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The spider bite fixed a lot of things that regularly went wrong with Penny. It fixed her eyes, and her asthma, and even that weird rash she got on the top of her foot when she went to the beach. Not that she went to the beach often, but still. It was annoying.
And now it's not! Because the bite fixed it. Because that spider was radioactive in, apparently, all the right ways, as far as Penny's concerned.
Except for right now, and approximately every thirty-two days, when Penny has to curl up in a tiny ball on her bed and pretend like she's really, totally not crying.
A sharp stab courses through her stomach, and she can't hold back the whimper. She presses her face into her pillow. Fuck, this sucks.
It's lab weekend. It's been, like, a year of them having their lab weekends, and somehow—literally how—Penny's managed to never be on her period. Until right now.
So, naturally, the topic of cramps hadn't come up. Because why would Penny just volunteer that information? And why would Mister Stark even ask?
She's really, really regretting not mentioning it sooner.
FRIDAY chimes softly, and her voice filters through the bedroom speakers. It bounces off the bookshelves and dark blue walls, muffling through the duvet Penny's got pulled over her face. "Miss Parker, you appear to be in distress. Shall I contact Boss?"
"No," Penny grits out, breaths labored. Her face pinches as another throb squeezes her belly. "Don't call Mister Stark. He's— He's sleeping. It's midnight. It's— Fuck. It's fine."
"Very well, Miss Parker."
Except that nothing about this feels remotely well at all. The cramps aren't usually this bad. If they were always like this, she definitely would've mentioned them to May. But they're tolerable! She doesn't even really get cramps. Usually.
But she did tonight, and she does now, and it totally fucking blows.
"If you were to communicate your symptoms, I may provide tips for relief, Miss Parker."
Penny wants to say no again. Wants to shut her out and refuse and just cry herself to sleep. Because she knows, knows, that anything she says to FRIDAY will undoubtedly find itself in a tidy report on Mister Stark's desk by tomorrow morning, and Penny would love to avoid having that conversation with her mentor.
She's Spider-Woman, for Christ's sake. She can handle a couple cramps.
Spider-Woman cannot handle a couple cramps.
Penny had figured, half-delirious on the constant, low-level ache in her stomach, that she needed a distraction. If she's not thinking about the pain, then it'll fade and she'll be able to move past it.
So, she crawls into her suit, back hunched and arm thrown around her middle. She can barely straighten enough to launch a web out the Tower's window.
And then she's off. Swinging, but not in her usual graceful arc. It's all clumsy movements and aborted spins. For someone who's so adept at showing off, tonight she's a real mess.
Penny doesn't stop any crime tonight. She swings/stumbles through the air, crashing into buildings more than leaping off them. It's a mess. If she came upon a crime scene—which, miraculously, she doesn't—she wouldn't know what to do.
Her thought process is entirely shot. That would be concerning if she could actually parse through the sequence of events and realize that she can't conjure a sentence.
The pain really isn't that bad, she reasons, doubled-over on a rooftop bar. It's a slow night, a Sunday at 11pm in the pouring rain. The bartender, dry in his little closed-off section, sends her a strange look.
She just waves a hand, the other holding the brunt of her weight against a railing. "Hi. Evening. It's— Yeah, it's your friendly neighborhood Spider-Woman."
Okay. Fuck this. Distraction doesn't work.
Penny swings her ass back towards the Tower. She cannot possibly have gotten that far, considering her terrible form and truly awful cramps. Squinting into the distance, she can easily make out the large, bright A of the Tower's emblem. Bingo.
She lets herself roll off the side of the roof, extends her wrist to shoot a web, and hears the dull, thin click! of an empty web vial.
Aw, fu—
A harsh clang echoes through the street as her shoulder clips a fire escape. It's sharp and distinct in Penny's ears, but she swears it sounds a whisper compared to the roar of the rain.
