Infection
Peter winced.
Damn, his side hurt. Thick, dark blood dripped from his fingers as he pressed them against the wound. The metallic smell made him want to throw up.
The bullet had sliced through his flesh as easily as cutting through soft marshmallow. The pain had blinded him, and for a moment his world turned white—or maybe red, he couldn't tell. All he knew was that the pain had knocked him flat, and a scream had ripped through the night, shredding his throat and ears alike—he only realized much later that it had come from him.
When he opened his eyes again, he was lying on the ground, face soaked with tears and side throbbing.
The woman who'd shot him was gone, along with the cash she'd stolen after cracking the ATM open with some kind of advanced tech. Fortunately, the street was empty, likely because it was two in the morning and this part of town was mostly industrial.
A groan of pain escaped him. How the hell had he ended up here again?
OOO
Peter was supposed to be crashing at Ned's, but the two of them had run out of ice cream and Peter volunteered to grab more from the corner store. He hadn't expected to walk into an armed robbery in progress. He really hadn't expected the thief to whip out a silenced pistol when he tried to stop her.
Maybe he should've kept walking. Tony hadn't officially cleared him to wear his Spider-Man suit again, so he wasn't supposed to intervene in minor crimes anymore. But this woman... she was right there! What was he supposed to do? Just turn around and pretend he hadn't seen anything?
'I think you've made a mistake, ma'am,' he said as he approached, trying to look like an average, harmless fifteen-year-old and not a superhero grounded from duty. 'That's… not really how you withdraw cash. If the cops show up, they might get the wrong idea, you know?'
She didn't even speak. Just pulled out her gun and pointed it at him.
Despite the chill racing down his spine,Peter forced himself to stay still. If he dove for cover like his instincts were screaming at him to do, she might guess his secret identity.
He hadn't expected her to shoot so fast.
Nor had he expected her to run off without a second glance, leaving him bleeding in the gutter like yesterday's trash. When did New Yorkers get so rude?!
OOO
Peter took a shaky breath, the pain still intense, but at least the bleeding was slowing. His superhuman metabolism was kicking in, trying to mend the wound. Gritting his teeth to keep from screaming, he plunged his fingers into the injury, searching for the bullet before his skin healed over it completely. A low groan escaped him, and the taste of blood filled his mouth—he'd bitten his tongue in his attempt to hold back the cries.
Got it!
The bullet clicked onto the pavement and Peter exhaled shakily in relief. At least that part was done. Now that it was out, the pain felt less sharp—though somehow deeper, more burning, pulsing in time with his heartbeat.
He pushed himself upright, legs trembling, and staggered back toward Ned's house.
He just hoped his friend wouldn't be too disappointed about the lack of ice cream.
Or wouldn't panic too much by the sight of his blood-soaked T-shirt.
OOO
Ned completely panicked.
Peter had to wrestle him into silence to keep him from waking up his mom. Then came convincing him he was fine (not true), that the wound was nearly healed (also not true), and that absolutely no one needed to tell Tony Stark (very, very true).
Ned turned pale when Peter showed him the bullet, but admitted it was kind of awesome that he'd pulled it out himself. He even managed not to faint when Peter stitched himself up (badly) using Ned's mom's sewing kit.
After Ned calmed down, Peter took a shower to rinse off the dried blood. He jumped when the warm water hit his side and cautiously touched the wound. It wasn't bleeding anymore—the stitches were holding—but it looked swollen.
Still, after rinsing it thoroughly, he figured it'd be fine my morning and he didn't think about it again before crawling into bed.
OOO
The next morning, pain jolted him awake like a live wire to his side. He discreetly lifted his T-shirt... and nearly threw up. The wound now looked like a piece of meat. Raw, swollen, sickly. Ew.
Alright, his healing factor seemed to be taking longer than usual. No big deals, he told himself as he struggled to sit upright. Nothing to panic about.
He pretended to feel totally fine as he ate breakfast with Ned and his mom, though the toast made him nauseous. After thanking his friend's mother for letting him stay over, he caught the subway back to the Stark Tower, all the while trying to ignore the steady drumbeat of pain radiating from his ribs.
