It’s been, what feels like, eight years since I last wrote, so forgive me if this is rough.
After looking at the response from the post I made asking what people want to see, I’m going to go with Spider-Man because a lot of people asked for him, with a lot also asking for Tony or marvel in general.
There was a lot for DBH as well, but I’m going to go with Spider-Man (Irondad and Spiderson) for tonight. I hope that’s okay!
The snow crunching under Peter’s boots as he approaches Stark Tower only serves as a reminder of his buddy aggravation at the cold, at winter, at his poor immune system that gives out the second the temperature drops below 50 degrees Fahrenheit.
He picked up a cold a few days ago, but it wasn’t-- isn’t-- bad; it’s just a pesky annoyance really, the sneezing, the back of his throat throbbing lightly, the coughing-- all just enough to have Karen using some sort of advanced technology Peter has yet to crack to keep him from donning his suit.
“Karen, what the hell is this? Why can’t I grab my suit without getting shocked?”
“Peter, you don’t exactly have a great track record when it comes to illness and patrol. Now, unless you want me to tell Mr. Stark that you’ve been neglecting rest to catch up on homework, you will stop pushing and leave the suit alone until you’re well again.”
Peter rolls his eyes as the argument burns in his mind, and a gust of wind has him shivering with a hiss. He quickly hugs himself with a low groan. No suit means no heater, and no suit means he had to walk the twenty-five minutes to the tower because Ubers are expensive, and Ned’s mom won’t let him take the car out alone despite having his license now.
He tugs on his hood, ensuring it covers his face as much as possible, and coughs weakly, breath clouding in the cold air as he starts up the long flight of steps.
The doors whir open as soon as he approaches them, and the sudden shift from icy wind to engulfing heat has his nose twitching until he’s turning to sneeze sharply into the crook of his arm. Groaning he swipes his sleeve under his nose as his eyes shift around-- it’s empty, quiet, but if he listens, if he taps into his senses, he can hear faint arguing-- one distinctively British accent against a quiet, tired voice.
He follows the voices until he slips into the second floor lounge, where Loki is leaning against a door-frame across the room with crossed arms while Tony is curled up on one couch, a pile of tissues littering the floor around him.
“You’re a disgusting pile of snot, Stark,” Loki gripes out before dragging his gaze to Peter. “Good luck with this one.”
He spins on his heel, stalking out of the room, leaving only Peter and Tony, the latter propped up on one elbow to hack barking coughs into his fist.
“Mr. Stark!” Peter drops his backpack and coat to floor and rushes to Tony’s side, hovering but not touching-- he knows how Tony is. “Are you okay?”
Tony looks up once he catches his breath and sighs quietly. “Yeah, kid. Caught a nasty cold-- that’s all.”
With furrowed brows, Peter holds one hand up in silent question, and when Tony shows no signs of objection, he slides his palm across Tony’s forehead, lips dropping into a pressing frown at the alarming heat.
“Mr. Stark, you’re burning up. FRIDAY--”
“It’s 102.3, kid,” Tony cuts off, voice sounding an octave lower than usual as he shivers slightly from Peter’s cold palm. “FRIDAY’s already informed me, and I’ve already got medicine pumping through the system. Now I just have to wait and rest.”
Peter gets to his feet, frown still playing prominently on his lips. “Mr. Stark, if you’re sick, why did you ask me to come? We could have--”
“It’s three days until Christmas, Pete. All we’re going to do is watch stupid Christmas movies. I can handle that.”
Hesitance plays on Peter’s face, and Tony rolls his eyes through a muttered series of coughs. “Don’t give me that look. Go sit on the opposite couch so you don’t catch this plague and cue up Netflix.”
Quietly, Peter turns toward the other couch, but he pauses half way, a pesky tickle forcing him to turn and sneeze sharply into the crook of his arm.
“Unless you’ve already fallen victim?”
Sniffling, Peter turns back to face Tony with a shake of the head. “No, just the temperature difference from outside to inside. It was a cold walk--”
“You walked?” Tony sits up slightly, his turn to frown at the young boy. “Why didn’t you just swing over? I put that built in heater in your suit for a reason, you know.”
Peter swallows back a small pit of panic. “N-no, I know, Mr. Stark. I just wanted... I wanted to clear my head. I get carried away with all this hero stuff when I’m in the suit.”
Unconvinced, Tony sits up a little more. “You sound stuffy.”
“Everyone is stuffy this time of year, Mr. Stark.” Peter turns back around, grabbing the remote before he flops down onto the couch across from Tony. “I promise I’m fine.”
