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“Alright team listen up!”
Peter cuts off mid conversation with Bruce, snapping his full attention over to Steve. The man is standing at the back of the quinjet in full red white and blue, his shield raised in preparation for the battle to come. It’s a pretty surreal sight. Heroic even. The butterflies in Peter’s stomach seem to double, though from excitement or fearful anticipation he’s not sure.
Maybe it’s both.
“We’re five minutes out,” Steve continues, his chin raised. “As you all know, a portal has been opened over the Upper East Side. Unidentified alien creatures are attacking and it’s up to us to flatten the curve. Thanks to Tony, emergency perimeters have secured the area. No aliens will be able to breach it.”
“How much room do we have?” Natasha asks.
Tony answers, the faceplate on his suit flipped up. “About fifteen blocks. Starting around the Lowell hotel and shooting north.”
“That’s a lot of ground to cover,” Sam says with raised eyebrows.
“Oh I’m sorry my specialized alien-blocking drone technology was too slow to make the playing field smaller-”
“Tony.”
“I’m just saying!”
Peter catches his mentor’s eye from across the jet. Tony winks and Peter smiles in return, knee bouncing fast.
Sighing, Steve tries to reassert his control over the situation. He lifts his hands to sit on his hips. “Listen, by the looks of things this is going to be a long day. Everyone stick to your assignments. And yes Tony, I mean you. Are we all clear?”
Everyone nods. Tony snorts a rebuttal but agrees nonetheless. Peter is breathless.
“Good. Prepare for landing.”
From beside him, Bruce squeezes his shoulder in good nature. “Nervous?” he asks.
“Not about the aliens,” Peter says. “Being in a jet full of Avengers though? Different story.”
“Ah, you’ll get used to it eventually.”
“Right. Yeah. I guess so.”
Not.
Peter looks around the jet, appreciating for the thousandth time in the last fifteen minutes that he’s in the presence of Captain America, Iron Man, Black Widow, Hawkeye, the Falcon, and the Hulk. All at once.
And here he is sitting right beside them, like he’s really a part of the team. Like he’s an asset instead of a kid, that they trust him.
Ned is going to lose his mind.
“Two minutes out!” Steve calls.
Gulping, Peter forces his knees not to shake. Tony catches his eye again and walks over, pushing Bruce out of the way to take his place at Peter’s side. “Ready to kick some alien butt?”
“Never thought anyone would ask me that, but yeah, definitely.”
Tony ruffles his hair and Peter tries not to blush. “That’s what I like to hear. And remember, you’re sticking to perimeter work. Getting civilians out, keeping them safe, all that jazz.”
“I know.”
“And if you need anything, even if it’s just a goddamn band-aid, all you gotta do is ask. Okay kid? The coms are there for a reason.”
“I know. Thanks Mr. Stark.” Peter smiles and pats Tony’s knee. “Don’t worry about me.”
Tony rolls his eyes. “If only that were possible.”
The quinjet hits the ground.
Peter pulls on his mask.
“Pizza later?” Peter asks.
“I’m never one to break tradition.”
Across from them, the back of the quinjet opens. Dust, debris, and noise spills in through the cracks. Steve stands in the middle of it all, shield raised high.
And Peter follows him out into battle.
-----
The first hour passes in a blur.
As instructed Peter sticks by the west perimeter, a blue electronic wall Tony had set up that disappears up into the clouds. It does its job in keeping the aliens contained while allowing the civilians to pass through. It’s a miracle really, and Peter makes a mental note to gush to Tony about it later.
In the meantime he works tirelessly to herd the frantic swarms of Upper East Siders out into the safety of Central Park where through it all, he can see police cruisers and ambulances waiting to tend to the wounded.
Aliens crash into the wall in vicious attempts to reach them. It heightens the fear but everyone who gets through is safe. Peter does everything he can to keep the attention away from the escaping New Yorkers.
Even though it makes him a priority target.
The aliens themselves send a shiver up Peter’s spine. They’re ugly creatures, small and agile with long smooth bodies and pointed faces. They have black eyes, sharp teeth, and claws sharp enough to cut through vibranium. They don’t seem to have any abilities outside physical force, which is good.
But they keep on coming, relentless, and Peter decides quickly that he much prefers aliens on the other side of a movie screen.
“How’s that portal looking?” Clint grunts through their coms. The voice breaks Peter’s laser focus and he hardly manages to hold back a flinch as he helps an elderly woman across to the park.
“Not so good,” Bruce says, not caring to elaborate.
“Damn. What- Natasha! Your two o’clock!”
There’s crashing and gunfire. Peter tries desperately to tune it out.
No one says anything for another two hours.
Thankfully by that time most of the civilians are cleared. Peter tracks down stragglers with the help of Karen in between webbing aliens to walls and lamp posts. Eventually her alerts run dry.
