It's rare to see Peter at breakfast this early. Usually, he's got the punctuality of a teenager, which is to say, none at all. But there he is, still in sweats, looking like he just rolled out of bed, which, let's be honest, he probably did, and wearing this goofy grin.
"Morning, Mr. Stark!" he says, way too loudly for seven a.m.
"Kid," I reply, taking a sip of coffee and raising an eyebrow. You sound chirpy. Did you get enough sleep last night?
Peter's already in his chair, fumbling with a bagel, which he's trying to spread cream cheese on with the blunt side of his knife. He looks up, eyes slightly unfocused.
"Sleep? Me? I'm always sleeping. Like, I could be sleeping right now. He giggles, then looks genuinely surprised, like he didn't know that could happen.
Okay. Odd. "Are you drunk?"
"What?" He looks at me with exaggerated confusion, eyes wide and round like a cartoon character. ''I'm Peter Parker, your friendly neighborhood Spider-Man, not Peter whatever his name is from that wine movie with the Hulk guy."
I blink, trying to decipher the nonsensical sentence he just threw at me, but he's on to fiddling with a spoon now, squinting at it as if it's a weapon he's never seen before.
Something feels off, but maybe the kid's just overtired. Finals, patrols, Stark Internship, the guy's juggling more than half the Avengers combined.
"Okay, Peter, real talk. Did you even sleep last night?"
"Oh, totally. Totally slept...so much sleep," he mutters, putting cream cheese on the napkin instead of the bagel. He stares at it, then shrugs and says, "Close enough."
I share a look with Bruce, who's watching this performance from across the table, and he quirks an eyebrow in my direction. By now, Peter's moving on to a pancake, except he's not cutting it. He's just poking it with a fork, mumbling something under his breath.
"Pete?" Bruce tries. "Everything alright?"
Peter waves his hand in Bruce's general direction, though he's not actually looking at him. "You know, the pancake is like, the pizza of the breakfast world." he declares grandly. "All circles are actually pizzas, if you really think about it."
"Sure, buddy," Bruce says carefully.
At this point, Steve's in on the action, and Natasha's watching like she's waiting for him to make one more misstep just so she can pounce. It's Clint, though, who finally leans over, eyeing Peter with a mix of curiosity and concern.
"Kid, you're sweating buckets."
I glance at Peter again, and sure enough, his forehead has this faint sheen of sweat, which, well, that's unusual. Peter hasn't gotten so much as the sniffles since the whole radioactive spider thing. His immune system should be bulletproof.
"Pete, I say, standing up. "You feeling okay?"
"I'm feeling like a million bucks, Mr. Stark!" he chirps, only now there's a tremor in his voice that doesn't sit right with me. He goes to pick up his glass of orange juice but misses, his hand landing on the table instead, fingers splayed as if he's just forgotten how to hold things. He blinks at it, like his own hand is a stranger.
"Tony," Bruce says, voice suddenly laced with a professional urgency. "I think he's burning up."
"Ah, nah, I'm just really excited about pancakes..." Peter trails off, his voice going soft. I reach over and press a hand to his forehead.
It's like touching a stovetop that's been left on too long.
"Kid, why didn't you say you were sick?" I demand, heart rate ticking up a notch. I don't know why I'm so worried, he's gotten sick before the spider bite and been fine, I'm sure.
Peter gives me this goofy smile, eyelids drooping, like he's already halfway to sleep. "Can't get sick, Mr. Stark. Got the spider power. I'm immune. Like, invincible..." His words start to slur, and his head drops forward, like it's too heavy for his neck to hold up anymore.
Then, before any of us can react, he's slumping forward, face-first into the pancake he was barely poking earlier.
I lunge to catch him before he slides out of his seat. He's dead weight in my arms, skin radiating heat like a small furnace, his face flushed and eyes barely open. Maybe this is more than a fever.
"Still...still totally fine," he mumbles, barely conscious but still somehow cracking a joke.
Natasha's already on her feet, and Bruce is grabbing his bag. "Tony, we should get him to medical."
As we start moving him, Peter, despite being semi-unconscious, is still babbling incoherently, like the fever's given his brain a free pass to go full-speed on nonsense.
"Did you guys know...know there's a star out there that's just....really big? Like, super big....it's like..." he squints at me through half-open eyes, "like you, Mr. Stark, but...with gas."
"Thanks, kid," I mutter, rolling my eyes even as my heart thuds against my ribs.
We make it to the medical wing, Peter's limp and babbling the whole way, his temperature clearly sky-high. Bruce's got the scanner ready as we settle Peter down on the bed, and I keep one hand on his shoulder, giving it a reassuring squeeze.
"Just need a nap," he mutters, his voice barely a whisper now. "Just a little nap...even though I'm not tired..."
"Yeah, sure, kid. We'll get you a nap," I tell him, glancing up at Bruce, who's already checking his vitals. His expression isn't great. This fever isn't normal. He shouldn't be able to get sick, what with the spider-bite and all. I know he'll probably be fine, because the spider-bite also thankfully gifted him an advanced healing factor that should take care of whatever's going on pretty quickly. Still, I can't keep myself from worrying. I don't usually enjoy seeing my spider protegees in pain.
Peter lets out a sleepy chuckle, his eyes slipping shut. "Bet I'd still look good in spandex, even sick.'' And then he's out, completely gone.
I don't let myself let go of his shoulder.