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Peter's great at being injured. The best, really! He's gotten so much practice at this point. He once took an exam while bleeding from his stomach and he still got an A. He's been hit by a bullet train and literally walked it off. He stubbed his toe in front of a group of fourth graders and didn't swear, even a little bit. Add to that a childhood of sick days and hospital visits and the general side effects of being as energetic and clumsy as he was fragile, well…Peter has spent more of his life unwell than not.
The point is: Peter knows what he can handle. And he can handle this.
This being: another night forced to bed rest because he sort of, slightly, maybe got one of his fingers the littlest, tiniest bit totally cut off. Who needs bed rest over a finger? It's ridiculous! It's stupid! It's completely unwarranted.
Okay, maybe it's a little bit warranted. And maybe he sort of snuck up to the lab and kind of tried to keep working on his latest project (a roomba that cleans up everything besides glitter) and maybe he slightly re-unattached his finger. For the second time. That hour.
But regardless! Having an air raid siren go off the second he pushes away his blankets seems excessive. As do the flashing red lights. As does F.R.I.D.A.Y. immediately alerting whoever is closest. In this case, Tony himself, seemingly woken from the nap Pepper strong armed him in to. It's only slightly better than if it was May. Luckily, Pepper—god bless that woman—convinced May to join her for lunch and take a break from the hospital chair she's spent twelve too many nights camped out in.
"What the hell do you think your doing?" Tony half-shouts, half-yawns as he barges through the door. Or, at least, that's what Peter thinks he says. With the deafening alarm and the hands pressed tightly to his ear (or as tight as his, honest-to-god giant finger cast, hand wrap, and sling will allow) it sounds more like "Wha—th—ell—do—thi—yo—doi—?".
Peter chooses the swift and eloquent response of: "WHAT?!"
Tony waves his hands at the ceiling, blessedly ending the assault on both their senses. The almost-but-not-quite-silence is a blessing, though the shrill beep of the heart monitor burns at his wounded hearing. (A heart monitor because of an injured finger? I mean, c'mon!)
"So?" Tony asks, clearly already deciding to be annoyed at whatever Peter says. Which means, Peter gets a free pass at being annoying…
"Oh! I said: WHAT?!"
Peter takes the twitch in Tony's eyebrow as a personal victory. And the deep sigh that follows is his consolation prize.
"Wanna try that again, kid?"
"Oh, sure."
Peter takes a large breath, ready to yell again only for Tony to cut him off – which, rude.
"The answer, dumbo, not the yell."
Peter's responding glare is only 70% a joke. "You know, I can tell when you're calling me a cartoon elephant and when you're just insulting me."
"Insulting you is infant abuse."
"No, it's not. Because nothing is. Because that's not a thing."
Peter has a tendency to talk with his arms as much as his mouth, and in doing so, aggressively grazes (read: whacks) his hand on the bed's railing. He manages to conceal his wince enough that hopefully Tony didn't notice.
"And even if it was," he continues quickly, trying to distract the man in case he notices the way Peter's breathing is picking up from the renewed pain, "just because you call me one, doesn't actually make me a baby."
"When have I ever called you a—"
"Uh! You call me Spider-baby at least four times a week. You call me Bambino whenever you're trying to get me to fall asleep. And I'm pretty sure you straight up called me baby when you were comforting me through…through…that."
"I hate that I know you're talking about the IV and not the literal body part you lost."
The comment prompts Tony to check on said IV line, which prompts Peter to try and edge out of bed while his back's turned. If he can just get to the elevator…
"So you're saying it's not abuse if it's a baby?" Tony continues, as if the conversation hadn't gotten derailed.
"I'm saying there's no difference between child abuse and infant abuse. They're both called the same thing."
"You sound pretty sure of yourself there," Tony says, corralling Peter back under the covers.
"Oh my god," Peter groans, "Fri, can you tell the idiot that made you that—"
"Ah ah ah, if you're so confident, defend it yourself. Don't use my AI to back you up, that's just cheating."
Tony fluffs Peter's overly plush pillows, pushing softly against his shoulders until he lies back down.
"Backing up your argument isn't cheating, it's—it's—huh." He gazes up at Tony, only now noticing he's lying down. "Now that is cheating."
Tony's eyes smile in response. "I have no idea what you're talking about."
Peter keeps grumbling as the increased morphine floods his system, he continues to grumble as Tony brushes his hand through his hair, and he gives a last bout of grumbles as Tony mutters: "Sleep now, Bambino. They'll be time to argue later."