“Can you detect anyone else?” he asks the AI, flipping out of the way as an alien spots him from the sky and nosedives towards him with a gaping mouth. The creature hits the pavement hard, cutting through the asphalt like it's made of paper and Peter shoots a web grenade at it’s exposed back to keep it down.
“I am detecting no more civilians in this area,” Karen says into his ear. “Good job Peter. Evacuation successful.”
“Good, great.”
“Watch out!”
Peter ducks reflexively as an alien just barely grazes the top of his head. He shouts in surprise and shoots an electric web at it, tripping away from its seizing body.
“Kid! You alright?”
Biting back a groan, Peter nods. It’s Tony. Of course it is. “I had that,” he says.
“Sure you did.”
“I did! I was just waiting until the right moment.”
“Which was seconds before pulverization?”
Tony fires off a repulsor blast to his left without looking. It hits an oncoming alien square in the face. Peter watches it fall with a hanging jaw. “Look, can we talk about this later?”
“Right,” Tony says, lowering his arm. “How’s it looking with the civilians?”
“All clear.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. They’re all moved out.”
If Peter could see his face, he would be sure Tony is smiling. Like he’s proud. “Good job kiddo. Now let’s go show these alien idiots what you’re made of.”
----
Another three hours pass and Peter loses Tony in the chaos. He fights beside Steve for a while. Natasha too. He’s saved by one of Clint’s arrows more than once.
It’s amazing. It really is. Never in his life did he think he would be fighting neck and neck with the Avengers.
But man is it exhausting.
“Portal?” Steve yells through the chaos.
“Almost there!”
“Hurry it up Bruce!”
Another hour passes.
And another.
Peter leans tiredly against the brick wall of an apartment building hidden away from the others. He hasn’t eaten anything since the battle started and his limbs have started to grow weak and shaky, like he’s just finished running four consecutive marathons.
He debates raiding a gas station for some water. He can always pay them later.
The coms crackle back to life in his ears, disrupting the desperate thought. It’s Steve. “Alright team listen up. The portal’s still open. This shows no sign of slowing down. We could be here all night.”
Peter’s stomach drops, his hunger seeming to triple.
“Starting now we’re all taking breaks at the quinjet. Food, water, whatever you need. We’ll start with Peter. Clint, you’re next. Make sure to bandage that arm. Understood?”
A break? God that sounds good. A chorus of affirmatives follow Steve’s instruction.
“Peter?”
“Yep. Got it. Break. Hallelujah. On my way Mr. Rogers!”
He almost makes it, too.
The quinjet is only a couple feet away when a group of three aliens corner him. They’re fast as ever and Peter is slow. He takes two down and is slammed in the chest by the third. The force has him flying back, breaking through a storefront window and landing in some fancy boutique. His body rolls over shattered glass as he fights hard to regain the lost breath in his chest.
“Damn it,” he wheezes. “That- that didn’t feel good.”
The alien follows him in, glass rains down like shooting stars. Peter scrambles back over the debris, grateful not for the first time that day for the strong material of his suit and kicks out viciously at the alien when it approaches him. It skids back a few feet but springs back with a vengeance, its breath hot and rancid against his face.
“Stupid alien!”
He kicks again and again, head spinning. He shoots off webs without really aiming. He must scream.
He can’t be sure.
Eventually the alien stops advancing. With one last guttural cry it collapses over onto its side, crushing a rack of expensive clothes. Peter watches it fall, transfixed by his victory and his heart threatening to beat straight out of his chest.
Blood leaks from a deep cut in his arm. It stings horribly but he refuses to dwell on it. Instead, deeming it safe, he lays flat on his back to blink away the stars of exhaustion from his eyes. He’s not really sure how much time passes before he can see straight again.
“Hey Peter?” It’s Clint, his voice a murmur in the back of his ear. “The bleeding’s getting worse. Are you done at the jet?”
When Peter speaks, his voice is strong. It doesn’t betray how he feels. “Yeah,” he says, “just finished. It’s all yours.”
----
The sun sets.
Peter breaks three toes and hits his head hard against concrete. There’s a steadily bleeding wound in his side that he’s staunched with his webbing and tries not to acknowledge it when it burns.
He can still walk in a straight line, which is good.
He’s starving and tired and cold.
It’s been fifteen hours.
“Spider-Man! We need some help by the hotel. How fast can you swing over here?”
His heart skips a beat. “Two minutes! Be right there!”
Because he will not let the Avengers down. He won’t. It’s not an option. Even if it means that his bruised ribs protest when he swings, or that his head spins with dizziness.
He can’t let them down.
He finds Steve, Natasha, and Sam cornered at the base of the hotel. It looks like a scene from some science fiction movie, cars flipped on their sides and glass shattered. A small fire burns in the lobby.
Peter takes down three aliens before landing beside them. He stumbles but plays it off in a somersault. “What’s up guys? Come here often?”
