Secrets

“Oh please, I don’t think Peter keeps anything from us. If anything, he should keep more to himself,” Pepper laughed.

“No, all I’m saying is that he’s been a bit quiet the past day or so. It’s irregular behavior. I think something could be wrong.” Happy shook his head and shoved some Thai food down his throat.

Tony hadn’t seen Happy this concerned about Peter in a while. Not since the Vulture-dropped-a-building-on-Peter-and-he-didn’t-tell-us incident. 

To be fair, it was strange how quiet Peter had been the past day. But, Tony just chalked it up to school related stress. Or maybe his aunt was having him pick up some extra errands for the house. Tony assumed it could be anything. 

Anything but Peter was keeping something from him. 

“Hap, Peter is any parent’s wet dream. He’s a great kid, c’mon. He wouldn’t lie.”

“So, what? You’re saying good kids can’t lie? He’s a teenager, Tony. Teenagers lie.”

“Peter loves me. He would never keep a secret in his life .” 

Peter is keeping a secret from Tony. 

It’s tearing him apart, inside and out. Mostly inside because the secret happens to be the bruised rib under his shirt.

To be fair, it only happened on a simple patrol. Nothing big enough to be reported back to Happy or Mr. Stark.

Not that either of them listen to my calls anyways.

The truth is the injury isn’t that bad. It's just your run of the mill bruised rib (with maybe a small fracture). Nothing his abilities couldn’t heal in two days tops. 

Well. Could heal in two days if he was in tip-top physical condition. 

Peter is not in tip-top physical condition. 

Peter is being brutally attacked by the flu, which with the combination of a bruised rib, makes it painfully and excruciatingly annoying to breathe. Still, Peter carried on with his daily to-do. Including, but not limited to, walking ten city blocks from school to the train, taking the train standing because he gave an old lady his seat, then walking another some ten odd blocks to Stark Tower for his training that afternoon. 

And, just his luck, it was a PT day. Led by Captain America himself. 

What could go wrong??

As Peter walked the dreaded trek to Stark Tower while munching on his crushed pickle sandwich, he couldn’t help but feel guilty. The guilt weighing on his shoulders was almost as crushing as every wheezing step he took toward the glowing Stark sign in the sky.

It was a well-known rule that Peter was not supposed to keep secrets from Mr. Stark. Especially not since the whole Vulture-dropping-a-building-on-him-and-him-not-telling-Tony fiasco. Mr. Stark put a lot of faith in Peter, and even more so in him being honest. 

Exhaustion settled deep in Peter’s bones as he took in another labored inhale and coughed out an exhale. It was enough for him to consider telling Tony. To drop to his knees and beg for forgiveness. He wanted to tell Tony so he would take care of Peter. So Peter could stop grinning and bearing it, and just be taken care of. Some flu medication and rest in a Stark Tower bed sounded like all he needed and more. Peter was sure even a scrap of attention from Tony himself would probably cure him.

But no. God no. He couldn’t tell Mr. Stark. That would go horribly wrong. The memory of the last time he kept something from Mr. Stark rang true in his head.

If you’re nothing without this suit, then you shouldn’t have it. 

Yeah, no.

Peter is definitely not telling Mr. Stark about this sickness-injury mix. 

Peter took another labored breath and picked up his pace towards the tower.

When the elevator doors opened to the penthouse, Pepper, Happy, and Mr. Stark were all lounging on the couch having a midday drink. Well. Pepper and Mr. Stark were having drinks. Happy was eating takeout and pacing the room. As soon as Peter took a step out of the elevator, the three adults shushed to a silence and turned their attention to the boy. 

It took every weakened and bruised bone in Peter’s body not to collapse to the plush, carpeted floor when he crossed the threshold into the air conditioned living room. He tried to hide his labored breaths best he could and plastered a phony smile on his face.

He cleared his throat before croaking out, “Hey guys!” Peter tried his best to sound as enthusiastic as he normally would, but his show was unconvincing. Happy immediately whipped his head toward Tony and made a face Peter couldn’t decode.

Tony rolled his eyes, putting his drink down and heading over to Peter.

“Hey Kid, how was school?” He placed a firm pat on Peter’s shoulder that made his vision sway.

“Yeah, it was good, Mr. Stark-”

“ Tony. ”

Peter gave a weak chuckle before continuing about his three tests and lab today. Maybe if he yapped enough, Mr. Stark wouldn’t notice the shake in his hands or the tremble in his voice. Maybe he wouldn’t notice how Peter could barely go a sentence without gasping for air before beginning again. 

Maybe it was working, because Mr. Stark didn’t say anything or give Peter a single concerned glance as he walked Peter toward the training room. He just listened.

It was rare for Tony to just listen. 