Tony holds Peter’s gaze for an extended moment, as if picking the kid apart, but Peter knows that look far too well, so he does his best to look relaxed, at ease, like he didn’t just lie to Tony’s face.
“Fine,” Tony says before turning to sneeze into the blankets. He glances at Peter, eyes shifting to his own mound of blankets before looking back to Peter’s bare couch. “You warm enough over there? I had FRIDAY raise the heat a little because I’m freezing.”
“Yeah, I’m good, Mr. Stark,” Peter says, shifting his eyes to the TV. Another lie-- he, too, is freezing. His bones are aching to shake against the chill settling against them, yet his face is far too warm.
Nodding, Peter arrows over to the movie and presses play. He keeps his eyes to the screen while his focus is on Tony’s persistent coughing and sneezing. Worry pulls at his stomach, but then Tony grows quiet, and Peter spares a glance to see the older man has nodded off, looking at ease in a light slumber.
Without eyes on him, Peter presses his mouth to his shoulder and coughs harshly, muffling the cough into the fabric of his hoodie, before he lies down, curling onto his side as a shiver whips like an electric shock across his body. His eyes are drooping, and it’s somewhere between the Grinch’s backstory that he, too, nods off.
Tony’s pulled awake not by the end song from the movie, but from the sound of harsh coughing coming far too close and not from him. He pries tired eyes open, but the sight of Peter curled into a shaking ball and coughing loudly in a fitful sleep has him shooting up with wide, alarmed eyes.
The kid looks far too pale, and his brows are furrowed in his sleep. He’s shaking from head to toe, teeth clacking together in between painful coughs, and Tony gets to his feet, swaying slightly but blinking past the sudden haze as he crosses the room to Peter.
“His current temperature is 103.2 degrees, sir. Karen’s patched over his vitals over the last four days. Would you like me to read them to you?”
“Let me guess,” Tony starts, voice almost a groan. “He went from okay, to bad, to worse?”
“Yes, sir. He caught a cold a few days ago, and his temperature has been steadily climbing since then due to lack of proper rest. I’m afraid his walk here may have pushed his cold to bronchitis.”
There are words Tony wants to say, but Peter’s starting to stir awake, and when he blinks slowly at Tony, Tony only cocks his head to the side with a frown.
“M-Mr. Stark?” Peter rasps out, trying to sit up. “Why’re you up? You should be--”
“Taking care of your ass apparently,” Tony starts, turning away to muffle a few coughs. His head is throbbing, but the kid looks positively miserable. “103.2 degree-fever, kid? What was that nonsense about being fine?”
Frowning, Peter presses one shaky hand to his cheek, the heat warming his finger tips upon brief contact. “It’s just a cold--”
“Not anymore, it isn’t.” Tony doesn’t mean to sound as harsh as he does-- it’s a spark of concern that comes out as a wave of anger. He gets to his feet with a sigh, and when Peter tries to stand as well, Tony bends over to gently push him back down. “Stay put, kid. I’ll be right back.”
From heavy-lidded eyes, Peter watches as Tony leaves the room while chatting with FRIDAY. He tries to follow the fleeting conversation, but the fatigue is pulling him back under, and he slips off again.
He recalls waking up once to drink something that tasted terrible, and he faintly remembers some rustling, possibly some moving, but the fever keeps his mind hazy and drifting back to sleep, until he wakes a few hours later, a frown playing on his lips because he’s sitting up-- sort of. He’s no longer lying flat on his side, he’s pressed against something-- no.
He’s pressed against someone because he’s warm, no longer feeling as if he’s close to freezing to death. There’s a blanket over him, and there’s an arm draped around his shoulders. He peers up to see Tony sitting up right, his head tilted back against the back of the couch as he snores softly.
He can’t remember much, but he doesn’t want to wake Tony to ask. Yet a soft voice, one just barely above a whisper, comes from across the room, and Peter shifts his gaze until he sees Loki perched in an arm chair with one leg crossed over the other.
“He’s fine,” Loki says quietly, and when Peter mutters a weak “how,” Loki cuts him off. “You're easy to read, kid. Tony’s fever is already going down. Yours, however, is still high enough that I’m forced to sit in here and play babysitter to you two sniffling imbeciles until Rogers gets back.”
Peter holds Loki’s gaze, blinking slowly, tiredly. “Thanks,” he whispers before dropping his head back against Tony’s side. He thinks he hears a scoff; he’s not surprised, but he drifts off with a smile when he hears a mumbled “you’re welcome.”