“Spider-Man,” Steve greets, eyes brighter than ever despite the blood and grime on his face. “Think you can take care of that fire? We’re a little preoccupied.”
Natasha shoots off seven bullets. They all hit home.
“Yeah I got it.”
“Thanks Spider-baby,” Sam says with a smirk.
“Anything for you birdman.”
He thinks of what Tony would say if he saw Peter running into a burning building and hopes that no one tells him later.
At least it’s a little fire.
He locates an extinguisher behind the front desk and douses the flames with it. It might not look particularly heroic but it does the job nonetheless. When the canister empties he throws it aside and smothers the remaining flames with web grenades.
The vents in his suit protect him from most of the damage, but he can’t help but cough against the pressure in his lungs. He’s overheating and covered in black char and it takes everything in his power not to rip off his mask and wipe the sweat off his face.
“Pete?” Tony’s voice comes through his com on a private channel. “Your turn for the quinjet buddy.”
He sags, his legs feel like lead.
“Queens!” This time, it’s Steve. “We need you outside!”
His eyes sting with tears.
“Thanks Mr. Stark. I’m on my way now,” he says. The lie feels heavy on his tongue. Then, switching over to Steve, “be right there Cap.”
Oh how he wishes this were over.
He stumbles out into the night.
----
Hour twenty.
Almost a full day.
Peter collapses on a low rooftop, every limb vibrating with strain and exhaustion. He pulls off his mask, sucks in deep lungfuls of air, and does everything he can to not cry.
Above the portal closes, winking out of existence in a flash of vivid yellow light. Peter grapples weakly for his mask and repositions it over his head, hardly believing his eyes. Cries of victory carry over the coms.
“Bruce you beautiful, beautiful man! You did it!”
“Finally!”
Peter leans his forehead into the ground, closes his eyes, and wills his nausea to disappear. Now all they have to do is finish off the remaining aliens. No more backup. He can do this.
Come on Peter. Come on Spider-Man.
He forces his knees not to buckle when he stands.
“We’re almost out of the woods,” Steve says, “let’s finish strong.”
----
At hour twenty-one, Peter misses his fifth break after he’s cornered by half a dozen aliens on the west perimeter line.
At hour twenty-three he misses his sixth break to help Natasha clear a street corner.
At hour twenty-five he can barely keep himself from vomiting.
At hour twenty-seven Sam gets impaled. He hears the scream even without his com. He follows it with tunnel vision to the storefront of a bakery and finds Sam fighting off a group of seven aliens with a hand pressed tightly against his side. Peter leaps into the midst of the attack, carried only by adrenaline, and has all of the aliens down in a matter of seconds.
He collapses by Sam’s side, dizzy beyond belief.
“This looks bad,” he says breathlessly, helping Sam apply pressure. Warm blood bubbles up through his fingers. It makes him sick. “You okay?”
Sam only groans, tilting his head back against the pavement. “Got saved by a damn toddler.”
“I’m sixteen!”
“You’re a toddler.”
Steve runs up beside them. He’s breathing heavily, his suit torn. “Wilson! You alright?”
“Only my pride has been wounded, Stevie.”
Peter can’t help but laugh. It helps to clear some of the fog in his head.
“Think you can put one of your creepy spider band-aids over this?” Sam asks.
“It’s not creepy,” Peter objects. He removes his hands and tries not to stare at the blood on them as he changes his web setting and fires. Sam relaxes once it sets, some colour returning to his cheeks. “Thanks.”
“Can you stand?” Steve asks, reaching out a hand.
“Of course I can stand-”
Four aliens fly from around the corner. Peter helps Sam up and pushes him into Steve’s side. “Take him to the jet,” he says. Then, he turns to face the aliens head on. “I’ve got this.”
-----
Turns out, he doesn’t got this.
The sun starts to rise at hour twenty-eight. Peter punches at an alien, misses by a mile, and nearly lands on his face. He loses another break.
At hour twenty-nine he falls to his knees and throws up. It surprises him. He didn’t think he had anything in his body to sacrifice. It takes a long time for his double vision to fade.
He falls and stands. Stands and falls. Keep fighting.
At hour thirty, it’s over.
It’s over?
“Good job team,” Steve says over the coms, voice leaking with relief. Peter can hardly believe it. He’s standing on an empty rooftop beside an alien carcass, staring intently at the sun and uncaring when it makes his eyes burn.
Tony reaches him on a private line. “Pete! Long time no see. Where’re you at? I’ll fly you over to the quinjet.”
It takes too long to process the question. “It’s really over?” he asks in a whisper, numb.
“Yeah kiddie. It’s over.”
It’s all his brain needs to hear. The threat is neutralized. Everyone is okay. Strings cut, he kneels over and hits the ground hard as his stomach cramps up painfully. He doesn’t have the energy to flinch against it.
