Chapter 5
Chapter 5
Wednesday, December 25, Christmas Day
Pepper has a spread of coffee, May’s infamous cinnamon rolls, and an assortment of cut fruit out on the coffee table in the living room on Christmas morning. Peter’s done the physiotherapy Bruce recommended and his morning breathing treatment, is glad he’s getting some of what he’s termed “cement” out of his lungs, especially since it likes to build up overnight, which makes mornings particularly rough. They’re all still in pajamas even though it’s nearly eleven and guests are due to arrive around three, but no one seems bothered, the fatigue from the last few days lingering in the air. Tony has a virtual fire going in the fireplace with real crackles and heat that fills the room, the mood joyful and relaxed.
Peter is glad that May stayed the night, is sitting on the couch next to him while they enjoy brunch and presents. He’s gotten more than enough punny science t-shirts and socks from Pepper and May to last him a lifetime, and while it’s annoying to be tethered to his oxygen tank, he can’t deny that he’s feeling worlds better than he was. He watches as Tony opens his first gift, a 2019 slang dictionary.
“Really, kid?” Tony asks, laughing.
“I made sure FOMO was in there. You know. Just in case you forgot.”
“Cute, Peter. Real cute,” he jokes.
“This is the real gift, though,” Peter says as he hands over a slender wrapped box. “It isn’t much, but I thought you might be able to put it in your lab.”
Tony unwraps the paper and unboxes a sleek digital picture frame. When he turns it on, bright, vivid images come to life, fading in and out as a slideshow plays. There’s a photo with Natasha, Steve, Clint, and Bruce holding up peace signs on the living room couch, and one of Thor in the kitchen, smiling as he holds up a pan full of flames. There’s a picture of Peter scrunching his nose as Pepper wipes schmutz from his face with a tissue in the hallway before this year’s homecoming, and one of Peter with bedhead at the kitchen island eating a bowl of cereal and putting his hand up to avoid having his photo taken. And then there’s a picture of Tony and Peter working together in the lab, the two deep in thought, foreheads tense and gears turning as they tinker with a small electronic device. It’s followed by a tired Tony quizzing Peter for decathlon at the dining room table, and then one of Peter sleeping with his oxygen line, his head against a sleeping Tony’s shoulder, the two haphazardly sprawled on the living room couch with the faint glow of Christmas lights illuminating their calm, relaxed features.
Tony isn’t sure why he’s tearing up all of a sudden. He’s not one to cry, especially not during happy occasions like Christmas morning surrounded by family, but having Peter give him such a thoughtful gift feels really special.
“Kiddo,” he says, his voice cracking, and Peter’s there in an instant, wrapping his arms around Tony’s neck and squeezing him tight. Tony squeezes back to keep the tears where they are.
Peter pulls away, smiling. “Pepper took the last few pictures. She saw me trying to wrap your gift and asked if I wanted to add them. You know, you’re actually really hard to buy for,” Peter jokes.
Tony laughs, wiping a stray tear away before he grabs two boxes from under the tree. “This isn’t really a gift, so I didn’t wrap it, but you’re probably going to need this to enjoy your real gift.”
The first box in Peter’s hand is the size of a tissue box, and on the front is a picture of a small white and green handheld nebulizer. He crinkles his face in embarrassment because really Tony? But then Tony hands him another box with the biggest grin on his face, and Peter feels the humiliation melt away, because a portable nebulizer probably means that his gift involves traveling, and suddenly, Peter’s excited.
“Are we going somewhere?” Peter asks as he rips the wrapping paper off, opening top flaps of the box.
“Maybe,” Tony singsongs.
Peter’s eyes go wide as he looks down into the box. “Oh my God, are these Disney tickets?!” He’s holding the two tickets in his hand, examining them closely before looking up at Tony with the biggest smile.
“Maybe,” Tony repeats with a laugh, and before he can say anything else, Peter’s colliding with him and nearly knocking him over, his arms wrapping around him in another hug.
“Thank you!” Peter’s repeating.
“Of course, kiddo.”
“Is this…an itinerary?” he asks, picking up the folded paper that’s fluttered to the ground.
“Yeah, but we can always play it by ear, go off schedule if you’d like. I figured we could do Disney and then stay in Malibu for a few days.”
“May?” Peter’s asking as he turns to look at her. “Please? Can I go?”
