a/n: old oneshot that i wrote while dealing with a 104.7 fever and i am not responsible for any incoherencies. hey guys hows it going i just started college and i am going to lots and lots of doctors appointments every week (unrelated to the fever)

He hasn't felt like this since he was thirteen going on fourteen, and his muscles ached and he had cold-shakes and he just kept thinking, shit, May just got her new job, she doesn't have health insurance yet— and, oh, he'd been nursing an infected spider bite. Radioactive, specifically.

Giving May a big ol' smile and convincing her that he felt fine, she could definitely work, he'll be okay— and then going unconscious for twelve hours at a time, kind of thinking he was going to die.

Obviously, he didn't die. Actually it felt like he did kind of the opposite, 'cuz then suddenly he had like, abs, and no asthma, and he could sit on the couch and actually see every pixel of May's cheesy medical dramas without having his (broken, taped) glasses.

And also he could do things like avoid bullets. Or not avoid bullets, bleeding all over Flushing Avenue, and still live to tell the tale. This is how, two-ish years later and at the ripe age of sixteen, he knew he'd live through whatever nasty virus this was, too.

Viruses be damned, though, he'd rather take a bullet.

He felt like shit. Capital S-H-I-T. The Bo Burnham song reincarnated into his sweating, fleshy form. His eyes burned, everything ached, and he was pretty much resigned to lying completely still on his lumpy twin-sized mattress and taking shaky, measured breaths until he fell asleep.

He's pretty sure the fever's gotten worse since May left this morning, and he was only able to convince her to leave to begin with because it had been low. A measly 100. Not great, but not the worst either.

May had given strict instructions before she did finally backtrack out the door: keep down as many fluids as he could, and to check his fever every two hours. Call her if he needed anything. And Peter said, "Okay."

Now, he's been so-so with the first instruction. He had a pitcher— literally, a pitcher. The kind that store a gallon vat of iced tea or lemonade, or god forbid iced tea-lemonade in the summer— and he filled it to the brim with water and had just been sipping at it.

This seemed insane, and kind of was, but he didn't want to keep getting up to fill a puny 12oz water glass when his legs felt like they were about to fall off, and his bed was so warm, and the outside world was so cold, and the pitcher worked, damn it.

But he'd finished that an indeterminate amount of time ago, somewhere after 'the-neighbors-are-still-watching-Curb-Your-Enthusiasm' time but before 'my-eyes-feel-like-they're-not-real' time. Either way, his neighbors have moved on to watching Scrubs, so clearly it's been a while.

As for the second one, the thermometer is on his bedside table, and he thinks he checked his temp a few times, maybe, but he keeps forgetting the results. And he keeps forgetting if he actually checked his temp or if he just thought really hard about checking his temp and his brain decided to keep those thoughts as the word of God. (Also, he really likes the word 'temp.')

He should probably check his fever again. He doesn't really know what time it is— he's been using Scrubs episodes as a clock, and he's may be hallucinating but he's pretty sure he's slept through at least half a season. Or there were a lot more Christmas plotlines than he remembered.

Unfortunately, all the evidence points to the fact that Peter must resort to step three. Call May. So makes a half-hearted series of motions, all shivering violently as the blanket lifts up to expose his skin to the air, and grabs his phone off the charger.

His hand is fumbling blearily through his phone through his contacts, the starred ones, because he can't focus at all and he's pretty sure May is at the top of the list— makes it all easier for him in emergencies.

The phone is ringing and his ears are ringing and his head is ringing and J.D. is monologuing to Dr. Cox about a Super Bowl party he wasn't invited to, and then the line clicks.

"May," Peter greets with as much cheer as he can muster. He can't tell if he's speaking very loudly or very quietly but his throat rasps and it hurts and he wants to go back to sleep. "Hi, May."

"Peter? You sound like you just got hit by a bus," a voice answers, and it sounds muffled, like it's talking through water. But Peter's chest eases at the sound, like he's hearing home, so he smiles and his dry lips crack open a little bit. "Kid? Please tell me you didn't get hit by a bus."

"Haha," Peter says, and yeah, he literally says the word 'haha.' He doesn't have the energy to actually laugh. "I wish!"

He's been hit by a bus before. He's been punched through a bus before. Way more of an enjoyable experience.

"You've what?" The voice slices, a sharpness cutting through on deaf ears. "What the hell? Peter, where are you? Isn't it a Tuesday?"

"Home sick," Peter mumbles, his eyes slipping shut as the sunlight moves just enough to stream in through his blinds.

"You're—" a pause. "You're homesick? For what, kiddo? I— alright, back up a moment. Are you safe?"

Peter groans, shutting his eyes tighter as sunlight continues to infect his little cave. The light stings at his head. "Owww. May, 'm so sorry."