She presses her hands, desperately, against the side of the building, but all she's sticking to is the rain. Water and water, down her suit and her hands and she feels so fucking stupid, how could she go on patrol like this, Mister Stark is going to kill her, he's going to be so mad, he's going to be so mad—
There's a loud whoosh as she freefalls into an awning. It steals the air from her lungs as it instantly slows her descent, if only managing to cut the momentum. The whole damn awning comes tumbling down with her.
Penny hits the ground with a sick thud.
She stays down for a few minutes. Catches her breath. Curls on her side, aching from absolutely everywhere imaginable. Shoulder, stomach, back, lungs, that one huge, throbbing zit down by her jawline.
It's Spider-Woman who gets back up. After two, three, twelve minutes have passed, and she thinks she might be able to stand for more than six seconds without collapsing. She gets up, half-hunched over, and starts walking.
Talk about a fuckin' walk of shame.
The metal walls of the elevator are cool against Penny's forehead. She'd pulled off her mask the second FRIDAY had given her the all clear, so now it lies abandoned in the opposite corner of the lift.
She feels like a child. Small, in the comfiest version of the fetal position she could manage. Her own weight feels foreign to her; heavy, oppressive. She wants to float away and stop existing. Just until this pain ebbs away.
Something's gotta be up with FRIDAY tonight, because instead of immediately sending the elevator to the lab, it stalls to a halt on the common floor. Nobody in sight.
Okay. Awesome. Penny can work with this.
She hovers in the elevator, first. Breathes with her face scrunched up for God knows how long. She's gotta move. Can't stay in this elevator forever unless she wants an audience.
Instinctively, she tries to latch a web onto the ceiling to help heft her weight. The empty click! mocks her.
It doesn't take all that long for her to make it to her bedroom. The common floor is big, but it's not that big. Just hallways and bedrooms and the occasional kitchen to keep the Mighty fed.
Penny still can't quite stand upright. She's walking with a hunchback because straightening sharpens the pain through her abdomen. Guarding, her mind supplies. The only thing she knows for sure about guarding is that it's pretty bad.
Yippee.
Her room is pitch black. She closes the door behind herself, no need to give anyone a show, and it seals all the light away. She makes it approximately four steps before smacking shin-first into the edge of her bedframe.
"Fuck!"
Enough of this horrible fucking night. She's been good. She's done all her homework, and she's been nice to Ned, and she's tried to be a good girlfriend to MJ, and she's done okay work for Mister Stark, and she's done nothing to deserve all this fucking bull.
She can feel the tears coming before they actually start. The pathetic burn in the back of her eyes, and the tightening in her chest, and the stupid, idiotic need to be held.
"If you would like some breathing exercises, Miss Parker, I can recommend—"
"Oh, fuck off, FRIDAY!"
Penny stares down the bottle of painkillers on her nightstand. She'd taken a handful of Tylenol earlier, which hadn't even dented the pain. Super-powered metabolism is great until it's really, super not.
Another cramp hits her hard, and the decision's made.
She hisses as she reaches towards the bottle. Pulls her hands out from the cozy nest of comforters and shakes out four Advils into her palm. When in Rome.
Penny knocks the pills back with a gulp of water and settles back into bed. The pain's been at a consistent five-or-six on the pain scale for at least an hour now. Not including the whole falling-off-a-building stint, or the shin-bashing incident.
Christ, her night's sucking.
She tosses and turns in bed for the next half-hour. There's a TV show up on the screen mounted across from her bed, but she's not really seeing it. Blurry faces and mumbled words. That's Hollywood for you. Penny hadn't really needed a TV in her room, but Mister Stark had insisted, and Miss Potts had assured her that if she refused this, she'd get stuck with something far more ostentatious.
She's glad for the sound, at least. It muffles the thoughts. Dampens the pinpoint focus she's got on the most aggressive, annoying cramps of her young life.
When it's officially been thirty minutes, the advertised time for the painkillers to kick in, Penny calls it quits. These pills are pointless. So much for doing drugs, this sucks.
Her arm flails out to the side, feeling around the enormous bed for her laptop. She'd left it there, hours ago, back when the pain was manageable. If nothing else, then maybe she can make some progress in her sketches.