The second he reached the top floor, he collapsed onto the living room sofa, deciding to officially cancel verticality. He stayed there, half-conscious and letting random TV ads blur together, until Tony finally strolled in.
His nose was buried in his StarkPad, and he looked sharp in his three-piece suit. 'So, kid, did you and Zed have fun?' Tony asked him without looking up, perching on the arm of the sofa.
'Ned,' Peter muttered. 'You know it's Ned. Zed isn't even a real name.'
'If you say so. Did you finish building that flying saucer you couldn't stop talking at lunch?'
'It's a spaceship, not a flying saucer.'
'I don't see the difference.'
Peter didn't have the energy to argue. He changed the subject instead.
'You heading out?'
Tony smirked. 'What gave it away?'
'The tie. You only wear that one when you're meeting people you hate. Hoping the pattern gives them migraines.'
Tony's grin widened. 'Touché. Yeah, big boring meeting with big boring people. Might last all day. You gonna be okay by yourself, or should I call in a sitter?
'Ha ha. I'm fine.'
Tony arched an eyebrow over his tablet.
'You're unusually quiet today, kid. Everything okay? You and Fred get into a fight?'
'Ned' Peter grunted, clutching a pillow protectively to his side. 'And… no. We were up late. Talking about… stuff. That's all.'
'By stuff, I assume you mean that girl who runs your decathlon? MJ, right?' He winked at him. 'You've got that dreamy look. Teenage hormones, am I right?'
If Peter hadn't been so out of it, he might've been surprised that Tony remembered MJ's name, or picked up on his crush—but all he could think now about was the fire burning in his side, and he only managed a weak: Among other things.'
Tony chuckled. 'Alright, kiddo. I'll leave you to your brooding. Be we are having The Talk sometime soon, you know. Don't think you're getting out of it.'
'Oh God. Please, no," Peter groaned, curling into the cushion.
Tony cleared his throat. 'You need to know that when two people love each other very much, they—'
'Tony!'
Tony laughed and stood. 'Okay, okay. I'll let you off for now. Get some rest. If you need anything, Happy's around. And eat something, alright?'
'Yes, Mom,' Peter muttered.
'Glad someone's finally giving me the respect I deserve. Later, kid.'
'Later, old man.'
Tony snorted and ruffled Peter's hair before disappearing down the hall.
Peter sighed, relieved Tony hadn't noticed anything. He would've freaked out, and this wasn't worth freaking out over. He'd be fine. He always healed.
OOO
A few hours later, Peter deeply regretted staying quiet.
The pain was unbearable. It was like being shot over again and again, the phantom of the bullet sinking into his flesh and ruthlessly crushing his nerves. His face was soaked in sweat —or were they tears?—and waves of nausea crashed over him.
He hadn't even made to reach his room. He was still lying on the sofa, limbs heavy as lead.
'Peter,' Friday's voice said somewhere above his head, 'your body temperature is dangerously high, and your vitals indicate a state of distress. In such a situation, I am programmed to call someone.'
He couldn't even argue. He hurt too much. And calling someone actually sounded brilliant. Why hadn't he thought of that?
Oh yeah: he didn't want Tony to know he'd broken the rules. That he'd gotten involved. That he'd gotten shot.
Why did he stop that woman from stealing from the damn cash machine? Why had he bothered? He didn't even have a bank card!
'Who should I contact, Peter?' Friday prompted.
Tony, he thought. I need Tony.
But Tony was …busy, right? Business meeting, all day… but hadn't he said Happy was around?
'Happy,' Peter croaked. 'Call Happy. Please.'
'Sending a distress message to Happy Hogan now,' Friday replied calmly. 'Hold on, Peter.'
Hanging on felt like a stretch. Nausea churned in his gut, he wasn't sure how much longer he could keep it together. Maybe if he sat up—
Stars danced across his vision, but somehow he got upright. Leaning heavily against the wall, he shuffled toward the bathroom.
He made it! Well, barely. The door shut behind him and he collapsed to his knees just in time to throw up into the toilet. The retching felt endless; when it finally stopped, he was too weak to move, so he rested his sweat-soaked forehead against the cold porcelain and closed his eyes.
'...ter? Peter!'
Peter frowned. He didn't remember falling asleep.