"Hey, talk to me," the voice says, so strong, so parental that Peter can't help but feel equal parts soothed and scolded. "Why're you sorry? Are you hurt? FRI, bring up schematics, vitals—"

"Today was such a big day," Peter says, his tongue feeling numb as he stumbles along each word, going slower than molasses at the speed of which his mind supplies them. "You had to do the thing and then the other... and I told you I'd be okay, but 'm not feeling okay anymore. I need you. 'M sorry."

"Okay," the phone says. "Peter, it's okay. I'm on my way, alright? Are you bleeding?"

"Mm," Peter mumbles a faint disagreement, feeling absolutely miserable. "Jus' tired. I drank all the water already and I can't get up. An' I think they're watching it out of order."

"Who's watching what out of order?"

And Peter can't find the proper words to explain that it's the apartment across from them, who's definitely watching Scrubs out of order, because now J.D. is being locked on the roof of Memorial Hospital, and that's definitely a season one episode.

"Right," Phone says, befuddled. "You're sick, aren't you? Caught the spider-flu?"

Peter groans again. Loudly, to emphasize the misery.

"Okay. I can handle sick. Listen, thank you for calling me, I know that's often difficult for you," Phone seems to laugh, like he's poking fun of Peter about something.

Peter's not amused, as much as he really, really would like to be. Phone seems like a funny guy. Phone seems like he tells really funny jokes, and Peter would love to be laughing at them right now.

"It is," Peter sulks instead, because it's true, and it's not funny, and he wants his aunt. He sniffles. "It is really hard. I don't wanna 'nother spider powers. Ugh, my head hurts so bad..."

"Aw, Pete," Phone chuckles, and sighs. "I know, buddy. Alright, hang in there. I'm gonna send a call to your aunt, quick. Stay there, capiche?"

This is a silly request, because Peter can't go anywhere even if he wanted to— which he resolutely does not. His limbs are so stiff, and heavy, and he's so tired that even twitching a finger is a Herculean effort.

His phone drops lamely from his hand as he waits for something, but he forgot exactly what he was waiting for. He thinks May. May is supposed to come back, right? And take care of him?

He ick-shivers and cold-shivers and listens to the distant muddy voice of Zach Braff and someone singing about Superman to a banjo, and then everything goes blissfully fuzzy.

For the next whenever, he can't genuinely tell what is a dream and what isn't.

A hand soothes over his forehead, and when he flutters his eyes open it's all blurry— someone tells him to go back to sleep. It sounds like Ben. Peter didn't realize he got home from work so early.

"Oh, kid..."

Peter listens to Ben, and dreams again.

The hand returns, this time to take his blankets. A cold shiver racks through his entire body, every notch of his spine. He can feel the sweat gathered at his neck, the crooks of his elbows. He grunts his disproval and grips his fingers onto the fabric, pulling it back towards him.

"I know, but we have to bring your temperature down. Let go of the blanket, Spidey."

"That's a secret," Peter croaks. "'M not Spider-Man. I'm Peter Parker."

"Yeah, well, I'm Iron Man. So you have to listen to me. Let go of the blanket, Peter Parker." Someone tugs again at the duvet.

Peter peaks an eye open again, to verify the identity of his assailant. He blinks a few times, feeling dizzy even with his head pressed back firmly against his pillows.

Iron Man was not in his bedroom.

Tony Stark, however, was.

"Mr. Stark?" Peter furrows his eyebrows, shifting around on the bed. He wants to sit up, even if the thought alone makes him sort of crosseyed. His muscles don't budge more than a few inches before aching again. "Is'ere a mission?"

Tony quickly leans forward, gently guiding Peter back down. "Easy, killer. No mission."

Peter's brain short-circuits momentarily, and then starts the slow process of reboot. He blinks. Then sniffles.

Tony looks amused, his head tilted in a funny way. His mouth quirks up on one side, dimpling at his cheek. He clears his throat, and gestures to the blanket again. "You willing to work with me here?"

Peter starts, and looks back down at the blanket forlornly. "But..."

"I'll trade you. Why don't you go take a shower, and I'm going to change these sheets for you, something I have done maybe once in my life," Tony rattles off. "See? We're good for eachother. Can you stand?"

Peter sluggishly twitches his hand under the blankets. He thinks of all the ways he could say no. (Negatory. No-siree. Nopers. Thumbs-down. Absolutely not. Not gonna happen.)

He squints, and slowly gives Tony an affirmative nod.

Tony's eyes focus very intensely. Peter kind of feels like he's about to explode from the sheer power of his gaze, or like, be blown to bits with lasers.

Peter slowly shakes his head.

"Maybe a bath, then." Tony finalizes. He pulls the blankets off, ignoring Peter's whines, and helps him up. Used tissues fall to the floor, and Tony's nose curls up. "Alright, kiddo. Let's get you to the bathroom."