New web designs, new webshooter features. Some R&D ideas for Mister Stark, if she fancies it. He's been surprisingly open to her ideas, lately. Doesn't see her as just a kid anymore. At least, it doesn't feel like that anymore.
Penny settles the computer in her lap and fires up the seven different softwares Mister Stark insists on using for development.
She's about four minutes in when she notices the warmth buzzing from the laptop. The fans are kicking in at a mile a minute, heating up the base. It's warm. It feels good.
For a blissful, magical moment, her pain subsides. Not gone completely, still cramping slightly in the pit of her stomach, but so much more manageable. Controllable. Breathable.
She goes completely stock-still, the laptop settled low on her belly. Doesn't move. Takes deliberately shallow breaths. Can't spook the serotonin away. Penny manages a miraculous two minutes of pain-free existence.
And then another sharp pang twists through, and even curling herself around the laptop doesn't help at all.
There's nothing left to do. She's tried everything. Tried the medicinal route, and the distraction route, and the stupid-fucking-burning-laptop route, and it's all come up empty.
Rainfall patters against the windows, nothing but dark and slick outside the Tower. It's past one in the morning, at this point. Late, and dark, and cold, and hurting, and alone.
A soft, hesitant knock echoes through the door.
"Pen?"
The tears start up again, quick. She doesn't know what comes over her; she's just sick of feeling like this. She clutches the laptop closer.
Her door opens a crack, light spilling in from the hallway. Mister Stark's shadow blocks the worst of the brightness.
"You up, kiddo?
To which Penny, embarrassingly, can only sob out a pathetic, watery, "Yeah."
Mister Stark lets himself in, closing the door behind him quietly. He settles at the edge of her bed, a hand coming to rest on her shoulder. Somehow, he always finds it on the first try, even in the dark.
"Hey, hey. What's going on? What's got my Spider-Girl all upset?"
Spider-Girl. The nickname just makes her cry harder. He takes care of her, he's always so good at taking care of her, and she doesn't do a single thing to deserve any of it.
"It hurts, Mister Stark, it— It doesn't usually hurt this bad."
The alarm bells that go off in Tony's brain are sharp and instantaneous. He pulls the duvet back slightly, just enough to get a good look at her face. "What hurts, sweetheart? Are you, like, injured? Karen ratted you out to FRIDAY, said you went on patrol?"
She shakes her head. The movement pulls at the tender muscles in her abdomen, makes her gasp softly. "Sucky patrol."
"Okay," Tony nods, rubbing her shoulder. "Okay, so you got hurt on patrol? Karen didn't report anything. Did you bypass the security measures again? Just—"
He takes a breath. Stuffs down the fear and the anger that sharpens in his chest at the thought. "I won't be mad. Just tell me what protocols you messed with."
She only shakes her head again, much softer this time. A conscious effort not to aggravate the cramps. "It's cramps, Mister Stark. Didn't get hurt on patrol, promise. I promise—"
"Alright, hey. Look at me," he says, bringing his hand to cup her cheek. His thumb swipes away a tear. "I'm not mad. Do I look mad? 'Cause I'm not. You don't have to worry about that. I never get mad."
Penny huffs something that might be a laugh if there weren't tears drying on her cheeks. "You're always mad."
He shrugs. "Maybe. But never at you."
A smile tugs at her lips. It folds into a wince, and Tony's struck by just how small she looks. Curled up, tucked neatly into a blanket that swallows her whole. His hand moves to her back, always moving, always gentle.
"You said cramps, hm? That sucks, kiddo. D'you take something for the pain?"
"Yeah," she mumbles, tries to roll onto her back, to face him fully, only to hiss when it stings. "Tried both. Didn't work."
Tony nods quietly, shifting on the bed. "You gonna be okay by yourself for a minute? I've got some things to grab."
Penny despises the way it makes her whine. She doesn't want him to leave. She feels completely, absolutely ridiculous. Swallows down her petulance and nods. "I'm okay."
He raises a brow at that. "Jury's out on that one. I'll be back soon. Don't miss me too much."
