Chapter Text
Winter sucked in New York City.
Sure, the festive spirit is always nice, the seasonal treats and foods were amazing, but the cold was nowhere in the formula for a happy and healthy Spider. His weekly flowers died twice as fast, if he could even make it to May before the baby's breath froze over and crumbled away.
This cold-front had been strikingly miserable so far. Spiders are cold-blooded, meaning Peter, now genetically-mostly-man-but-part-spider got the brunt end of poor temperature regulation.
Bundled in whatever clothes he could manage on his body, Peter stepped out of the subway station, coming home from visiting Aunt May. The frosty wind howled through the echoing walls of the subway, and only got worse after actually making it out from the stairs leading into the station. He tucked his hands into his hoodie and marched on, doing best to ignore the subtle constant drizzle of rain. The cold tickled his nose, bit at his cheeks, froze the damp ends of his hair, and seeped through the fibers of his clothes, nestling into his bones. His boots splashed through puddles as a crossed a side street, not bothering to look up before marching on.
He just had to make it home, or what he called home. It wouldn't be much warmer, and he knows that there's no food besides a half empty jar of protein powder that had clumped up a week ago from the moisture hanging in the air.
Peter barely dodged getting shoulder checked by a slow moving gaggle of tourists standing in the middle of the sidewalk. He meant to say something, but his voice clung awkwardly, so instead he stuck to clearing his throat and pressing on. Funny— he didn't remember his throat feeling scratchy.
Warmth ghosted his shoulder as a coffee-shop door opened beside him. His feet stumbled, lured to stroll inside and savor the comforting smells of fresh bread and sweets. It nearly worked too— Peter had half the mind to treat himself to their smallest cup of coffee and wait until the purple hue left the tips of his fingers. But his wallet was already stretched thin, and he had no extra cash left to leave for the baristas. Maybe next time.
Eventually, Peter was stomping up the steps to his floor. The elevator was already shutting by the time he rushed inside, and he was beyond ready to wipe away at his leaking nose, drink away the itch in his throat, then find somewhere not covered in equipment to collapse.
The doorframe creaked as he made it inside his apartment, pulling off his jacket and hoodie before kicking off his wet boots. Despite the draft, he felt sweat bead on his forehead, wiping it away with his sleeve and choosing to ignore it for the time being.
Peter grabbed one of the few cups he had and filled it to the brim with water from his sink. He downed it all in one much-needed gulp, only to regret it moments later when a drop fell down the wrong pipe and sent him into a coughing fit. His eyes burned from the fit, his nose still running inexplicably, and a cool draft wracked him through the bones. If he was lucky, he could pass out for an hour or two before he got a call for Spider-man.
Pushing everything off his weathered couch, Peter threw himself into the stale-smelling cushions and pulled the hanging throw blanket over himself. He cradled his phone in his hands, mindlessly bouncing back between Instagram, his email, and TikTok before the burn in his eyes was past its boiling point. He lightly set the phone down on the floor beside before burrowing himself in the cushions and blanket, letting the growing headache guide him into restless sleep.
A blaring alarm startled him awake, causing him to almost faceplant onto the floor. Peter sat up too fast, feeling his head sway about before reaching over to his phone, nursing his already blooming headache by massaging his temple. His ring finger accidentally pressed the power button, blinding him with his screen light. His eyes couldn't even make out any numbers of letters as he swiped the green icon to the side.
"Spider-man? I've been trying to call—"
"Captain DeWolff," Peter's voice choked out, squawking rather than talking. He clamped his eyes shut, shaking away the congestion building up in his throat, "Sorry-"
"Nevermind. You sound awful. Stay home." The voice ordered from beyond the screen, ignoring any of the nonsensical sputtering coming from his lips.
"Captain— What do you need? I can—"
"No, you can't. Don't check the scanner." DeWolff sighed, "We'll manage, Spider-man. We always do."
"B-But—"
"No. If I see red and blue spandex today, I'll have them put an APB out for your arrest. We all have sick days."
"I'm not sick, Captain."
"Then you're in denial. Stay. Home. I'll fill you in when you're feeling better. Gotta go, Spider-man. Get well soon." DeWolff hung up, leaving no room for arguing.
Peter groaned, pulling his knees to his chest and resting his head, not needing to see how much of a mess he was. Maybe the Captain was right. They were capable enough to handle themselves for one day without Spider-man, right? Especially if every move he made caused his head to throb and ache at the moment. Just one day.
Frigid air felt like it was moving through him, with no resolution in sight. The blanket draped around him did nothing, even the cloth cushions felt cold to touch. A drip oozed out his nose, his vision pulsed in rhythm with his heartbeat, he felt like shit.
And yet, his phone buzzed again.
He risked turning on his screen again, holding it further away to avoid being blinded again.
Robbery turned hostage situation. It was a bodega he went to occasionally, if he was in that area. Really nice people, had a lot of Spider-Man merch. Only 8 minutes away.
Peter bet he could make it 6 if he really locked in.
The suit hung across the room, and Peter couldn't decide if it felt like it was calling to him, or taunting his current state. People work with colds all the time, why was he any different?
He blinked and was already pulling up the fabric of the suit over his shoulders, zipping all the way to the neck with no problem.
See? He was fine. He could laze around later.