Outnumbered

“Daddy!” Morgan screams, and it’s the urgency in it that fills him with the coldest dread.

“Morgan?” he yells, ripping his reading glasses off and running toward the sound of her voice. “Morgan? What’s wrong, baby?”

“Da-DDY!” She’s wailing, her cries echoing through the house. “Da-DDY!”

“Sir,” FRIDAY announces through his StarkWatch as he winds his way through the hallway. “You have multiple Dexcom alarms from Peter. There’s an Urgent Low Glucose alert and a Fall Rate alert. He’s currently 58 mg/dL and dropping at a rate of 3 mg/dL per minute.”

Shit. Had he been so engrossed in his article that he’d missed the alerts?

He nearly trips on Peter’s backpack as he bounds into the living room, which is where he finds Morgan screaming and shaking as tears stream down her face. “He’s sick, Daddy! P-Peter’s sick!”

“Pete?” Tony’s voice booms through the house as he pulls Morgan into his arms, her legs wrapping around his waist, but there’s no answer.

When he turns the corner into the kitchen, he sees why she’s so panicked: Peter is slumped as he sits against the wall, face pale and sweaty, eyes half-lidded.

“Jesus,” Tony says as he squats down to be eye-level with Peter, Morgan wrapping herself tightly around her father in fear. “FRIDAY just said you were 58 and dropping, kiddo. You still with me?”

Peter groans as he blinks his eyes open.

“Morgan, honey, I need you to get me two juice boxes from the pantry,” he says softly, attempting to peel her away from him. “Can you do that for Daddy?”

“Is Peter okay?” she says, sniffing, tightening her grip.

“Peter’s gonna be fine, but I need you to get that juice for me, okay?”

She nods, and Tony can sense her reluctance, but she lets go, wipes her face, still sniffling, of course, and brushes her hair out of her eyes before running over to the pantry.

“Didn’t quite make it to the fridge, did you?” he asks Peter to lighten the tone.

“M’low,” Peter says, words slurring.

“Yeah, I know, kiddo,” he says, sighing. “Did your basal pause yet?”

“Mmm?” Peter asks, or rather, hums, and it’s only then that Tony realizes how disoriented the kid is. He reaches for Peter’s pump clipped to his hip, clicks through the prompts on the screen, and makes sure Peter’s pump has automatically suspended insulin while they work to get his low blood sugar up. When Morgan returns, he unwraps one of the straws and pops it into a juice box.

“Good job, Morgan. Thank you,” he says to her, and she beams, kneels down beside them as Tony brings the straw to Peter’s lips.

“Don’t…feel so good,” Peter mumbles. He takes a few sips before letting the straw fall from his lips. “Dizzy.” He’s breathing heavy, looks and sounds like he just ran a marathon, and Tony’s stomach drops when Peter’s head starts to loll to the side.

“Gotta keep drinking,” Tony coaxes, pushing the straw back to Peter’s lips as he supports Peter’s head.

“No,” Peter moans, but he sips anyway.

“Baby, can you get Peter’s backpack? I think I saw it in the living room.”

She nods, gets to her feet, and hurries off, Tony focusing back on Peter, who is pushing the straw away with his tongue.

“Don’t wanna gluc you unless I have to, kiddo. Keep drinking for me.”

The mention of emergency glucagon turns Peter’s eyes wide. “N-no,” he says, groaning. “Please don’t. I’ll go…so high…”

Tony gives a small smile; a little pushback and response with body language gives him hope that maybe Peter’s levels are rising. He hears Peter sip the juice box dry and pulls it away.

Morgan returns dragging Peter’s heavy backpack across the floor with both hands, tongue between her lips as she musters the strength to pull it one last foot into the kitchen.

“What do you have in here, Thor’s hammer?” Tony jokes when he takes it from Morgan, and Peter gives a pitiful huff. “Gonna test you, okay?” he asks, and Peter doesn’t answer, just sits with his eyes closed as Tony pulls his kit out, readies a strip, and pricks the side of his middle finger on his free hand. A moment later, there’s a beep. “45?! What the fuck? You were just 58 ten minutes ago and had juice!”

“Mommy says that’s a bad word,” Morgan chimes as she kneels beside Tony.