She sinks back into herself. Small and compact, like trying to disappear from the inside out. The TV still glows faintly, pale light on pale skin. Penny ducks into the covers again, nothing but a mop of curls to find her by. Time drifts and falls around her; she's not really sure when Mister Stark appears back at her side.
"C'mon, Webs," he whispers, tugging at the comforter. "Shower's up. Heat's gonna help."
"Shower?"
"Well, yeah. You don't like baths," he says simply.
It's an embarrassing walk, being half-dragged towards her ensuite bathroom. Penny's too far gone in exhaustion and pain to really care. Mister Stark's arm is carefully holding her up, encouraging and coaxing in the gentlest tone she's heard from him.
"You're doing good, kiddo. Almost there. Got some painkillers all lined up for you. Place looks like a pharmacy. You'll love it."
"Say no to drugs," Penny mumbles. Her face seems to be permanently stuck in this pinched, tight expression. Every time Tony glances at her, even fleetingly, she looks pained. Cracking jokes doesn't soften the lines carved between her brows.
"Right," he says, settling her on the lip of the tub. "Usually, we say no to drugs. Today, we're grateful for modern medicine, yeah?"
"Mr. Rogers is gonna be jealous."
Tony smiles at her, softened and raw. Hands her a small paper cup with three pills inside. "It's about time something went wrong for that guy, anyway. Too blonde, too many teeth, too perfect. He deserves to be a couple decades behind on his opioids."
"Opioids?" Penny asks, holding up the cup, hesitant.
"Super-sized baby Tylenol. And Advil. And a muscle relaxer. No opioids, Scout's honor."
She plays absently with the pills, moving them around the cup with the tip of her finger. She's not a fan of taking pills, which is sort of (extremely) hypocritical considering how many she'd downed earlier in desperation. Fine, she knocks them back.
"Alright, up you go. I'm gonna be right outside if you need me, 'kay? FRIDAY put a child-lock on my music volume, so there's a solid chance I might actually hear if you scream," Mister Stark says, crouching down in front of Penny. She nods quietly. "That also means I'm gonna be able to hear if you sing."
He says it like it's a threat, and it succeeds in making Penny smile. She feels like shit, but he's being kind. It's the middle of the night, and he didn't even hesitate. Didn't think twice before scooping her up like a frail baby bird. Which she feels like, right about now.
Mister Stark pats her back twice and retreats; it leaves Penny alone in the bathroom, steam curling at her feet. It doesn't take long before she warms up. Lets herself soak in the warm (hot, as hot as it can go, as hot as Penny can conceivably tolerate) spray, washing away the grime of pain and sweat.
The warmth does soothe the cramps. It's better than her computer was—warmer and more consistent—reaching everywhere that aches. Penny genuinely has no clue how long she spends in the shower. Couldn't be more than twenty minutes, she thinks, but she's pretty bad at judging time. When she thinks it's been an hour, it's only been ten minutes; when she thinks it's been fifteen, it's been two hours.
When she emerges, whenever that is, from the bathroom, she looks like a kicked puppy. Nose red, curls dripping onto her shoulders, pyjama pants too big, cuffs dragging at her heels. Mister Stark just smiles, soft, from where he's settled comfortably in Penny's bed.
"I've got the goods, kid, come take your pick."
And he really, truly does. Her nightstand's been wiped clean of its usual stuff: no more alarm clock, or water glass, or webshooter. Instead, it's a fanfare of foods and treats and things that Penny has absolutely no clue where Mister Stark got in the middle of the night.
Mac n' cheese, and chicken noodle soup, and chocolate—my God, Penny has never seen so much chocolate in her entire life. It's a cornucopia. If she didn't know any better, she'd say Mister Stark looked bashful. But he's Mister Stark, so he's physically incapable of anything resembling humility.
And yet, he's quiet, and he's soft, and he's really trying for Penny. Inexplicably, seeing the display, Penny feels tears prick at her eyes again. What a complete and total loser.
