Outnumbered

Tomorrow is the last day of school, so Peter’s stayed out on patrol later than usual. Tony’s often sitting up, waiting, which Peter finds overbearing, but when he tiptoes out of the elevator and sees that the living room is dark, he finds himself glad that Tony’s finally backing off and getting some sleep.

He wants nothing more than to shower and pass out, but he’s on his way to the kitchen to fulfill another one of Tony’s stupid rules: Peter has to grab a snack after patrol if he’s below 100.

He’s 84.

Low-ish, but technically not low low.

When he’s nearly across the room, the light switches on, illuminating Tony on the loveseat, a book in his lap and glasses perched on his nose.

Peter throws his head back and groans. So much for freedom.

Tony chuckles. “I love how you thought I’d go to bed before you got home from patrol.”

Peter deflates a little, embarrassed. “You don’t have to stay up for me. I can do this, Tony. I’m getting the hang of it, no pun intended.”

“I know you can do it, kiddo. Dexcom had you trending down about an hour ago and I wanted to make sure you grabbed something to eat before heading to bed so we didn’t have a repeat of last time.”

Peter had come home just as exhausted a few weeks earlier and forgotten to grab a snack, woke to Tony forcing apple juice on him at three in the morning. He’d slept through the Dexcom alarms, had to shower once he was back in range because he’d sweat through his t-shirt.

“I mean,” Peter starts, feeling like he has to explain himself, hands wringing his Spiderman mask. “I had a churro on patrol, didn’t even need insulin, but swinging made me feel low, so I headed home.” He hates admitting it, but it’s the truth. That familiar low headache had started pressing half an hour ago and he’d popped two glucose tabs on his way back to the Tower to hold himself over.

Tony gets up slowly, uses only his left arm to lift his body from the couch. Peter itches to help, but he gives Tony his space, heads to the kitchen instead and thinks about what will be enough to bring him up. He grabs the peanut butter jar and a spoon, hoping that the protein will keep him steady for the next few hours.

When Tony joins him, he opens the fridge. “We’ve got orange juice and that Mott’s for Tots berry stuff Morgan loves.”

Peter laughs with the spoonful of peanut butter in his mouth. “I mean, the berry stuff tastes great, but remind me why you keep it in the house after Pepper accidentally put it in her smoothie and needed her epi-pen?”

“Morgan won’t drink anything else! It’s like when I try to buy the off-brand dino nuggets. She can taste the difference! I tried the regular stuff, but she hated it. Eh, it’s probably for the best, anyway. It’s got like 40% less sugar.”

“Yeah, wouldn’t want her to get diabetes or anything,” Peter jokes. He thinks it’s hilarious, but Tony’s frowning, has his head tilted.

“Kid.”

“Just some dark, harmless humor,” Peter defends. “Anyway, I guess I’ll take some of the death juice.”

Tony glares at him. “Peter.”

“Come on, Tony. It’s funny!”

“It’s not,” Tony says, but Peter can see that he’s shaking his head and trying not to laugh as he attempts to use his left hand to pour juice into a glass.

“You can laugh, you know. I am pretty funny,” Peter says, lifting his eyebrows.

Tony doesn’t say anything, just rolls his eyes and hands the glass over.

Peter sits up on the counter and takes a long sip.

“How was patrol?”

“It was…patrol.”

“Really killing me with the vague is vague here. Care to elaborate?

“I helped an old lady get her groceries up the stairs to her apartment and returned a lost puppy to their owners.” He takes another sip. “Oh, and I stopped a fight in an alley between some teenagers.” He shrugs, sips.

Tony narrows his eyes. “You don’t sound half as excited about any of that as you usually do.”

“Yeah, well, I’m low, so…”

“This isn’t the low, Peter. This is all you. What’s on your mind, kid?”

Peter bites his lip, swings his legs a little. “Are we going to do this every time I seem down?”

“No, we don’t have to, but I figured I’d ask. You don’t seem to be enjoying patrol like you used to. Is it because I put restrictions on your Avengers status?”