He lets himself be led into the bathroom, wincing as the lights are flicked on. Tony starts running the bath's faucet, one arm still outstretched like he's ready to catch Peter if he falters. It's kind of humiliating, but as it stands— Peter can hardly stand, and they both know it.

His cheeks burn red.

"I'm not a baby," Peter points out, just so they both remain aware of this fact. He's shivering so hard that his teeth clack against each other.

"I know. That's why I'm not staying in here," Tony says offhandedly. He runs his hand under the water and shakes it off once he's seemingly satisfied with its temperature. "Don't prove me wrong by drowning, will you?"

"I'm cold," Peter complains, trying not to shift from one foot to another. Every movement makes him lightheaded, which really wouldn't prove... whatever point he was starting out with.

"I know, buddy." Tony pulls back from the bath. "You able to get in there on your own? The water's not cold. Rapid cooling is a no-no these days, I got the rundown from FRIDAY on the drive here."

"I'll say thank you to her later," Peter shuffles over to the bathtub and sits down at the edge. He takes a moment to breathe and then nods. "I'll be okay, I think."

"Alright. Yell if you need anything. I'll be just across the hall," Tony says, backing up. "Do you want me to leave the door closed, or open a crack?"

"Does your old ears need it open a crack to hear me if I yell?" Peter asks unthinkingly. A moment of silence passes. Then his mouth opens, and he stares blankly, like a fish. "...Uh..."

Tony's scrubbing at his face, and his eyes are covered but it almost looks like there's a smile pulling at his lips. "I'm going to close the door. You little shit. Don't drown."

Peter smiles weakly and gives a thumbs up. Tony retreats, the door shutting softly behind him, so Peter starts peeling off his sweat-soaked pyjamas. He grimaces, and tosses them to the floor with as much effort as he can (they land about a foot away from him).

The water is not warm. Peter's still shivering when he slides into the tub. It's not as cold as the air, though, so he soaks into it and relishes as the water starts to soothe the ache in his joints. It's nice not to stink like a middle school locker room, too.

He can hear Tony outside the bathroom, rummaging around through a closet, shedding the sheets off his bed, all rustling sounds of fabric— and then the beeping of the washing machine being turned on. His footsteps creak back and forth on the old wooden floors of the Parker apartment.

The realization of his circumstances suddenly seems very, very funny. He accidentally called Iron Man instead of his aunt, and now Iron Man is doing his laundry. Iron Man is probably cleaning up his disgusting snot-tissues. This really is the timeline he's living in.

Anyway, the longer he's in the water, the better he feels. His thoughts are coming back to him a little clearer now, for better or worse, so he scrubs himself head to toe with soap and then lets the bathtub drain.

Tony, apparently, had grabbed a pair of fresh clothes for him before they'd even left his room, which Peter now clocks on the bathroom counter. He tries not to cringe as he pulls on a very old, very faded Stark Expo shirt that Ben bought when he was eight. (Peter begged for an extra extra large adult size, so he would never grow out of it, because "it's limited edition, Ben!")

To add insult to injury, it seemed Tony also picked out the cursed Hello Kitty pajama pants. At least they were warm, but Peter knows that wasn't why they were picked.

He drudges out of the bathroom and pushes open his door. The window's been cracked open, the whole room being filtered with New York's closest approximation to fresh air. Peter's sheets were in-fact changed, and all of the popsicle sticks, tissues, and miscellaneous pill bottles have all been cleared out.

Tony's crouched over, filling a laundry basket with the sporadic mess of clothes strewn across the floor. His head turns up at the door. "There he is. You feeling better?"

Peter answers by crawling into his bed and sighing with all the breath his lungs could hold.

Tony makes an amused noise and sets the laundry basket down. He takes the thermometer from Peter's newly cleared bedside table, and Peter shuts his eyes as the cold plastic smooths over his forehead gently, down the side of his face, stopping at the back of his ear.

It beeps twice in quick succession, which could be worse. Last time Peter remembered it beeping a lot more, and the light was red, which is notoriously not a good colour for a light to be.

"Well, your fever didn't break, but it is significantly lower," Tony clicks his tongue. "Congrats. You're no longer cooking your brain."

"Yippee," Peter says dryly.

"I'm making you tea," Tony decides, putting the thermometer down. "Are you hungry? You want soup? You a chicken noodle guy?"

Peter blinks open an eye, feeling a youthful hope spark up in his chest. "...I think we have cans of minestrone in the pantry?" He says quietly.

"Minestrone? Sure. I'll look for minestrone." Tony clears his throat. "I filled you an actual water bottle. It has ice in it. Drink that, I'll be back."