“Yeah, well, fuck diabetes,” Tony grumbles in frustration. He checks the Dexcom app on Peter’s phone, sees that it says he’s LOW, which means his sensor thinks he’s below 40, and shakes his head, knowing that it can be inaccurate when Peter’s blood sugar is so low. “How many carbs are in this juice?” He picks it up, sees that it says 8 grams, not 15 like the ones Pepper used to buy, and sighs. The kid needed 15 grams twenty minutes ago, Tony thinks, is probably staying so low because he’s honeymooning and still releasing some insulin. He digs through Peter’s gray “Dexcom Warrior” bag for all of his low snacks, finds the tube of glucose tabs meant for this exact situation, and puts one at Peter’s lips. “Chew.”

Peter scowls but complies, makes a face at the tanginess of the tab on his tongue. “S’gross,” he complains between chews.

“Just until I can get some crackers to get you up and keep you up,” Tony explains. “Peanut butter or cheese?”

Peter shakes his head. “Neither. Nauseous.”

“You’ve gotta eat, kiddo.”

“I’m fine.”

“Yeah, that’s the low talking.”

“Leave me alone, Tony!” he grumbles, swatting him away. “Why are you always so fucking annoying?!”

Morgan’s eyes widen in surprise at Peter’s exclamation, clearly not used to seeing this behavior coming from him.

“Hey, cut the sass, Spider Brat,” Tony warns, though he knows Peter’s not usually like this, especially in front of Morgan. It’s just the low, he reminds himself. “Gotta pick one or I’ll pick for you.”

“Ugh,” he whines. “Fine. Peanut butter.”

The Dexcom app beeps four times to remind them he’s urgently low, Peter scrunching his eyes and holding his hands over his ears. The sound is like ice picks to his brain, his Spidey senses overwhelmed by the noise.

“Can you grab some of Peter’s crackers?” Tony asks Morgan as gently as he can. He knows he scared her with his fuck diabetes comment, that Peter’s attitude has her on edge. He watches as she curls her fingers around her mouth out of nervousness.

“Do you want me to call Uncle Brucey?” she asks, not pulling her hands away. “Is Peter really sick?”

“I’m okay, Mo. Jus’ really…low,” Peter huffs out, eyes open but droopy. “Come ‘ere.” He reaches for her, lets her tuck herself beneath his right arm. “Sorry I scared you.”

Tony’s half alert and focused on getting those peanut butter crackers from the pantry, half trying to drink in the cuteness that is Peter’s relationship with Morgan. He remembers holding her in the middle of the night shortly after they brought her home, sobbing silently at the thought that Peter, the closest thing he’d ever had to a son, would never get to meet her. It feels otherworldly to have them together, Tony thinks, Morgan always so inquisitive, Peter ever patient with her in all of these little ways that warm his heart.

Tony’s forced two peanut butter crackers on Peter by the time Pepper arrives home from work because he dropped again into the 50s, even with the juice and glucose tab. It’s his honeymooning, Tony knows. And Peter’s fast Spidey metabolism. Pepper stumbles upon them sitting on the floor of the kitchen with wrappers and test strips strewn about.

“What in the world?!” she exclaims, her heels clicking across the floor. It takes her a moment to put the pieces together. “Oh, Peter!” Her voice softens. “Are you okay, honey?”

He gives her a thumbs up and finishes chewing the dry cracker and peanut butter in his mouth.

Tony pricks Peter’s finger again and applies the drop of blood to the strip. “Peter’s lows have become a family affair, apparently,” Tony jokes, waiting for the meter to countdown, beep, and show a number. 80 appears on the screen. He exhales triumphantly. “Thank God. Thought we’d be stuck in the 50s forever.”

“He was in the 50s?!” Pepper asks, incredulous. “Didn’t his Dexcom alert? Why didn’t I get an alert?!” She rummages through her bag, pulls out her phone, and scrolls through her Share app settings. “Shit! I must’ve turned off alerts for a meeting and never put them back on.”

“Mommy!” Morgan reprimands.

Pepper closes her eyes and lets out a heavy sigh. “Sorry, baby. Mommy’s exhausted from work and worried about Peter. Wasn’t exactly expecting to come home to this.”