'Peter, open up!'
Someone was banging on the bathroom door. Heavy, frantic blows. Panicked.
'Peter, if you don't open this door, I'll have to force it!' warned a distant voice, the voice of... Happy?
What was he doing here? And why was he yelling like that? Was something wrong?
Peter couldn't remember. He only knew that he was too hot—God, his body was burning.
'Okay, I warned you. I hope you're at least wearing pants.'
There was a loud, sharp crash, then a muffled yelp.
'Peter!'
Footsteps rushed towards him, and a hand cupped his cheek, gently turning his face away from the cool surface of the toilet.
'Peter, kid, can you hear me?'
He tried to respond, but all that came out was a groan of pain. The hand moved to his forehead, dislodging a few strands of hair stuck to his damp temples.
'Oh my God, Peter, you're burning up. What's going on? Are you in any pain anywhere?'
With difficulty, Peter managed to point to his side. Through half-lidded eyes, he saw Happy's distressed expression as he carefully lifted his T-shirt.
Happy held back a horrified curse.
'Okay, okay, okay. Don't panic, Happy. Everything's going to be fine.'
Despite himself, Peter glanced down at his side and nearly vomited again. The wound was swollen, lined with dark blood, and gave off a horrible stench. The clumsy stitches made it look like a decaying roast.
'Ugh...'
Happy immediately guided his head away.
'No, Peter, don't look that. Look at me, okay? Focus on me.'
'It hurts... it hurts a lot, Happy...'
'I know, kid, Im sorry. We'll get you taken care of, okay? And maybe Tony will only have a mild heart attack when we tell it. Can I carry you?'
Peter hesitated, then nodded weakly. Happy carefully scooped him up, trying to lift him, but the pain exploded —doubled, tripled, unthinkable—and Peter screamed, bile rising in his throat. His world dissolved into agony, his mind static like a broken TV screen.
Happy laid him down on the bathroom tiles again, more panicked than ever.
'Okay, okay, this isn't going to work. Peter, can you hold on for a few more moments? I have to call for help.'
'N-no...'
Peter didn't want Happy to leave. He didn't want to be alone with the pain again.
Happy seemed to understand, because he knelt beside him and took his hand.
'I'm here, Peter. But we have to tell Tony and Bruce. It's for your own good, okay?'
There were too many words. Peter only managed a faint, confused hum of agreement, his eyelids fluttering closed. The pain was so overwhelming it made staying conscious exhausting.
Happy tapped his cheek urgently.
'Hey, no falling asleep, Pete.'
'Mmm...'
Distant murmurs cackled above him, then suddenly:
'Stay with Happy, kid.'
Peter frowned. Was he dreaming, or had Tony just spoken? He forced his eyes open slightly and found himself staring at Tony's face on Happy's phone screen. Uh, yeah, FaceTime.
'T-Tony...?'
'Hey, Pete. Missed me that much, huh? If you wanted me home, you could have just asked, you know.'
'H-huh...'
Tony smiled, but there was something off in his expression—something that looked like fear.
'I-I'm s-sorry,' Peter whispered. 'Didn't mean to... bother you…'
'No. No, none of that, okay? You never bother me, especially not when you're hurt. That's when I want to be bothered. I'm the adult, you're the kid—remember?'
'I... I thought I could… manage… thought it would heal on… its own… I'm s-sorry... I disappointed you...'
'No, kiddo, you didn't disappoint me. On the contrary, I'm proud that you called Happy. Being a superhero doesn't mean doing everything alone—it means knowing when to ask for help.'
'F-Friday made me ask for help…’
'Then I'm proud of you for listening to her.'
'T-Tony... I'm s-sorry...' Peter repeated weakly. 'F-failed to stop her... just needed... ice... Ned...'
'No, no, Peter, stay with us!'
'Tony, he's slipping' Happy said, panic rising. 'Where the hell is Bruce? His temperature's spiking again. What do I do? Should I put him under cold water?'
'No, the shock would make it worse. Bruce will be there any second—he just has to hold on. Pete? Can you hear us?'
'Peter?' echoed Happy.
Peter couldn't answer. Couldn't open his eyes—when had they closed again?
'Peter, come on!'