Peter wishes that explained everything, but he knows it’s more complicated than that. Part of him is terrified to be on a mission and go low from swinging and fighting, and another part of him wonders how long they’re going to keep pretending he’s really a part of the Avengers. A level four mission, which he hasn’t been on since November of last year, is the equivalent of his fight at the Berlin airport against Bucky and Sam. Tony’s had him on patrols and level three missions that barely compare to his fight on the Staten Island Ferry, and it’s left him feeling like a benchwarmer, like the B Team. He’s starting to wonder if it’s time to put his suit in his closet and let Spiderman slowly fade into oblivion.

It’s been just about four months since his diagnosis, and he knows he can’t go back to before, but it doesn’t stop him from missing the carefree aspects of being superhuman. Embodying Spiderman always made him feel larger than life itself, and then diabetes had come into play, making him feel so small, so out of control.

He just wants some of that control back. It’s nearly impossible to be Spiderman without it.

“Patrol was great and then I got a low headache. I used to have, like, endless energy and now I’m just so tired all of the time. I thought it’d get better, but it’s the same pattern every single time.”

Tony nods. “Did you know that a 2014 Stanford study found that people with type one diabetes make 180 extra decisions per day?”

“No, but that makes a lot of sense. Someone at support group described diabetes like swimming upstream every moment that you’re awake and asleep, and that’s honestly the best metaphor I can think of right now.”

“What do you think about the group?”

He shrugs, finishes the juice. “It’s okay, I guess. There’s a girl from school and decathlon there, so that helps.”

“That’s good!” Tony comments. “What’s her name?”

Peter blushes. “MJ.”

“Is she smart?”

He laughs. “Smarter than me, that’s for sure.”

“Not possible,” Tony says, ruffling Peter’s hair. “You know there’s no more ultimatum, right? You don’t have to go if you don’t want to.”

“Thank you for acknowledging that it was an ultimatum,” Peter says, laughing. “And yeah, I know. May keeps reminding me. There were things I liked about it and some that I didn’t, but it was also nice just being around people who get it. It’s hard to explain.”

“People go to support groups for all kinds of reasons. Maybe, for now, that’s yours,” Tony suggests.

He thinks about Jacob and Natalia, how MJ said they were fighting over Most Positive Attitude, and wonders if they’re just as new as Peter, if how they presented themselves in the group is how they’ve been coping in their own ways. Peter had blurted out what he’d been holding in and away from everyone and then clammed up for the remainder of the meeting, had focused on listening and trying not to have a full-on nervous breakdown.

And then MJ had invited him for coffee, spent the whole afternoon with him not focusing on diabetes, and something in him had shifted.

Tony takes the empty glass from Peter’s hands and puts it in the sink. “Go take a shower and get some sleep, kiddo. You’ve got school in the AM.”

Peter nods, hops off of the counter and is almost to the hallway when he pauses, turns back around. “Hey, Tony?”

“Hmm?” he asks.

“Thanks for always listening.”

“You got it, Underoos,” he says, smiling.

X

“Pete?” he hears Tony whisper sometime in the middle of the night. He rolls away, pulls the covers over his head. “You’re 310, kiddo.” Tony’s gentle about it, nearly whispering even though he doesn’t have to. He switches the light on and hands Peter his phone, which is when Peter realizes he’s slept through multiple Dexcom alarms. “What’s your pump say?”

Irritated, Peter sits up and goes for his pump site. Only, the insert and tubing aren’t there. His heart sinks. “I must’ve forgotten to connect my pump after my shower! I was so tired, I completely forgot!” He puts his head in his hands.

“We can fix it. No big deal,” Tony encourages, but Peter feels tears pooling, is suddenly so overwhelmed by having made such a stupid mistake. His blood sugar is high, which isn’t exactly helping him control his emotions, but he also knows how badly this could’ve gone. What if I do this at college and my roommate isn’t there? he wonders. What if it happens when I’m thousands of miles away and Tony and May can’t get to me?

Tony finds the pump on Peter’s desk and brings it over. After Peter reconnects it and makes sure that he’s getting insulin, he slides back beneath his covers.

“I’m sorry,” Peter whispers, afraid to look Tony in the eye.

Tony pulls Peter’s covers up a bit higher and tucks him in around the edges. “Hey, it happens.”