Peter bites his lip and looks down in embarrassment; his legs are sprawled out in front of him and there are cracker crumbs down the front of his shirt. If he’d felt and heard the signal loss alerts on the subway, if his sensor hadn’t gone into error and stopped reading, if he’d been able to figure out the right basals and boluses to keep him from dropping so low so quickly weeks ago, if he was able to feel his lows coming on…

“Oh, honey, I didn’t mean….” She sighs and puts on a classic Pepper smile when she realizes he’s blaming himself. “I’m sorry, I know it’s not your fault. I didn’t mean to make it seem like it was.”

He nods, acknowledging her words, but he still feels off, even with the fingerstick confirming that he’s coming up. “H-how many carbs did I eat?”

“8…4…21 times 2…” Tony mumbles to himself, trying to calculate. It’s simple math, but his brain is still running in circles from the panic.

“54,” Pepper says for him. “Did you try the new juice boxes? I bought the organic ones…”

“With only 8 grams of sugar in them,” Tony says with a small laugh. “And organic isn’t better, Pep. We’ve discussed this. You know we have a kid who needs at least 15 grams of quick acting sugar when he drops, sometimes even more.”

Peter closes his eyes, bracing for the start of another fight.

He loves the idea of being one of theirs, even if it’s metaphorical, but he hates witnessing Tony and Pepper argue. They’re great at it, at pulling each other apart and slamming doors in each other’s faces. That, and this isn’t the first time Peter’s diabetes has been a point of contention.

He doesn’t want to be present for the first shot fired.

He doesn’t want to feel like it’s his fault that they’re going to fight again, either. Tony keeps telling him to work on stopping those kinds of thoughts about himself, those pesky, guilt-ridden, blameful thoughts that therapy is supposed to help.

He wonders why he can’t do this on his own yet, the lows and the emotional stuff, when he’s going to have to at some point. Why, no matter how much logic he throws at it, doesn’t it compute?

“Gonna go take a nap,” Peter says, attempting to hold the bottom of his shirt out to catch the crumbs that have gotten stuck near the collar as he tries to get up. His body sways when he’s halfway there, his sneaker slipping on the tile, body tumbling forward until Tony’s left arm instinctively reaches out to steady him.

Peter had seen Tony reach his right arm out and make the last-second choice to switch. Tony, he knows, would gladly have thrown his right arm out if it meant catching Peter.

It only makes him feel worse.

He needs a fucking nap.

That’s his go-to lately.

Naps. Like he’s Morgan’s age.

He’s always exhausted now, physically and emotionally. He’s tired of being so aware of all of the ways his life has changed. Tired of dragging everyone around him down.

Tired of feeling like he’s never going to be independent ever again.

He shakes the crumbs out into the garbage can and trudges to his bedroom.

X

“Tony?” Peter mumbles sleepily hours later after he feels someone prick his finger. He raises his free hand up to shield his eyes from the lamplight.

Tony holds a hand up to Peter’s forehead, as if to check for a fever. “Hey, kiddo. How’re you feeling?”

Peter turns over into his pillow. “Think God hates me?”

Tony chuckles. “Thought you didn’t believe in God.” The glucose meter beeps. “102. Nice and steady.”

“Yeah, well,” Peter says, licking his dry lips. “This kinda sucks and it keeps happening, so I don’t even know what to think anymore.”

“You’ve gotta learn to advocate, kiddo. You can’t just wait until you’re halfway to the fridge looking for orange juice, hoping someone will find you. I’m only a text away. Hell, yell for FRIDAY and she’ll tell me to come. I still can’t believe I never got any Dex alarms.”

“My sensor went into error on the subway, that’s probably why. It told me to wait 30 minutes. The subway’s gross and I didn’t want to fingerstick. Thought I could…get home in time,” he says quietly. “I thought maybe if I could prove I was independent enough, you and May wouldn’t be so worried about States this weekend, you know?”

“I get it Underoos. I do.”

“I can do this on my own.”

“I know you can, Peter.”