He must make a sound because Tony’s worried voice rings through his aching head. “Peter? Damn it. You okay bud?”
He takes a deep breath. The stars in his eyes don’t disappear. God, he feels terrible. “I’m fine. I’m- I’m by the hotel.”
Tony snorts, some semblance of relief coloring his voice. “I heard you put out a fire in there earlier. Considering a career in firefighting?”
With shaking arms, Peter forces himself to sit. When it doesn’t hold he lays down on his back. “No. Who told you?”
“Steve.”
“Snitch.”
Tony laughs, which is nice. Peter closes his eyes. Seconds later and there’s a metal hand on his shoulder. Familiar. Safe. “You with me bud?”
“Mm? Yeah. Jus’ tired.”
Peter allows Tony to help him sit up and sways against the support. Tony catches him against his chest and frowns. “Please don’t tell me you’re hiding a life threatening injury.”
“I’m not hiding a life threatening injury.”
“Peter-”
“I swear! Just tired. Don’t feel super good.”
Tony’s expression softens at the admission. “What’s his temperature FRI?”
“101.3 degrees, sir.”
Tony whistles. “Shoot, Pete. Why didn’t you say anything?”
“Wasn’t that bad.”
“Sure.”
Peter stands with Tony’s help and together they shoot off towards the quinjet. When they land Tony doesn’t let go of him, shepherding him inside and onto the edge of a cot. His mentor hands him a bottle of water and a protein bar. “Eat,” he instructs, “and don’t move. I’ll be right back.”
The food in his hand feels like a miracle. He rips the cap off the water bottle and tries to take deep gulps. When his stomach protests violently he opts for smaller sips. The protein bar comes next. It calms the biting hunger and he relaxes.
Sam.
Peter shoots up from the cot and has to catch himself against the wall when his vision tilts. Not good. Luckily, no one sees. He finds Sam on a cot near the cockpit, sitting up and smiling when he approaches.
“Glad to see you’re still alive,” Peter says.
“You too.”
Steve appears out of nowhere. He claps a strong hand on Peter’s shoulder and doesn’t notice when his knees buckle. Sam does, his eyes narrowing.
But he doesn’t say anything.
“Great work everyone!”
It doesn’t feel like a victory.
----
By the time they reach the compound Peter can hardly keep his eyes open. Bruce patches him up on the journey home, stitching up his deeper wounds and sticking butterfly bandages on the rest. He gives him a tablet for his headache and Peter leaves it sitting in his palm.
After touchdown Tony finds him leaning up against the wall. His suit is gone. Peter is relieved to find him mostly unharmed. He asks anyways. “You okay Mr. Stark?”
Tony smiles softly. “Yeah kiddie. I’m okay. How’re you holding up?”
Peter shrugs.
“Still not feeling too hot?”
“I’m- I’m okay.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“Let’s just go.”
Tony watches warily as Peter stands. Miraculously, he doesn’t fall. Together they walk slowly into the compound, not talking, enjoying the silence of the post-battle high. Tony stops him in the entrance and places a hand on his forehead that he’s too tired to fight.
“Yeah, that’s not feeling too good. How about you head up and catch some z’s while we debrief? I’ll come check on you after.”
“But-”
“That’s an order kiddo.”
His ears feel like they’re stuffed with cotton. He nods and shuffles away.
Alone.
---
Peter doesn’t have the energy to change out of his suit. He doesn’t remember where he left his mask. Before falling into bed he stumbles into the bathroom and catches himself against the sink. He drinks out of the tap until he’s too dizzy to stand and barely makes it to his mattress.
His spider-sense is thrumming in the back of his mind.
But the battle is over.
He’s asleep before he can wrestle with the covers.
----
Tony rubs at his eyes tiredly. He’s sitting in the conference room with the team. They’re on the phone with the mayor.
There’s thank yous and congratulations and talks of damage control.
When they hang up with her, they talk to the President of the United States.
Tony wants nothing more than to crawl into bed.
“Thank you Mr. President.”
“Thank you Mrs. Mayor.”
“Damage control-”
“Civilian loss-”
“Death-”
“Aliens-”
“Portals-”
Tony’s watch buzzes. An alert from FRIDAY. He ignores it.
Another one.
Another.
Steve directs Tony to answer a question about his perimeter tech.
He mutes his watch.
An hour later and they all slump against the table, exhausted. Even Steve looks disheveled.
“Hell of a day.”
Sam snorts. “Where did the Spider run off to? Too cool for meetings now?”
“He wasn’t feeling good,” Tony says.
“So? I literally got stabbed and I’m here.”
“And who saved your ass?” Tony bites back.
Sam raises his hands defensively. FRIDAY’s voice fills the room. “Boss, I am overriding mute protocols to inform you that Mr. Parker is in distress. Immediate medical attention is advised.”