Yeah, right, Peter thinks. Parents say this to their kids all of the time. Not.

“Get some sleep.”

“Why aren’t you yelling at me?” Peter asks, a few tears sliding down his cheeks. “I made a big mistake! I c-could’ve ended up really high, with ketones, and–”

Tony puts a hand on his shoulder. “But you didn’t, because we have Dexcom. And I’m not yelling at you because I slept through the alarms, just like you did. We may be superheroes, but we’re both exhausted and undeniably human. This is going to happen sometimes, kiddo. The important thing is that we caught it.”

Peter’s not convinced, is worried that Tony’s going to change his mind about it tomorrow when he’s had enough coffee to be fully awake, but he’s also so tired right now that he finds his eyelids closing, feels his head sinking into the pillow.

“FRIDAY, wake me if he doesn’t start coming down by 2:15.”

“Of course, sir.”

Peter’s out before Tony switches the lamp off.

40 minutes later.

“Kiddo, can you sit up for me? You want juice or gummies?” Tony asks.

Peter turns and blinks against the harsh lamplight. “Huh?”

“You’re low. I’m gonna fingerstick to make sure Dex is right.”

Peter slides his head under his pillow and groans because he just wants to sleep.

He feels Tony prick his pinkie, which is the absolute worst, and cries out.

“Sorry, I forgot you hate the pinkie. Gotta remember that.” The meter beeps. “55. Juice or gummies?”

“Gummies.”

1 hour later.

Peter’s room is cool, but the moment he peels his sweaty face from his pillow, he knows his blood sugar is off. He sees that his lamp is on a second before catching a shadow moving to his left. He jumps into a sitting position with a yelp.

“Sorry,” Tony apologizes.

“You just scared…the shit out of me…” Peter pants with his eyes closed, his chin hitting his chest.

“Wish I’d scared your high blood sugar away instead.”

“Huh? I’m not low?” he asks, his eyebrows knitting as he focuses on Tony.

“Far from it. You’re 300 and rising,” Tony says, lifting Peter’s pump in his hands for a visual. “Batman says 4 units. Was going to do it while you slept, but I woke you by accident. You want me to half it so we don’t have to go on this rollercoaster all night?”

Peter exhales and drops his shoulders. “I want this disease to go fuck itself.”

“I know you do, Underoos. I want that more than anything.”

The frustration grows like a wave as he rubs his face. “I had one packet of gummies! One! That’s only, like, 18 carbs!”

Tony sighs. “I hate to say this, kiddo, but I think your honeymoon might be ending.”

Peter flops back down onto the bed, sleep pressing, his body longing to doze off. “Just give me 5 units.”

“Don’t want you dropping again.”

“Fine. 4.5.”

“Kid.” Peter can hear the exhaustion in Tony’s voice and suddenly feels guilty for having him up so often because of his own stupid mistake. “FRIDAY, what do you suggest?”

“4 units should suffice based on the most recent algorithm update.”

“4 units it is.”

1 hour later.

“T-Tony?”

“Just checking you, kid.” Peter feels a small prick on his ring finger, barely registers the beep of the meter.

He blinks slowly, tries to get his eyes to adjust to the dark. “Did Dexcom alert?”

“Nope. Just had a feeling.” There’s the sound of rustling plastic as Tony unwraps a straw and stabs the top of a small apple juice box with it. He doesn’t even ask what Peter wants this time. “Drink.”

Peter feels the straw at his lips, takes a few drags of the juice before letting it go. “How low?”

“62.”

“Good catch.”

“Dex says you’re 88 but it’s fifteen minutes or so behind, so I’m not gonna calibrate, okay?”

Peter nods, takes another long sip from the juice box.

“I think it’s time to do the Control-IQ update on your pump. Bruce said we can set insulin profiles for things like sleep and exercise. It’ll change your basal rates so that you have less nights like this.”

“Okay,” Peter agrees, even though it sounds complicated and confusing, like more mental work than maybe it’s worth. He wishes he could just go back to sleep, but he knows he’ll have to sit up for a little while to make sure his blood sugar keeps rising.