She smiles. “Tony and I already discussed it. You guys have fun, okay?”
“Yes! When do we leave?!”
“February break.”
“Ugh, that’s so far away!” Peter moans.
“More than enough time to get you in shape for all of the walking Disney entails,” Tony explains.
“Kid needs his confidence back,” Tony recalls himself saying to May in an attempt to sell the trip a few days ago.
“Disney’s too expensive,” May had replied. “I can’t let you pay for that on top of everything else you’ve done, Tony.”
“Well, good thing I’m loaded,” he’d joked before realizing that May was having none of his usual Tony Stark bullshit. “In all seriousness, though, I think he needs this. He asked if we could go to Cali when all of this was over. It’s the only thing he’s asked for through this entire ordeal and I think it might keep him motivated to stay on top of everything this time.”
“But Tony, what if...what if it happens again and I can’t go?” Peter’s face falls as reality sets in.
Tony puts a hand on Peter’s shoulder. “We’ll deal with whatever comes, kiddo. If we really can’t go in February, I’ll reschedule for spring break.”
“I-I don’t know.” He’s suddenly nervous and biting his lip with anxiety. “You planned all of this and I don’t want it to go to waste.”
“We still have time to get you better and on the right combination of meds. Hell, I bet you’ll be ready to climb mountains by the time we leave.”
“Language,” Peter jokes.
“Thought we threw that rule out the window a couple of days ago,” Tony says, smirking. He pats Peter on the shoulder again and sighs. “You’re allowed to look forward to this, Peter,” he whispers.
He knows he needs something to look forward to, something that isn’t school or extracurricular activities. When he’d mentioned Cali, he was thinking of warmer weather. Of beaches and the California Science Center and Griffith Park and the Wilson Observatory. But Disney? Disney changes things, makes him want to look forward to running through the parks and enjoying rides like a child with reckless abandon.
He just needs to get the running part down.
And the breathing to do the running.
By February.
Which is never going to happen.
The excitement for the trip grows and fades like the virtual fire Tony’s conjured over the next half hour. He’s quiet as the rest of the gifts are opened, tries to act grateful and spirited for everything that Tony and Pepper have done for him, but on the inside, Peter feels like he’s crumbling, like the true panic and fear of his reality are taking root and he can’t do anything to stop it.
Because Peter doesn’t want to look forward. It’s not even about being allowed.
He has two months, which feels like forever compared to the last few days, but it also feels like it’s not enough time, because deep down, Peter is starting to prepare himself for never returning to his baseline. His rational side has taken over, has already put the pieces together and is letting it sit. He’s done some research since his diagnosis of eosinophilic asthma, and phrases like “difficult to control with standard medications” and “patients can experience a decrease in lung function over time” haven’t exactly helped to calm his anxiety. He knows that autoimmune means forever/, that the injections he’ll start aren’t exactly a cure, that those are forever, too, and they can come with their own set of issues, some of which are “sparking other autoimmune conditions” and “cancer.”
And while he knows not taking his inhalers consistently for two months didn’t cause this, he almost wishes that it had, because that would mean that he could go back and do all of this over again from the beginning.
He’s starting to wish he could go back even further, undo the stupid spider bite that, as Tony’s put it, has been both “a blessing and a curse.”
Because right now, none of this feels like a blessing, even though he knows he’s lucky in so many little ways, and he hates himself for it because Peter Parker is not an ungrateful person, has been raised to “take it or leave it” and to believe that “you get what you get and you don’t get upset” as May has always said, and right now, he just wants to be able to leave all of this behind, is willing to give up being Spiderman just to go back to normalcy.
To breathing.
He curls up on the couch and ignores May’s repeated insistence that he eat another half of cinnamon roll, lets his eyes close as he pulls the blanket from the back of the couch down and over his shoulders. He doesn’t sleep, just lets his body rest while he listens to the adults talk, to Tony talk, and he’s suddenly struck by a moment of FOMO.
A world without the spider bite and becoming Spiderman means a world without asthma, but it also means a world without Tony as his mentor, and while Peter would still trade all of it for normalcy in a heartbeat even if that meant losing his relationship with Tony, he knows that, in reality, he can’t. That the choice has already been made for him.
“This can’t possibly be comfortable,” May says, and Peter feels the cushions sink as she sits down, feels her hand on his back.