“Do you, though? Because it doesn’t always feel like it. Like right now, it doesn’t.” His bedroom is warm, but he pulls his covers up to his chin anyway. “It didn’t earlier.” Tony doesn’t answer right away, which prompts Peter to add, “Sometimes it just gets tricky and what worked last time suddenly doesn’t. It’s like an experiment with too many variables. It’s like…like…”

“Chaos theory.”

“Y-yeah. And even though I know I can’t control every little thing, I still feel shitty when it all goes haywire. Physically and mentally. It makes me feel like I fucked up. Like I didn’t do enough to stop it.”

“I feel the same way sometimes.”

“I know. You keep saying that.” Peter plays with a loose thread on his pillowcase. “I guess I’m just…not where you are yet.”

Tony sighs softly. “We aren’t competing against each other, kiddo. And sadly, this isn’t something that either of us are going to win. It’s a marathon, not a sprint. Sometimes it’ll feel like you’re doing this on your own, but know that you’ve got a full support team behind you.”

Peter looks over at the duffel bag in the corner by the door, the one they’d packed and repacked with everything imaginable the night prior.

“W-what if,” Peter starts, nervous.

“What if,” Tony interrupts, eyebrows raised, “you have a great time with your friends. What if, even if you go low or high and it’s frustrating sometimes, you still have the trip of a lifetime.”

“It’s Albany, Tony. Not Paris,” he jokes. “I guess I just don’t want this to get in the way, is all. I just want one good thing that diabetes doesn’t ruin, you know?”

“You’ve got way more than one good thing, Underoos. No matter what.”

Tony calling him Underoos reminds him of Spiderman. He thinks back to that day in Berlin when he stole Cap’s shield. Peter pulls his lips in and takes a deep breath. “I haven’t been on patrol in nearly two weeks,” he says.

“You’ve been busy.”

I’ve been scared, Peter wants to say. Scared to be alone on patrol and not have anyone get there in time if I need help, like I did today.

“Oh, and no disappearing on your trip this time to play Spiderman. I can’t handle a heart attack.”

Peter knows exactly what Tony means; he’s got a habit of disappearing on school trips. Jokingly, he adds, “Since when–”

Tony puts a hand up. “Kiddo, don’t even. May and I aren’t dumb. And there was that time we met up, in Central Park, with the robot and Strange. Weren’t you on a trip to MoMA?”

“Oh, yeah, the “strange” wizard,” Peter says, chuckling. “But what if there’s a hybrid human-alien mega-robot threatening to destroy all of humankind while I’m away?!”

“You sure you don’t have a fever?” Tony jokes, putting a hand up to Peter’s forehead again. He does this sometimes and it’s annoying, but Peter knows it’s because a fever can mess with his blood sugar, with his insulin. A simple virus can land him in MedBay with ketones, even if he does everything right.

“Like you said,” Peter says, taking Tony’s hand down. “My blood sugar is 102 and steady. No fever. I’m okay.”

“Thank goodness for that,” Tony says, ruffling Peter’s hair.

It’s so easy to get wrapped up in the panic of this disease sometimes, Peter thinks. Maybe it’s because they both have the brain of an engineer, always troubleshooting, trying to foresee the next issue before it even arises. That’s what they’ve tried to do for this trip. He knows that Tony’s planned for every misadventure that diabetes might throw, and maybe that’s why he finds himself suddenly confident.

Technology fails him sometimes, sure, but he’s glad that he’ll have Dexcom working in tandem with his pump to help him on the trip. It’ll work while he’s sleeping, competing, and sightseeing, monitoring his levels and adjusting his insulin 24-7 with a few manual adjustments here and there, mostly when it’s time to eat. FRIDAY’s connected on his StarkWatch, and, subsequently, to Tony and May, if he needs them. They’ve packed juice boxes, glucose tabs, glucagon, and extra Dexcom sensors and pump sets just in case. He’ll keep his insulin in a freezer bag until they get to the hotel. Harrington has Tony and May’s cell numbers, has assured them that this isn’t his first rodeo with a student with diabetes on a field trip.

He has one day between now and boarding the bus for Albany. One day until he puts on his yellow decathlon team jacket to compete and kick ass.

Tony and May won’t be there, but maybe that’s okay.