All the exhaustion in Tony’s body evaporates, replaced by cold fear. He shoots to his feet, rolling chair sliding back to slam against the wall. “What?”
Everyone else stands too. The anxiety in the room is tangible, raw.
“I would hurry, boss.”
“Bruce-” Tony gasps, but the man is already at his side.
They run together to Peter’s room. On the journey Tony checks the notifications he had ignored on his watch.
Mr. Parker’s core temperature has risen to 104 degrees.
Mr. Parker’s core temperature has risen to 105 degrees.
Mr. Parker appears to be in distress. Immediate medical care is recommended.
“Damn it!”
They skid to a stop outside Peter’s door. Tony throws it open and feels his heart skip a beat at the sight of the kid’s empty bed. Light spills from the bathroom.
Tony runs.
He finds Peter hunched over the toilet, his head hanging limply over the bowl. He’s still wearing his suit, his hair wet and curled against his temples as if he had just submerged it underwater.
He isn’t moving. Isn’t moving-
“PETER!” Tony drops to his knees, heartbeat in his ears. He shakes the kid’s shoulder. He doesn’t stir.
“Damn it, damn it, damn it!” Tony repositions his hands to hold up Peter’s head, the kid’s skin unbearably hot under his fingertips. There are tears on Peter’s cheeks and he wipes them away with his thumbs. No no no no no.
“Peter wake up!”
Bruce crouches beside them, eyes wide with concern. Tony shakes Peter again. He moves limply, bonelessly. “Nap time is over! Wake up right the hell now!”
Peter groans. Slowly, his eyes open to slits. There’s no coherence behind them.
“Pete?” Tony asks gently. Keep breathing. Keep breathing.
The boy’s eyebrows pull together. Weakly, he pushes himself away from Tony’s grip to lean back over the toilet, his whole body shaking. “’M sorry,” he gasps in between heaves, “sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry Pete. It’s okay. Everything’s going to be okay-”
Then Peter falls limp again.
Tony catches him by his shoulders, tears of panic stinging up at his eyes. He maneuvers Peter into his lap and chokes on hyperventilated breaths as Bruce feels for a pulse. Unconscious. He’s just unconscious. He’s still alive. “F-FRIDAY. Temperature?”
“106 degrees and rising.”
“It’s too high. If we don’t act fast his brain is going to start melting-”
Natasha appears in the doorway, her face paling significantly at the sight of Peter’s limp body on the floor. “What do you need?” she asks immediately.
“A gurney! And an ice bath-”
“On it.”
Tony sobs. He holds Peter tightly and smooths back his sweaty hair. “Wake up Peter. Come on kid. Show me those eyes.”
A moan, long and low. His entire body is trembling, like every muscle is shredding itself to pieces under his skin. Peter looks up at him in confusion, eyes half-lidded and distant. Unfamiliar.
They don’t recognize him.
“Kid?” Tony prompts, fear closing up his throat. “You with me?”
“Who- who-”
Bruce snaps his head up and curses, his fingers still pressed lightly over Peter’s artery.
“It’s me, Pete. It’s Tony. Mr. Stark. Bruce is here too. Can you hear me?”
“I don’t- I don’t know-” Peter struggles, eyes rolling in his head. “Wh’r am I? Was’ hap?”
“You’re at the compound. You’re sick. Stay with me buddy. You’re okay. It’s me, it’s Tony!”
“Who-” Peter chokes, going white as sheet despite his fever flushed skin. He looks like a corpse. Bruce swears loudly. “Cushion his head!”
“What?”
“Just do it!” Bruce screams.
And Peter Parker starts to seize.
-----
Everything that happens after plays out in slow motion. He can’t hear anything but the static between his ears, isn’t aware of anything past the sight of Peter’s limp body being lifted onto a stretcher, of him being wheeled away.
Tony tries to follow.
His knees buckle.
Natasha kneels beside him on the floor and rubs her hand across his back.
“Breathe Tony. He’s going to be okay.”
“How- how do you- gah. How do you know?”
He could die. He’s dying. He’s dying-
“Breathe,” she repeats.
“He didn’t- he didn’t even recognize me. He didn’t know where he was-”
“He’ll be fine.”
“HOW DO YOU KNOW?” he shouts. It surprises him. A blackhole has opened up in his chest, sucking away everything but his fear.
Natasha doesn’t flinch, doesn’t drop her hand. “Peter’s a tough kid. He’s been through worse. He’ll be okay Tony.”
“He had a seizure.”
“I know.”
“I ignored FRIDAY’s alerts. He was passed out on the bathroom floor for who knows how long-”
“It’s okay.”
“It’s not.”
“It has to be.”
Tony drops his head to the floor, curling his fingertips into the cold tile. Nat lets him be. After a couple minutes of careful breathing he crawls up to his feet. “I have to see him. I have- I have to be with him.”