She stands there, in her too-big pyjamas and her still-wet hair, crying. Pathetic, and small, and looking so much like a child that it makes her bones ache. "I'm sorry."
Mister Stark tuts, patting the bed beside him. "Get in here. Enough of that. I hate that word."
That manages to pull a huff out of her. She settles gingerly up against the pillows, knees pulled to her chest. "You never use it."
"Correct. And neither should you." His hand hovers over her back again, and he nods towards the TV. "Got all your favorites. Empire Strikes Back, and—God forbid—Phantom Menace queued up after it."
"Phantom Menace rocks. You just hate anti-heroes."
"Pen," he sighs, sliding his hand up to scratch at her scalp, "I invented the anti-hero. And Anakin is definitely not an anti-hero."
"Boo," she says, but all snark is lost as she melts into the touch. The gentle slide through her curls, the careful careful careful brush down the back of her head. Does everything short of purr at the affection.
Tony smiles. Disarmed. "How'd you want your hair, kiddo?"
"Hm?"
"Your hair," Tony repeats, quiet. Shifts until he's sat behind her and she's leaning drowsily. "I can do a bun, or a ponytail. I can braid it. My french braid needs a little work, so my Dutch braid's, naturally, rusty."
Penny blinks. Frowns. "You can do hair?"
Mister Stark raises a brow at her, tilting her head back so he can look her in the eye.
"Penelope Parker, how dare you insinuate that you're surprised by my ability to handle a few curls." He gathers her hair back, tucking a stray lock behind her ear as he goes. "I'm an engineer. A genius. You think I can't watch a couple Youtube videos and figure it out?"
"Sorry," Penny mumbles, exaggerated. Feels herself slipping into sleep as Mister Stark toys with her hair. "Braid would be nice."
He hums softly. Calm. Casual. Like they do this every day, like none of this is strange and weird. "One braid? Two?"
"Whatever you want," she says, and it comes out slurred. The pain's subsided. All but gone, thanks to the warmth and the pills and the care. She feels fuzzy. Like nothing's quite set around the edges, just hazy and lazy and cozy.
Mister Stark doesn't say anything else. FRIDAY kicks off Empire Strikes Back at a low volume, letting the music wash through the room. There's gentle, patient fingers carding through her hair, sectioning it off. The carefull pull and twist of braiding feels nice. Makes Penny's thoughts stray and her heart childish. He hands her the bowl of macaroni, and she digs in without a thought. Chews absently as the screen glows with laser beams and starships. The salty-sharp taste of cheddar is as comforting as anything.
He takes his time. Restarts the left braid a few times when it doesn't come out like he'd imagined it. Cons of a perfectionist, but Penny doesn't seem to mind the extra time of doting. She's asleep before he's fastened off the second braid, her head resting against his shoulder. The position he's pulled will definitely give him a crick in the neck. He doesn't really mind.
Tony ties off the braid and carefully extricates himself from behind her. Maneuvers her to lay down flat in bed, and pulls the blanket up to her shoulders. He smoothens out the baby hairs that fall over her eyes—too short to be braided back. Penny looks so small.
The thought plagues him. Keeps slingshotting back to the front of his mind. Seeing her there, curled up, in pain. It prods at every soft, tender part of him. He's never had to do this before. Take care of someone, protect someone. He's made mistakes—he doesn't delude himself to think he's perfect. Every single text he gets from her is accompanied by a bucketload of dread. What if she's hurt? What if she's dying? What if she hates you?
But he does his best. He tries to be a mentor, and a guidance. Tries to teach her to clean up after herself in the lab, to take risks and try new things, to play it safe out in the field, to ask for help when she needs it. Tonight proves that he needs a refresher on that last one, but he's making progress. Point is, he's not a father. He doesn't pretend to be a father. It'd be a pretty shoddy act, even if he tried.
"Do. Or do not. There is no try."
His attention's drawn to the TV, then. Try. He's not a man who tries. Tony Stark is not someone how attempts. He does. And if the next thing he has to do is take care of that little girl, well, he'll just have to do it, won't he? Trying's never been good enough, anyway.