Maybe, Peter thinks, he has to try this on his own with the support he already has and see what happens.

Challenge accepted.

X

Tony’s cell phone rings mid-meeting with General Dynamics. He’s just about to send the call to voicemail when he sees that it’s Peter. Excusing himself, he ducks out and into his office for privacy. He glances at his watch as he picks up the call; the competition was supposed to start at 10:00 AM sharp. It’s 9:50. “Kiddo? Aren’t you supposed to be competing right now?”

“T-they denied my accommodations,” he stammers, the shock evident in his voice. “They said it n-needed to be submitted f-four months in advance.”

“You weren’t diagnosed four months ago!” The pitch of Tony’s voice rises, but it’s not directed toward Peter.

“That’s what we told them!” Peter relays. “Mr. Harrington has the paperwork from Bruce and Dr. Cho, but they’re not...they’re not gonna let me compete unless I take my pump off!” There’s panic in his voice now. Tony can hear him panting through the phone, imagines him on the verge of tears.

This is the last thing Peter needs right now.

“Fucking Hell! Are they serious?! It’s not like you can cheat with it! It’s not a graphing calculator, for fucks sake!”

“They said they can’t guarantee that and it’s not...fair to the other participants.”

“Fair? It’s not fair?!” Tony puffs. “As if any of this is fair for you!”

“I’ve been over 250 all day, from nerves, a-and I don’t feel great. I just want to compete,” Peter explains, exasperated. “I’ve been studying for months!”

“I know you have, Underoos,” Tony assures him. “You’ve worked so hard for this!”

“I don’t want to let my team down!” he says, sniffling. “They’re relying on me for the p-physics questions! T-they’re gonna be one man d-down! All because of my stupid diabetes!”

“Hey,” Tony says softly, trying to calm Peter down. He knows the kid doesn’t like crying in public, and he doesn’t want a repeat of Peter’s breakdowns while he’s so far away. “You have every right to be out there with your peers, diabetes or not! I can’t believe they’re being so ridiculous about this! I’m going to call my lawyer and get his team on this immediately–”

“No, it’s fine!” Peter says, panicked at the thought of involving lawyers. “I’ll just t-take my p-pump off–“

“This is not fine, Peter! And you are not taking your pump off! This is discrimination and it’s illegal! I want to speak to an official.”

“No!” Peter protests. “Y-you can’t, then they really won’t let me compete!”

“Is Mr. Harrington there? I’d like to get him on the phone, too.”

X

Five minutes later, Tony’s on speaker phone with Mr. Harrington and an official. He’s promised Peter he’ll hold off on the lawyer.

For now.

Peter stands off to the side, wringing his hands, trying to keep it together until a decision is made.

“It’s not fair to the other participants,” the official reiterates into Harrington’s phone.

Before Harrington can jump in, Tony’s voice blares through the speaker.

“Fair doesn’t mean equal,” Tony argues. “It means that everyone gets what they need to have access, and my son has every right to be out there on that stage competing with his peers! He’s protected by the Americans with Disabilities Act!”

Peter’s heart warms at Tony calling him his son, but the official’s next line has his heart sinking.

“Sir, if he just takes off the device–”

Tony huffs. “So then I assume you’ll be taking your pancreas off for the duration of the competition as well?”

“Pardon?”

Tony snickers. “What, you think he wears an insulin pump for fun?”

“Sir, these rules are no different than that of the SAT and AP exams. Proper permission must be obtained four months–”

“For your information, he does have approved accommodations through the College Board. The same accommodations that your organization offered as reasonable when I called you back in March. However, from what you’re saying, we couldn’t have submitted the proper paperwork for your competition even if we had wanted to because he wasn’t diagnosed four months ago, only no one told me that throughout the entire application process!”

“Sir, I apologize, but there’s nothing I can do at this point. Being emotional is not going to change the facts here.”

“Emotional?! You know what has nothing to do with emotion? The legal definition of accessibility. Your organization has a legal and ethical responsibility to uphold disability law!”

“With all due respect, sir,” the official chuckles, “your son is not disabled.”

“What did you just say?!” Tony asks, and that’s when Peter feels time stop.

The official clears his throat. “Diabetes is not a disability.”

