraged. “Last thing,” Bruce said gently.
Peter didn’t respond—just sat there, miserable. Bruce picked up the otoscope.
“Quick peek in your ears.”
The second the light hit, Peter flinched hard.
“OW—!”
Bruce froze. “…Okay.”
He checked the other ear. Same reaction. Peter let out a louder, sharper cry this time, hands coming up instinctively to cover his ears.
“It hurts! Make it stop!” Peter cried.
Bruce immediately lowered the tool.
“…Alright. Got it.” He didn’t need to check again. “Both ears are really inflamed,” Bruce said gently. “That’s probably hurting a lot.”
Peter nodded miserably, hands hovering near his ears. Then, Bruce warmed his stethoscope between his hands first. Peter gave a weak, tired huff. When the metal touched his chest, he flinched slightly.
“Deep breath,” Bruce encouraged.
Peter tried. It turned into a cough halfway through. Bruce listened carefully to the front, then the back.
“…A little irritated,” he said. “But you’re moving air, okay.”
Peter sniffled again. “My nose hurts…”
As Bruce moved to adjust Peter’s position, his hand brushed lightly along Peter’s bare foot. Peter jerked.
“…hey!” he squeaked faintly.
Bruce paused.
Raised an eyebrow.
“…Was that a tickle?”
Peter blinked at him, a tiny flicker of something not-miserable crossing his face.
“…no…”
Bruce, very gently, dragged a fingertip under his toes. Peter squeaked—actually squeaked—and pulled his foot back.
“That tickles!” he protested weakly.
Bruce smiled faintly.
“Good to know.”
He didn’t push it—just enough to break the tension. Just enough to remind Peter that not everything felt awful. Bruce was just about to step away when Peter shifted slightly, pressing a hand to his stomach.
“…my tummy hurts,” he mumbled.
“Yeah,” Bruce said. “You’re a little dehydrated. When you don’t drink enough, your stomach can start to feel like that.”
Peter didn’t look thrilled about that explanation.
“I have just the thing for that.”
Bruce stepped over to the small freezer drawer built into the medbay counter and pulled something out.
A brightly-colored electrolyte popsicle.
Peter blinked at it.
“…what’s that?”
“Medicine,” Bruce said lightly. “The good kind.”
Peter looked suspicious—then took it.
A small lick.
Pause.
Then a bigger one.
“…oh.”
Bruce chuckled quietly. “Yeah.”
Peter kept going—slow, but interested. He shifted onto his side, clutching his Wookiee with one arm, the popsicle stick still loosely in his fingers. But his expression still showed discomfort, even though the popsicle seemed to be helping a lot. Bruce stepped away to fill a soft, hot water bottle and wrapped it in a thin cloth, then brought it over. Still, Peter was lying on the cushioned recliner, just watching Star Wars on the oversized TV screen in an exam room. Bruce returned with the warm bottle in order to relieve the kids' discomfort.
“Lift your arm for me for a second.”
Peter did, slow and sleepy.
Bruce gently placed the warm bottle against his stomach.
Peter flinched—then melted.
“…warm…”
“Helps the muscles relax,” Bruce explained quietly.
Peter sat curled on the exam recliner, Wookie tucked securely beneath one arm, the electrolyte popsicle slowly disappearing in his other hand. His eyelids drooped lower after every bite.
“You getting sleepy?” Bruce asked quietly.
Peter gave the tiniest nod.
“…Mhm.”
His head dipped forward. Then jerked back up. Another lick of the popsicle. Another blink. His chin slowly sank toward his chest again before he startled awake with a tiny gasp.
Bruce smiled to himself.
“I think the medicine’s winning.”
Peter frowned sleepily.
“…Not tired.”
His words were followed immediately by another exaggerated head bob that nearly made him fold in half. Bruce chuckled under his breath.
“Uh-huh.”
Peter blinked once. Twice. His head tipped sideways this time, then snapped upright again.
“You keep doing that,” Bruce said with a grin, “you’re going to give yourself whiplash.”
Peter let out the faintest sleepy huff that might have been a laugh.
“…My head’s funny.”
“I noticed.”
Another minute passed. The popsicle slowly slipped lower in Peter’s fingers.
Bruce gently took it before it could fall onto the blanket. “I think you’ve had enough.”
Peter didn’t even protest. He was fighting to stay awake now. His eyes opened only halfway before drifting closed again.
Bruce re-adjusted the warm compress against Peter’s stomach. “There.”
Peter instinctively curled around the warmth. Bruce pulled a soft fleece blanket from the cabinet and draped it carefully over Peter’s shoulders.
The little boy sighed.
Bruce smoothed one damp curl away from Peter’s forehead before rubbing slow circles between his shoulder blades.
“Shh…”
Peter’s breathing hitched around another congested sniffle. Bruce continued the same slow rhythm.
“You’re okay.”
Another gentle stroke.
“Just rest.”
Peter’s fingers tightened weakly around Wookie as his head finally settled against the pillow.
Bruce looked toward the ceiling.
“JARVIS.”
“Yes, Dr. Banner?”
“Can we make the room a little more relaxing?”
“Certainly.”
The overhead lights faded until only a soft amber glow remained. A heartbeat later, tiny stars shimmered to life across the ceiling. Constellations slowly drifted overhead, moving almost imperceptibly as a gentle instrumental lullaby filled the room.
Peter’s sleepy eyes opened just enough to notice. “…Stars…”
Bruce smiled. “Pretty nice, huh?”
“…Mhm…”
His eyelids fluttered closed again. Bruce continued stroking his back. “Shhh…”
Peter’s breathing gradually settled into a slow, even rhythm. One final sleepy sigh escaped him.
Then he was asleep.
Completely.
Bruce stayed still for another minute, making sure he didn’t wake. Only then did he quietly move to the chair beside the bed. He picked up his tablet and began completing Peter’s chart, occasionally glancing over to make sure the little boy remained comfortable beneath the blanket.
Several minutes later, the automatic doors slid open. Tony stepped quietly into the room.
Bruce immediately raised one finger to his lips.
Tony’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Out?”
Bruce nodded. “Finally.”
Tony smiled as he looked at Peter sleeping beneath the constellation-lit ceiling. “…Poor Buddy.”
Without disturbing him, Bruce reached over and gently slipped a pulse oximeter onto Peter’s finger. The monitor glowed softly.
Oxygen saturation looked good.
Next came his wrist, where Bruce counted his pulse against the timer on his tablet.
Strong.
Steady.
He rested the back of his hand lightly against Peter’s forehead.
Still warm. But cooler than before.
Finally, Bruce placed the diaphragm of his stethoscope carefully against Peter’s back beneath the blanket. Peter stirred only enough to snuggle closer to Wookie.
Never waking.
Bruce listened to the slow rhythm of his heartbeat, then the gentle rise and fall of his breathing.
“Much better,” he whispered.
Tony let out the breath he’d been holding. Bruce smiled reassuringly.
“The fever’s already starting to come down.”
Tony’s shoulders relaxed for the first time all morning.
“I think,” Bruce said softly, glancing back at the sleeping child beneath the stars, “the best medicine he’s getting right now is exactly this.”
Tony looked up at the softly glowing constellations before back at Peter.
“…Yeah, so do I.”
.