He’s dying. He had a seizure. He didn’t recognize me. His own kid-
Nat follows him down the hall, her hand never leaving his elbow.
Neither of them say anything about it.
----
Peter is still alive.
For now.
Tony enters the room in the midst of chaos, Peter being held by Steve’s strong arms in a tub of water as Bruce injects him with needles and Sam wipes the kid’s face with a wet cloth. Peter is awake, crying freely and struggling unsuccessfully to get away from the unwanted touches.
Natasha’s grip tightens when he sways.
“Pete. Peter!” Tony falls against the tub and takes the cloth from Sam’s hand, continuing to hold it steady against Peter’s red-hot forehead. “Hey kid, you with me?”
Moaning, Peter’s eyes drift towards Tony’s voice but don’t connect. Instead, they stare sightlessly somewhere over Tony’s left shoulder. He turns to Bruce. “What’s wrong with him? Why isn’t he responsive?”
“He had another seizure. His body is shutting down-”
“Then stop it!”
“What do you think I’m trying to do?”
Tony gasps for air, the room spinning. He dunks the cloth into the water before relaying it on Peter’s face and uses his other hand to wipe away the tears. He doesn’t even notice how badly his hands are shaking until Steve nudges him with his foot.
“It’s going to be okay,” he says, but it’s weak. Unsure.
Peter’s eyes droop. Tony panics. He practically falls in the tub himself in an attempt to jostle the kid back into wakefulness but it works. Peter whines, long and broken. “Whr’ am I?”
“Home, kiddo. You’re at home. You’re safe.”
Peter sobs. “Don’ feel good.”
“I know buddy. I know. Just hang on, okay? Don’t go anywhere.”
Don’t go anywhere I can’t follow.
-----
Thirty minutes later and Tony’s legs are numb from kneeling beside the tub. Bruce checks Peter’s temperature and dips his head in relief. “It’s working,” he says, “103 now.”
“Thank God.”
“We can move him.”
Tony feels more tears sting at his eyes. True to his word, Peter is awake under his hands, blinking slowly and skin beet red. “Hear that kiddo? How do you feel about getting out of here?”
With great effort, Peter nods.
Ten minutes later Tony is threading Peter’s weak limbs into a hospital gown and laying him back into his designated medbay bed. There’s Star Wars posters on the walls and a lego set he and Ned had built when he had broken his leg last Spring. It hits Tony all over again, how close of a call it had been. If they had found him even minutes later-
Still shaking, Tony decides it’s be better to sit. He pulls up a chair and falls heavily against it. He wonders if he’s in shock.
Bruce checks Peter’s temperature again and looks pleased by the results. He attaches the kid to oxygen and an IV and smooths back his hair fondly. Peter leans into the touch, fingers twitching against Tony’s grip.
“Bruce?” Peter mumbles, his voice barely audible over the machines working to keep him alive and breathing. “What- what happened?”
Tony covers his mouth to keep in his sound of relief. Bruce smiles. “You back with us now?”
“Where- where did I go?”
“Doesn’t matter. You’re just a little sick. Do you remember what happened?”
Tony tightens his grip on the kid’s arm as he struggles to recollect himself. Eventually he nods, eyes closing. “Aliens,” he says quietly. “Long day.”
“Were you feeling sick before the fight?”
“N-no.”
As if expecting it, Bruce’s features harden. Tony sits up straighter as the room drops off into an uneasy silence. “What is it Bruce?”
“Peter. Be honest with me, okay? Did you take any breaks during the fight? Eat any food or drink any water?”
“Of course he did!” Tony says immediately, panic running a cold trail up his spine. Peter grimaces. “Right kid? You took breaks.”
Exhaustion must overpower the kid’s guilt complex because he looks up at Bruce with complete and honest vulnerability. “I didn’t.”
“To all of it?” Bruce clarifies carefully. “No breaks, food, or water in the total 30 hours of the fight?”
Peter closes his eyes again, looking close to tears now that he’s come clean. His voice is broken, exhausted. “I’m sorry.”
Bruce opens his mouth, probably to console, but Tony has reached his limit. He tilts Peter’s face towards him and shakes it gently until his eyes open. His whole body thrums in time with the sharp staccato of his heart. Each beat hurts. “What the hell were you thinking? I told you to call me if you needed help!”
“I- I said I’m sorry.”
“Sorry doesn’t cut it this time Peter! Explain yourself, because I sure as hell know that you’re not this goddamn stupid-”
“Tony.”
“Answer me!”
Peter’s eyes are still fever bright, his mind taking too long to process the request. Tony will feel guilty about it later. Right now, though, he’s just angry.
But not at Peter, at himself.
Thirty hours. Thirty hours and you didn’t notice your kid was suffering.