Happy tapped his face. Peter wanted to speak, but a sudden fit of coughing seized him.
'Whoa, easy there, kid...'
Each cough tore through his side, igniting the pain again. He just wanted it all to stop…
'What's happening? Happy, what's happening?'
'He's struggling to breathe, he's going to choke if—Tony, if Bruce doesn't get here now—!'
'He's in the elevator. Pete? Peter?'
Peter wanted to reassure them, but the ringing in his ears was too loud. A black veil fell over his vision, and he slipped into unconsciousness.
OOO
He was hot. So hot.
And thirsty. His throat felt like sandpaper.
Voices whispered nearby.
'Tony, you should go rest.'
'No.'
'You look awful. You're gonna freak the kid out when he wakes up'
'Your concern is so touching, Rhodey. Really, I’m warmed to my core.'
'Tony, sit down. You're pacing like a caged animal. I'm surprised you haven't torn a hole in the floor yet.'
‘God, I’m fine! I don't need to sit down!'
'And you don't need to shout every other word, Tones.’
Peter frowned. He recognized those voices—but they sounded muffled... confused... Had he been drinking again? No, no tequila this time… right? He couldn't remember. Everything felt hazy, and he was too hot.
Something heavy lay over him. A blanket? He tried to push it off, but his arm only managed a weak twitch before falling limp again.
Someone must have noticed though.
'Peter?'
A hand touched his cheek—cool, so cool. Peter sighed in relief.
'Hey, kiddo, are you awake?'
'We'll get Bruce,' someone whispered nearby, footsteps retreating.
'Can you open your eyes for me?’
Peter managed to part them slightly. A face hovered him. Blurred, haloed with light. Was it… ?
A small smile tugged at his lips.
'D-dad,' he whispered. 'Y-you're... you're here.'
The face frowned.
Weird. His father never has that much beard. And it had never been so dark… He reached up with trembling fingers and touched the rough cheek, which twitched in surprise.
'Pete, baby, do you know where you are?'
The question spun him into confusion. Where was he? He looked around. White sheets, pale pink blanket, IV in his hand….
'D-doctor,' he murmured.
'Yes, Pete, we're at the doctor's. Do you remember what happened?' his father asked gently, brushing his hair.
'Mhm...'
His thoughts were too foggy to form a clear answer. All he could remember was the pain. Pain and fear and—
'I-I was at Ned's...' he mumbled. 'There was… this woman... with a gun…'
He suddenly jolted, panic electrifying his chest..
'Tony can't find out. I promised… he'll be so mad!’
'Hey, hey. Calm down, Pete. It's okay. He's not mad,' his father said quickly, stroking his cheek. 'He was, when he heard that you were hurt. But now he just wants you better. Okay?'
He was smiling, but Peter saw fear hiding in the depths of his dark eyes.
Since when were his father's eyes that color?
'D-dad... I think something's wrong,' Peter whispered.
'Everything's fine, baby.'
'A-am I sick?'
His father's smile faltered slightly.
'Yes,' he said softly. 'You're sick, but you're going to get better really soon. Okay?'
His heartbeat spiked.
'I don't want to die... Please, Dad...'
'Hey, no. You're not going to die. Not while I'm here,' his father replied, and then something strange happened: he leaned down and hugged Peter, letting him press his face into his shoulder.
Peter sniffled. Something was definitely wrong...
It didn't smell like his dad. It smelled like coffee, and his dad hated coffee. At least, that’s what May had told him; his dad had been gone so long, he couldn't remember anymore by himself. His voice, his laugh… All he knew was that they never saw Star Wars together, never played baseball, never—
And yet here he was. Holding him.
None of this could be real… right?
'Dad,' he sobbed weakly. 'Daddy, don't go...'
'I'm not going anywhere, Peter,' whispered the voice of his father-who-was-maybe-not-his-father in his ear.
'Please, Dad...'
'Sorry to interrupt, but I… Tony?'
A new voice entered the room. Almost familiar. 'Rhodes and Happy said Peter's awake. How is he?'
'Not great,' replied his… the… the man. 'But he's going to get better. Aren't you, Peter?'