This would have normally raised Peter’s suspicions. He hadn’t been told “Alright, that’s enough kid” or “yeah, yeah, settle down, Pete” this entire time. 

But, Peter was too focused on putting one foot in front of the other. He was locked in on articulating every word and not gasping in pain while he did so.

Tony, on the other hand, was also locked in if you will . 

I hate that stupid gen Z slang, Pete.

No! You sound cool, Mr. Stark.

He was locked in on his kid’s pale complexion. Sorry, not his kid. He was focused on the kid’s pale complexion and gasping breaths.

Maybe Happy was right?

No. Peter would tell me. He would never keep a secret in his life.

Tony was just starting to convince himself this was true and that Peter was fine when they stepped into the training room. Tony spared a glance at Peter and immediately regretted it. 

The kid looked like he could cry. His glazed eyes looked out at the superheroes before him, punching, kicking, flipping, and laughing from endorphins. His look alone almost made Tony feel sick, but he didn’t get the chance to ask him about it before Peter walked away to get ready.

Peter dropped his bag in a locker and got changed into his workout clothes. He took a seat in the locker room, letting his head drop between into his palms. He took deep, labored breaths that shook his shoulders. Dizziness, great, just what he needs. 

He pressed his palms into his eyes and continued to take deep breaths, hoping this little break would set him up to make it through PT today. The silky fabric of his under armor shirt brushed gently against the bruising on his side. It was more comfortable than his scratchy school shirt, but the friction against his ribs had him seeing stars. 

In all honesty, Peter felt ridiculous. He felt weak. He could lift the weight of an entire building off his back, but he couldn’t handle a little cold and bruised rib?

Pull yourself together, Peter. You are literally Spider-Man. 

Peter took a deep breath before standing in front of the mirror. He did not recognize the boy who looked back at him. The boy who stared back at Peter was pale, even down to his lips. His reddened eyelids drooped and sagged with the weight of his dark circles. Only when he smiled, an aching smile that pulled up his depressing flesh, did he look more alive. Peter stood there in the mirror, smiling again and again. He looked at the way his face wrinkled and dipped, his vision blurring in and out. 

He could barely focus. 

Personal training. It’s PT day. PT day with Mr. Rogers, just like every week. 

Peter took one last look at the stranger in the mirror, plastered on his weak smile, and took a confident step out of the locker room.

Peter got about two steps further into the training room before he felt himself swaying again.

Yeah, so much for confidence.

Peter mentally slapped himself and tried his best to stand up straight, smiling at anyone looking his way. He wanted more than anything to avoid Captain America and Black Widow, since they were the ones most likely to kill him today.

Normally he didn’t mind taking them on. Normally he would laugh as he webbed up Cap or learned new techniques from Nat. Today was not a normal day. 

Today Peter walked to the edge of the training room and picked up a single punching bag, hanging it on its hook and sitting himself on a bench nearby. He took his sweet time wrapping his hands, meticulously going over each knuckle and straightening out the wrinkles in the fabric.

Most days he won’t even bother wrapping his hands unless someone yells at him to do so.

Maybe that’s why Steve watched Peter from afar, his brow furrowed. He spared a quick glance to Nat, who looked equally as perplexed. Steve did not buy that he finally made it through to the kid. Not when the kid happened to be Peter, who loved to disobey Steve just to annoy him. 

Nat gave Steve a light touch on the shoulder and whispered lightly, “He doesn’t look good.”

Steve returned with a small nod of agreement. The two returned to sparring each other, but each kept a careful eye on the boy in the corner.

Peter, Mr. I-notice-everything, was completely oblivious to the looks being shared across the room. Finally finished painstakingly wrapping his fists, he stood up in front of the punching bag. He made deep, intimate eye contact with the bag, dreading what had to happen next. 

He threw a weak punch towards the bag, but it felt more like the air had been punched out of him. He sucked in a breath and straightened his back, gearing up to hit again. He hit harder the next time, which made him feel shaky on his feet. 

Peter tried to stay up on the balls of his feet, just like Cap had shown him, but his legs trembled with the burden of his body weight. He threw another punch, and another, each one taking a bigger toll on him than the last. He was only a handful of punches in when he had to stop, bending over with hands on his knees to gasp for air. He resisted the urge to bring a soothing hand to his ribcage and instead spared a glance around the room.

From what he could see, no one was paying attention to him. Good.  

I just need to keep going. I can do this. I. Am. Spider-Man.

He returned to his punching bag and threw another few punches before he had to stop again, this time bracing himself against the bench. With one hand on the back of the bench, he leaned over and sucked in painful breaths. 

The concrete walls were spinning and his throat felt like sandpaper, but he couldn’t give in just yet. The timer on the wall went off, which signaled the next sparring partners were to enter the ring. Peter glanced up at the monitor on the wall and saw his headshot next to Steve’s.

Fuck.