“Things kept coming up,” Peter whines, wrestling his way out of Tony’s grip. “I tried, okay? I wanted to! But the- the aliens. And the fire. People kept needing my help.”
“You. Almost. Died. Peter.”
There’s a loud beep on a monitor. Peter grimaces and blinks sightlessly up at the ceiling as Bruce curses. “His temperature is going back up. Tony you need to leave. Now.”
“But-”
“Now!”
The command leeches Tony’s anger. He wants nothing more than to hold Peter close until he sees with his own eyes that the kid is out of the woods, that he’s going to be okay.
Instead he stands, pushing away his instinct to stay and his guilt building like the wave of a tsunami. Numb, he walks away from Peter’s bed. The kid doesn’t watch him leave, continuing to stare up at the ceiling with glazed eyes.
Tony stumbles into the hall and into an empty room, remembering vividly how Peter had seized in his lap.
He falls hard to his knees.
FRIDAY helps him breathe.
-----
Later when his eyes are no longer red, Tony finds the rest of the team huddled together on the sofa. They’re picking at half-eaten boxes of takeout, dark circles under their eyes and looking two seconds away from collapse.
He remembers the pizza he had promised Peter and has to blink more tears out of his eyes.
“The mission is over,” Tony says unkindly. “Go home. Get some rest.”
No one moves or speaks. Tony stops short.
Finally, Steve breaks the silence. “We’re not leaving until we know Peter’s okay.”
“He’s fine.”
“He’s not fine!” Steve protests. “I had to hold him down in a tub of water while he had a seizure-”
“He’s fine, Rogers!”
“Tony-”
“I said he’s fine!” Tony yells. Without really thinking it through, he punches the wall.
It hurts like hell.
Steve is at his side in a matter of seconds. Tony pushes him away. “Get off me.”
“Tony your hand-”
“Leave me alone.”
“We’re all worried about Peter, okay?” Nat snaps from her position on the couch. Her eyes are dark. “Now sit down before you break something.”
He can’t move. There’s not enough air.
He lets Steve guide him over to the cushions.
Sam places a warm takeout box in his lab. Tony stares at it in defeat. “He didn’t take any breaks.”
“Come again?”
“Peter,” Tony says, deflating. “He didn’t take any breaks. In the whole damn thirty hours. Not once.”
You could hear a pin drop. Sam swears.
“But his metabolism,” Steve starts, “there’s no way he should’ve lasted that long.”
“Well,” Tony says without humour, “you know Peter. He’s the most stubborn, goddamn sacrificial kid in the world. His body literally started shutting down. It’s why he got so sick.”
“He must get his self-preservation skills from you,” Natasha muses quietly. She’s trying to lighten the mood, he knows, but it drives a spike through his gut.
He sets the takeout box on the counter and lays his head down between his knees. “I know.”
----
Bruce comes in an hour later and tells them that Peter’s fever is steadily decreasing, that he’s been given a light sedative and should sleep through the night.
The rest of the team goes to visit anyways.
And Tony sits alone.
His eyes burn. His hand aches. Bruce finds him again in the early hours of the morning and sits next to him without invitation, without judgement. “You should get some rest,” he says.
Tony doesn’t want to respond. He does anyway. “I could say the same thing about you.”
“Well, here we are.”
“Here we are.”
Bruce leans back and picks up a forgotten take out box, picking through it with his fingers. “He’s going to be fine, Tony.”
“That’s what everyone keeps saying.”
“It’s true.”
“I know.”
“Then why are you pouting?”
Tony wants to get angry. He’s too tired. “I should’ve noticed. I should’ve done something before it was too late.”
“Tony-”
“I let a sixteen year old kid fight aliens for thirty hours straight and didn’t even blink an eye. Sometimes- sometimes I just forget, you know? That he’s just a kid.”
Bruce hums. “He does a good job at hiding it.”
“He’s too damn selfless for his own good.”
“Maybe,” Bruce agrees, “but weakness can be strength too sometimes. It just depends on how we look at it. Peter saved a lot of innocent lives today. He saved the lives of his teammates. I know it didn’t end perfectly, but he did good. He did what he thought was best in the moment. We shouldn’t fault him for that.” Tony is silent. Bruce continues. “He just wanted you to be proud of him, Tony. He told me that before I put him under. He wanted to save lives. To be a hero.”
Again, Tony can’t quite seem to breathe. He stares at the wall for a long time.
Bruce lets him.
I just wanted to be like you.
And I wanted you to be better.
Finally, as sunlight starts to filter more strongly into the room, Tony stands, limbs aching in protest. “Thanks Bruce,” he says, “for everything.”
And he heads to Peter’s room.
-----
To Tony’s surprise, he finds Steve sitting by Peter’s bed and shuffles to an uneasy stop at the door. “Steve?”
The man twists, wincing at some unseen pain. “Tony.”
“What are you doing in here?”