'Mhm..." Peter murmured, soothed by the steady breathing against his cheek. 'D-don't go…'
'I'm here. Not going anywhere. Go back to sleep, baby, I need to talk to the doctor,'
The man adjusted his blankets and kissed him to the forehead. A hand gripped his, and Peter clung to it. He closed his eyes, drifting back to sleep.
Then, from somewhere beyond dreams:
'Bruce, something's wrong. Peter… God, he thinks I'm his father!’
'It's the fever, but his temperature's already coming down. The meds are working.'
'What it the fever hurt his brain?' The man's voice cracked. 'He seemed so lost, Bruce… I can't—'
'You need to stay calm, Tony. Peter will need you when he wakes up. '
Tony…? Tony was there?
Relief washed through him like a tide and he drifted off.
Sill holding his dad… no, Tony's hand.
OOO
When he woke again, he was cooler—in fact, a shiver ran down his spine. He awkwardly adjusted the blanket over his shoulders. The pain was still there, pulsing dully at his side. Frowning, he lifted his hand and felt a bandage. What the…
Then everything came flooding back. The gun, Ned, the pain, the bathroom…
The rest was a blur. He remembered the white ceiling, the voices of Tony, Happy and Bruce, and… his father?
He sat up quickly and winced, groaning.
‘Hey, careful! You'll bust your stitches,' Tony said, guiding him back gently.
'To... Tony? What are you doing here?' Peter asked, dazed.
Tony handed him a glass of water before replying, eyebrows furrowed in perplexity:
'What do you remember?'
'I got shot… tried to fix it myself… didn't go well. Think it got infected…,' he said without thinking, sheepishly.
Tony sat beside him and let out a sigh.
'I know, and we’ll definitely talk about that later.’
‘I shouldn’t have tried to stop that woman. It was stupid…’
‘Glad to hear you say that. But for now, you're under Doctor's Protection, which means: no scolding allowed. Apparently, I'm only allowed to spoil you.'
A slight smile tickled Peter's lips.
'I-is it true? So if I ask, I could have raspberry jelly?'
'Ew. But sure. I'll see what I can do, but Bruce is the one who decides what you're allowed to eat. I don't want you throwing up on the blanket Pepper chose.'
'Thanks,' Peter smiled.
'Anything else, kid?'
He hesitated.
‘Peter?’ Tony insisted gently.
'When I was sick, I... I think I saw my dad.'
Tony looked at him silently, uncertain.
'Was... was it a hallucination? He looked so… real…’
Tony paused. 'I'm sure your dad is watching over you. But… he wasn't there, kid. I've been right right here the whole time. No one came by without me seeing.'
'Oh... okay.'
Peter looked away, his throat tight. Tony's hand gently squeezed his.
'I'm sorry, kid.'
'No, its… it's okay. You were there. That helped. I must've been awful to deal with. Thank you, Tony, I’m really grateful.’
'I wasn't there out of obligation, Peter. You know that, right?
Peter blinked, surprised by Tony's suddenly firm tone.
'I stayed because you're my... My…'
'Your ward?'
Tony sighed. 'No. You're… there's no word for it. But you're mine, Pete. Not adopted, not biological—but mine all the same.
Peter's eyes welled up. 'Tony...'
Tony's voice dropped lower, more vulnerable. 'Pepper and I don't have kids. Never really talked about it. But since you've been here... you've changed a lot of things in our lives, Pete. Your father couldn't be there last night, but as long as I can help it, you'll never have to go through that kind of thing alone again. I won't abandon you. I'll stay with you until you can't take it anymore and you beg me to move my old carcass somewhere out of your field of vision.'
A small laugh bubbled out of Peter, tears clinging to his lashes.
'You... you promise?' Peter's voice was barely a whisper.
'Promise. You're practically a Stark now. Only better, since you didn't inherit my father's genetic heritage.'
Peter gave a small, thoughtful hum. 'Peter Stark... sounds like a Star Wars character.'
'As long as I don't become your Darth Vader, I'm fine with it.'
'No risk of that,' Peter said, and this time, he smiled—really smiled. 'You're a way better dad than he ever was.'
Tony smiled back.
And for the first time since he'd moved in, Peter noticed the lines around Tony's mouth has softened.