“Legally, yes, it is. And it definitely is when he’s denied access just for having it! The issue here is not my son, sir, but your sham of an organization! We submitted the appropriate documentation as soon as we were made aware of the necessity, which, to be honest, I find quite ridiculous given the fact that, for the rest of his life, my son will have to prove that he has medical needs and uses medical device in order to gain equal access to events such as yours! And further, our family was in the midst of a sudden and life-altering diagnosis when we completed that paperwork to guarantee Peter’s entrance to the competition only for it to be dismissed on a technicality we were never informed of. You asked and we delivered, and yet, that’s not enough, it seems.”

“I’m sorry that nothing else can be done at this time, Mister…” he asks, waiting for Tony to answer.

“Stark. Tony Stark.”

The official swallows, suddenly nervous. “I’m sorry that I can’t be of much help, Mr. Stark,” the official offers. It’s obvious that he’s hiding the fact that he knows who Tony is when his voice quakes. “We go through a careful review process with every request–”

“Request?” Tony asks. “Me advocating for my child with medical needs so that he can have the same access to a competition as everyone else is a request to you? I’ll let my lawyers know and see what they think.”

“Sir–”

Peter has to walk away, can’t listen to Tony, Harrington, and the official battle it out anymore. He goes for the stage wings, feels like he should tell his team himself. It’s his fault, after all. He doesn’t want Harrington or MJ to have to do it for him.

“Peter, what’s going on?” Ned asks, a hand on his friend’s shoulder when he sees that something is wrong. His team is looking at him, too, waiting for an answer.

“They told me I can’t compete with m-my pump,” Peter explains, his voice high pitched as he tries not to cry in front of his teammates. “M-my blood sugar is running high today with all of the adrenaline and I can’t just take it off like they’re asking me to because the competition will take hours and I don’t want to get sick, so I have to…I have to drop out.”

“This is bullshit!” MJ calls out, visibly angry.

Peter gives a short recap of the conversation from the hallway. He includes the requesting accommodations four months prior rule, the thought that he might cheat, somehow, with his pump. He sniffles to keep from crying. “I-I’m so sorry. I really, really am.” A lump forms in his throat. “Flash is alternate. H-he can take my spot…” he trails before walking off.

He doesn’t want them to see him cry over this because he knows they won’t understand what this competition meant to him after everything the last few months.

And he doesn’t want to know what they think of him now.

They can compete without him, win without him.

They’ve done it before.

“Wait!” he hears Ned yell from behind him when he’s nearly halfway to the bathroom. “We decided to forfeit!” he announces.

Peter stops.

“W-what?!” Peter’s beyond panicked now, his heart rate picking up as he turns to face Ned.

“It was the right thing to do,” Ned explains.

No, Peter thinks. No no no, this isn’t happening!

A moment later, Peter can see his team approaching in a sea of their yellow jackets as they exit the stage doors.

They think they’re doing something nice. The right thing. And they have. But it’s just making this a thousand times worse.

“No! Y-you guys should compete! I won’t take it personally! This isn’t fair to any of you!”

“It was MJ’s call, but we all voted unanimously,” Betty explains, shrugging. “There’s always next year.”

“It was not unanimous and you know it!” Flash calls out angrily, pointing at MJ. He huffs. “I’m alternate, which means the second Peter dropped out, I was officially on the team!”

“Are you really that thick?” MJ says to Flash, rubbing her temple. “It doesn’t matter if you didn’t want to forfeit! We’re a team! If the officials won’t allow Peter to compete, then we, as a team, cannot go out there without him. It’s the principle!”

Flash looks around, confused. “The principal is here?!”

“Dudeeeee, how the fuck did you get on this team?” Ned asks, throwing his head back.

“It’s a homophone,” Betty tries to explain calmly, but Flash is shaking his head as he backs away.

“You know what’s actually bullshit? This right here! My father will hear about this!” he exclaims, storming off.

“Well, that was very Draco Malfoy of him,” MJ says, snorting.

Peter can’t help but give a small laugh. It doesn’t make him feel any better about the situation, not really, but he’s always been one to give credit where credit is due, and MJ does dish it right back to Flash better than anyone else he’s ever met.