“S’fine,” he mumbles, not wanting to move, because suddenly everything is taking a lot more effort than he wants to admit to. Keeping his eyes open, staying awake, even breathing, is starting to get hard again, and he knows he needs meds and a nap if he’s even thinking of attempting dinner.
“You look shot, Peter,” May comments, and Peter opens his eyes to that, makes a face and groans. “Come on, I’ll help you to bed.”
“Don’t wanna move.”
“Up,” she commands, helping him up and off of the couch until she’s steadying him, one arm beneath his armpit while the other grips the oxygen.
By the time she’s got him situated in bed, Peter is panting and wheezy, has his head back and eyes closed as he wills the dizziness away. The back of May’s wrist stops at his forehead, and then at his cheek.
“Your fever’s trying to fight its way back, not that that’s a bad thing. It’s about time for your pills and a treatment. I can make you some pastina soup so they don’t bother your stomach, would you like that?”
“Are you gonna make me rub Vicks all over my chest, too?” Peter complains, but then his eyes meet May’s, sees how red and tired they are, and he apologizes. “Sorry, May. I know you’re trying to make me feel better, I just feel really crappy right now.” He gives a wheezy exhale that was meant to be a sigh. “Felt like I was doing better.”
“We just have to take it one day at a time,” she reminds him, tucking in the sides of his blanket. “How about we focus on being Peter right now instead of Spiderman?”
“Not funny, May.”
“Really? I thought it was pretty funny,” she says, smiling as she pats his leg. “So, how about that soup?”
Peter catches his breath. “Soup sounds…great. Thank you, May. And…I’m sorry I keep making you worry.”
“It’s my job to worry about you,” she asserts, but her attention is focused on his wheezing, remembers how he came home from school one afternoon and couldn’t get a full sentence out without making the same, awful rasp. She’d noticed as he was grabbing a bowl from the cabinet.
“I got a 105 on my math test because I…found an error in the question, fixed it, and…solved it,” he’d explained, walking to the fridge. “Mr. Hedges…he was really impressed, so he gave me an extra…5 points.”
“Are you wheezing?” she’d asked, face twisting in concern as she placed a hand on his shoulder to stop him.
“Just ran from…the subway,” he’d answered, pulling the milk from the top shelf and closing the fridge door as he shimmied out from under her grip. “I’m fine, May.”
“Sit,” she’d instructed, forcing him by his shoulders to park himself at the kitchen table. Peter put the milk down and rolled his eyes. “Stay,” she’d added, leaving him only to return with her stethoscope in hand.
“Told you I was…fine. And I’m not a…dog.”
“So fine you can’t even get a sentence out? Breathe normally.” She’d placed the buds in her ears and pressed the disc against Peter’s back, and while she knew what was coming, she wasn’t prepared for the extent of the whistling going on inside his lungs. She’d moved the disc around and listened closely to be sure, asking him to breathe deeply, which caused a coughing attack that lasted longer than she knew was normal.
“I can’t get sick,” Peter had insisted once he’d stopped coughing and she’d put the stethoscope down. “I have powers.”
She put her hands on her hips. “Peter, how long has this been going on?”
“A week? I don’t know.” Peter had run a hand through his hair, the wheezing intensifying. “Wasn’t that bad…’til now. Chest is kinda…tight. Feeling…dizzy.”
They’d spent the evening in the emergency room waiting for Peter’s oxygen levels to normalize, and May remembers the weeks after, how Peter would wake her up with his coughing down the hallway, how the school nurse had called and explained that she needed to come and pick him up because his peak flow was on the low side and he seemed like he was getting a cold.
And then she’d gotten the promotion. She figured it’d only be a couple of months of travel in the beginning, but then she’d been promoted, and traveling became her full-time job.
She was in Salt Lake, 2,000 miles away and two hours behind New York time, when she’d gotten the panicked call from Peter after school that his inhaler wasn’t working, and she’d managed to piece together what he was saying to make out that his nebulizer was in the living room of their apartment and he didn’t think he could get up from the floor of his bedroom to get it.
“May,” he’d wheezed. “I can’t breathe…I can’t breathe…”
She’d been trained to stay calm in the midst of panic, but even so, hearing the way Peter struggled to get enough air to be able to speak had filled her with the deepest dread. May added Tony in on the call, and she’s sure someone was looking out for them that day, because Tony had picked up, had gotten there just in time to get Peter set up with a treatment and breathing again.