“Peter is a member of the team. I didn’t want him to be alone.”
“He’s unconscious.”
“Then why are you here?”
Tony tightens his good hand into a fist. “You know why I’m here. He’s my-”
Expression softening, Steve sighs at Tony’s choked silence. “Your kid,” he finishes, “I know.” With one final look of guilt, he pats Peter’s arm and stands, gesturing to the open chair. “You should be here when he wakes up.”
Tony doesn’t look him in the eye, staring stubbornly at the opposite wall with a set jaw. “Someone should have noticed.”
“What?”
“Someone should have noticed,” Tony seethes, something curdling in his stomach. “Peter worked himself to death today. Quite literally. No one noticed.”
“Tony-”
“Nevermind. Go get some rest.”
“Tony.”
With great reluctance he looks at Steve. His eyes must convey what he can’t verbalize because Steve’s shoulder slump in defeat. He nods slowly. It looks like an apology, like remorse.
When he leaves, Tony has to wipe his hands under his eyes.
He sinks into place by Peter’s side and rests his fingers over the pulse point on the kid’s wrist. It beats steadily. He’s okay.
He’s okay, and Tony doesn’t let go.
----
Peter doesn’t wake up for another six hours.
Tony spends the time lightly dozing against the mattress despite knowing how badly his back will hate him for it. When he’s not sleeping he’s fussing with the kid’s blankets and checking his temperature with the back of his hand. He stares at Peter’s lax face and wishes it were different. It brings vivid memories of him seizing on the bathroom floor, of him passing out over a toilet bowl alone, and he has to practice breathing exercises until his heart calms.
Eventually, Peter comes back to him.
This time, he’s lucid.
“Mr. S’k,” he mumbles, voice scratchy.
“Petey.”
Lips quirking up at the nickname, Peter lolls his heavy head in Tony’s direction. “Thought- thought you left.”
Trying to evade the sudden weight in his stomach, Tony shakes his head. “You know me kiddo. I can never stay away for long.”
Peter hums, sleepy smile widening. “Tha’s true.”
“How’re you feeling?”
“Mmm. Like garbage. But like, better garbage.”
“Better garbage?”
“Mhm.”
Tony laughs. He ruffles Peter’s hair softly and tries not to combust when the kid leans into his touch. He holds the contact and rubs his thumb over Peter’s temple. “I’m glad you're okay,” he says in a whisper.
A soft crease appears between the kid’s eyebrows. “S’ry I didn’ take any breaks. Was stupid.”
“It’s okay. I understand.”
Soft brown eyes look over at him, shining and surprised. Recognizing him. “You- you do?”
“Yeah kiddo. I do. I’m sorry for what I said earlier. You had our backs. You were doing the job. You were a hero.” The hero I’ve always known you could be.
Peter looks shocked but recovers quickly. “Jus’ like you,” he says with a loopy smile.
Tony sits back and rubs at his face with his hands. He only drops them away when he feels a gentle tug at his sleeve. Peter’s eyes are wide and serious despite his weak grip. “I mean it,” he says.
“I know you do. That’s the problem.”
“This isn’ your fault.”
Tony purses his lips. “Hate to disagree with you, but- I disagree.”
Peter huffs. “You like to disagree.”
“Call it a character flaw.”
“Mm. Still doesn’t make you right.”
Tony feigns hurt. “Where did Bruce put those sedatives again?”
“Not cool man,” Peter laughs, then clutches at his chest when it must hurt. He hits Tony’s arm lightly and they both sober. “When you can do the things I do and don’t do anything about it-” Peter starts.
“They happen because of you. I remember kiddo.”
Peter nods, relaxing more fully against the sheets. He looks infinitely better, Tony thinks, with the good kind of colour in his cheeks and coherence in his eyes. It calms some distant part of him. He really will be okay.
“You taught me how to be a hero,” Peter says.
“Kid-”
“Don’ argue with me. I’m sick.”
Warmth spreads through him. It makes his bottom lip wobble. “I’m proud of you, kiddo.”
And he is.
He always will be.
“Mm.” Peter’s eyes close, energy fading. “Proud of you too.”
Glad that Peter can’t see the tears welling up in his eyes, Tony kicks his feet up on the edge of Peter’s bed and crosses his arms tightly over his chest to keep it from cracking open. “God, kid. You’re too good for us, you know that?”
He thinks Peter is asleep. But after a couple long seconds, the boy’s lips turn up into an exhausted smile. “Yep,” he mumbles. “Don’ forget it.”
“Never,” Tony promises.
Peter snores softly in response. Smiling fondly, Tony repositions his hand over the kid’s pulse point and relaxes at the strong beats. He should be grateful that New York is safe, that the battle is won.
But really, all he cares about is that Peter is alive.
That he’s alive, that he’s okay, that he’s safe.
And Tony refuses to let go.