"Please don't burn down May's kitchen," Peter calls after him, sinking into his pillows. "It's seen enough!"

"We'll see about that!" Tony calls back.

Peter decides to sip at the water for no other reason than he knows he should, and checks his phone while Tony is suspiciously rummaging through cabinets.

Ned has been messaging him all day, talking about things he's missing: a broad spectrum ranging from Spanish quizzes to that squirrel who apparently found its way in the cafeteria again. Peter sends him back a text that (to reiterate) Iron Man is making him soup, because if anybody could understand how bizarre this was, it would be his best friend who had personally seen him in his fanboy phase.

May has been sending him texts, too. Ones that he apparently had already replied to, although he doesn't even remember getting them. He decides not to let her know about that particular detail and goes right on to updating her.

tony came over he's making me soup against my will

LOL. I know, baby. Tony called me.

How are you feeling? You sure you don't need to me come home?

feeling better now

i'm okay, promise

they need you over there! you're too special and important and amazing to leave

😋Alright, that's enough out of you

Drink lots of water. I'll be home soon ❤️‍🩹

i will, larb you!

Larb you too ❤️

He looks at his phone blankly for a measly few seconds before he once again realizes how exhausted his eyelids are from staying open. He sighs and falls backwards onto the pillows, and lets himself drift.

It seems like it's only a few seconds before he's gently shaken awake again, just a hand sweeping over his knees. He makes a grumbly noise and peeks an eye open, and Tony is there again, a mug—(a mug?)—of soup in his hand, and a bottle of pills in the other.

"Take these," Tony says, handing him the bottle. "Take three. Drink your soup so you've got something in your stomach to help digest it." 

"How do you know this stuff?" Peter mumbles, but does so anyways. He pops the pills in his mouth and swallows them down with some water. "Thought only parents knew that."

Like May, his mind suggests.

"May told me," Tony confirms his thoughts as if he had spoken them out loud. Peter nods in understanding. 

He sips at the minestrone, wincing as the liquid passes over his scratchy throat. It's bland from how congested he is, and the steam makes his nose start to run again, but the warmth feels good in his stomach. 

"Why're you here?" He rasps out finally, because his brain is finally catching up now and while Tony being here certainly wasn't unwelcome, he also cannot remember when or how or why he got here. There's definitely some pieces of the story he totally missed due to being only quarter of a functional human.

Tony raises an eyebrow, sitting down on Peter's bed. He kicks his feet up so they're resting on his spinny desk chair. "Why? You waiting to kick me out already?"

"No," Peter rolls his eyes, smiling. "Although you may wanna get out of here while you can. You might catch whatever super-flu knocked me out, and then where would we be? No Spider-Man and no Iron Man? That's like, half the Avengers right there."

"Very funny, kid," Tony says, trying valiantly and in vain to bite back a grin. "You'll be back on your feet in no time. Until then, I don't mind staying around to make sure you don't brain yourself on the windowsill or something."

"I wouldn't do that. The bathtub, maybe. But the windowsill, doubtful."

"Great, well, at least you know your limits." Tony clears his throat. "You should take a nap. Let those meds kick in."

"I've been sleeping all day," Peter complains— and he's not entirely sure why he does it, because yes, he has been sleeping all day, but he really wouldn't mind sleeping for another week. Maybe two weeks. He's really, dreadfully tired, and if a literal coma is what is gonna get him up and swinging around the city again, then it is what it is. 

But Tony is right here, and something about that makes him want to stay awake a little longer. Maybe it's because this situation as a whole is so bizarre and rare that he kind of wants to fiddle with the buttons, mess with some switches, see how far he can take it before Tony calls him out on it. 

"Alright, well you're certainly not gonna be running laps, so," Tony lifts his arms in a 'what'll-you-do' motion, a half-assed cocky shrug that he's really perfected over the years. "You can stay up long enough to drink more water, but then I'm knocking your ass out."

"You'll stay with me?" Peter blurts. Then he feels an immediate wave of regret and embarrassment, and makes the rapid fire decision to just power through. He puts on his best smile, tries not to think of how he probably looks miserable anyways. "We can watch stuff together on my laptop, it'll be fun. I'm just about to start the second season of Scrubs."

Tony scratches at his chin for a moment, and then sighs. "Yeah, alright. Punch it, Chewie."

So Peter drinks the rest of his soup and lets the fever reducers finally settle in his system. His eyes grow heavy with every line the Janitor says— and he's not entirely sure, but before he drifts off, he thinks he feels Tony run a hand through his hair, smoothing down his unruly curls, tucking them behind his ear.

"Thanks for calling me, kid," he thinks he hears Tony murmur.

Peter responds back with two spots of drool on his shoulder. Thank you for answering and I love you.

He thinks Tony will understand what it means.