He’d taken him back to the Tower for the night, just to be safe, and May had sobbed like an idiot on the phone later that evening, feeling like a failure for not having been there. “He can stay here for as long as he needs to,” Tony had insisted. “It’s really not a problem, May.”
Tony had gotten involved and he’d promised to make sure Peter saw the best doctors at SHIELD, that MedBay would be stocked with everything he could ever need. She’d seen an improvement almost instantly, watched his wheezing disappear for weeks at a time, felt things shift back to normal.
And things had stayed that way ever since.
“Dunno how long I can…keep my eyes open for,” Peter admits, rubbing his eyes. “Have a headache.”
“Soup. Right,” May says, coming back to the present. “Be right back.” She leaves the door open and Peter closes his eyes to alleviate the pounding behind his eyes.
“Hey, Tony. You okay? You look stressed,” Peter hears May ask in the hallway.
Tony sighs and Peter imagines him rubbing his temple. “Work stuff. I promised Grumman that I’d reschedule our meeting for a video conference tomorrow afternoon, and on Friday I have to go to Baltimore for a few in-person meetings with Lockheed. Depending on how that goes, I might need to be gone Saturday as well.” There’s another sigh. “Sorry, I shouldn’t be unloading all of this on you. I told Pepper to tell them there’s been a family emergency, but I don’t know how long I can keep holding off on work without some serious ramifications. It’s the end of the fourth quarter and the board is up my ass right now about not being on top of everything.”
The stress in Tony’s voice is enough to make Peter feel like an asshole, because Tony has been present at every turn since this nightmare began despite his usual schedule of non-stop meetings and hours hidden away in his lab. He picked Peter up from school on Friday and stayed with him in MedBay, was the first face Peter saw after his surgery, even held Peter while his airways closed and filled with mucus the other morning, all while reassuring him that he wasn’t alone, that he was doing such a good job, and reminding him to keep breathing.
Tony’s cancelled all of that for Peter, and Peter hasn’t even thought of it until just now. He closes his eyes and turns away from the door, not wanting to think about any of this because it’s too much. Too much guilt and sickness and feeling like crap. He dozes for a short while, feels himself going in and out, and when May returns with his soup, a can of ginger ale, and pills, he finds that he can barely keep his eyes open. She organizes everything on his nightstand and sits at the edge of his bedside so that she can help him up.
“Easy,” she soothes as Peter struggles to sit up and against the pillows.
“Really wanna sleep,” Peter groans.
"Just a little soup and then you can sleep,” she says, taking the bowl from the nightstand and stirring the soup with the spoon. She spends the next ten minutes bringing spoonfuls of broth and pastina to his lips, waiting patiently between mouthfuls for him to chew and swallow. He wants to complain that he isn’t a baby and can do it himself, but his arms feel like bricks and he can feel the fever working its way back into his system. When he’s finished, she coaxes him into taking the handful of pills she’s brought and gives him a few sips of ginger ale with a straw before she gets him started on a breathing treatment. He’s trying not to show how miserable he feels, but he’s sure he’s failing because May knows him much too well, can tell him what he’s going to think before he even thinks it sometimes.
“You know, when you were born, you were small enough to fit in your mother’s hands,” May reminisces with a small smile. “She called you her peanut. You had these big, dark eyes that would take everything in like a sponge. I used to warn her that you’d be trouble, that you were too smart for your own good.”
Peter side-eyes her and she laughs.
“You heard my conversation with Tony in the hall, didn’t you?” she finally asks, and Peter just nods, tries not to cry because the guilt of all of this is starting to become unbearable and he’s tired of being on the brim of tears all of the damn time. She nods knowingly and takes a moment to think. “You know how you’re taking what he said personally?”
Peter quietly curses May’s ability to read him like a book.
“He’s thinking the same about your being sick,” May explains. “He’s blaming himself.”
Peter’s forehead crumples in confusion. “Not anyone’s fault,” he whispers.
“Exactly.” She smiles and pulls the mouthpiece away from Peter’s lips to make sure there’s still medication coming out. “Almost done. I’ll be back in a few to check on you.”
“I see what you did there,” Peter says with a small laugh as she leaves. “Very clever, May.”
And even though he’s barely managed to whisper and she’s already halfway down the hall, he knows she’s heard him.