“You guys didn’t have to do this. Really. I-I won’t be mad if you don’t forfeit!” Peter tries, wringing his hands.

MJ shrugs with her shoulders and head. “Too late. What’s done is done. Who’s hungry?” she asks, looking around.

Peter’s heart is still beating too fast, the lump in his throat growing.

If he was alone, and he wishes he was, he’d lower himself to the ground and curl into a ball to cry like he used to do when Ben and May first brought him home. When he couldn’t figure out what emotions he was feeling because he was still so little and would easily get overwhelmed by the constant noise in Forest Hills.

He knows it’s stupid. Childish. He knows.

It might be more than a decade since his parents died, and he might not remember much, but right now, in the middle of this school trip, he feels exactly like he did all of those years ago.

Only now he doesn’t have Ben or May here to hold him, nor Tony. He can’t fall apart about this right here, right now even though he wants to more than anything else. He has to hold it in.

Until he’s alone.

Until he can’t anymore.

X

Rather than watch the competition, MJ successfully petitions Harrington to let the team visit the New York State Capitol Building. “We are in Albany, after all. What better way is there to spend the day than learning more about our home state?” she asks while the team stands huddled in the hallway.

In the time it takes for the bus to be recalled, the shock of the situation wears off. His first instinct is to run, to find an alley, put on his suit, and spend the day swinging to forget reality.

But he promised Tony he wouldn’t ditch, no matter what.

“I read there’s an excellent exhibit on the Harlem Renaissance,” MJ mentions while everyone is finding their seats.

“If I wanted to learn about the Harlem Renaissance, I’d just take the 1 or 4 uptown until I hit Harlem,” Flash complains, kneeling so that he’s backward in his seat and facing everyone on the bus. “I came here to compete, not to tour the capitol building!” He rights himself and puts his AirPods on.

“Capitol with an o or an a?” MJ mumbles as she takes her backpack off. “Fuck it, he probably doesn’t even know the difference.” She shakes her head. It’s too low for everyone to hear over the bus motor, but Peter’s Spidey senses pick it up easily. He chuckles again, then gives a long, sad exhale.

He’s stuck on this bus, which means he’s stuck going on tours for the rest of the day. He thinks about lying, about saying he’s not feeling well and asking permission to go back to the hotel to rest. Technically, he’d be advocating for himself, just like Tony wants him to.

But he’d also be alone, without a chaperone, and he knows that won’t fly.

Not with his diabetes.

The truth is, he’s a liability. For being a teenager. For having type one.

The latter is exactly why they’re on the bus right now instead of competing for a spot at Nationals, isn’t it?

Nationals. He’s fucked up Nationals, too.

Fuck.

He groans, wishes he could disappear.

Instead, he sinks low in his seat and covers his face.

So much for independence and doing this all on his own.

“Peter?” Ned asks, nudging him.

“Everyone hates me now,” he whispers from behind his hands.

Don’t cry. Don’t cry.

“Dude, no one is mad at you!” Ned whispers back. “Seriously!”

“Flash is definitely mad at me.”

“He’s an asshole that doesn’t count and you know it.”

“And MJ.”

“She’s the one who called for a forfeit. You should have heard her berate the officials after you left! She stood up for you! We stood up for you! How could we be angry with you about something that you can’t control?”

Ned is right, but Peter’s in the least thankful mood he’s possibly ever been in. He’s both embarrassed and angry, secretly wishes Tony will swoop in and deliver him home so that he can avoid the next 24 hours on this trip. His bright yellow team jacket, the one he couldn’t wait to wear earlier today because it meant that all of his work with Tony would finally pay off, feels foolish even though everyone else is still wearing theirs.

His StarkWatch vibrates on his wrist. He expects it to be a Dexcom alert, but it’s a text from Tony.

I’m going to do my best to fix this. Try not to worry. You deserve to have a good trip with your friends despite what happened today. None of this, and I mean absolutely NONE of this, is your fault, kiddo.

The bus jolts forward.

The Goonies picks up where they left off on the overhead screens.

But technically, this is my fault, Peter thinks.

He leans his head against the window, watches the buildings and trees fly by, and wishes his superpower was invisibility instead.