Chapter 20
Chapter 20
Wednesday, January 22
“You wanna try with or without the oxygen?” Tony asks as he and Peter enter the gym on the 48th floor of the Tower. He sets the oxygen tank and his gym bag down in the corner, gestures toward a small row of treadmills.
“Without,” Peter decides, dropping his backpack to the floor.
“You did your treatment after school?”
“I’m not going to die from walking on a treadmill, Tony,” Peter jokes, but he feels bad about it almost immediately, is just apprehensive, can’t help but worry that their plan to get Peter conditioned is going to explode in their faces. They’ve both been so busy, Peter overwhelmed with midterms and Tony booked solid with meetings. “Sorry. I’m…I’m nervous and I’m stressed right now? I’m trying not to think about everything, but I’m thinking about everything.”
“No catastrophizing. Today is a trial run. We do the best that we can and we stop when we need to stop, okay?”
“I don’t know when I should stop and when I should keep going, though.”
“We’ll figure that out together, I guess, because I don’t really know either.”
Peter places his feet onto the sides of his treadmill and attaches the safety clip as Tony sets the machine to a speed a step above walking.
“Don’t push it, kiddo. Take it slow,” Tony warns as Peter walks to match the pace of the machine.
“Not like I have much of a choice,” he quips.
“Your oxygen level is 98, so I think we’re good. Let me know if you think you need the oxygen, though.”
“Not gonna need it.”
“You being stubborn or honest?” Tony asks as he hops onto his own treadmill and starts the machine.
“Both?”
“Sounds about right.”
Tony has FRIDAY play some classic rock, quizzes Peter a bit like he did in the car to get the kid’s mind off of everything. They’re about fifteen minutes in, with Tony at a brisk walk that’s borderline jogging, when Tony notices that Peter’s starting to struggle. He’s gripping the sides of the treadmill like his life depends on it, is clumsily placing one foot in front of the other to keep going.
“How you doing, kiddo?”
“Aren’t you tired?” Peter asks, slightly wheezy.
“Yes,” Tony answers honestly, panting, but he knows he can go another ten minutes, just walking, of course, if he wants to.
“So, then, we don’t have to…keep doing this, right?”
“We’re doing this because we have to, not because we want to.”
“I can’t tell if I should…stop,” he admits. It’s harder to pull air in, but it’s not awful, feels just like it does when he climbs the stairs at school because the elevator is slow.
Tony leans over to glance at Peter’s watch. “You’re 95. Up to you, kiddo. You can try with the oxygen or you can stop.”
“Or I can just…keep going.”
“Yeah, no, plowing through isn’t going to help anyone. Use the data you have to make an informed choice.”
“Easier to just keep…going,” Peter pants.
“Yeah, and we saw where that got you before.” Tony presses the STOP button on his machine and then Peter’s, waits for both treadmills to stop before helping Peter off and to sit on a nearby bench. He lets Peter adjust the oxygen beneath his nose, hands him his inhaler and spacer from his backpack, and watches as he takes the medication and tries to calm his breathing down. “You’ll get better at this, at knowing your body,” Tony reminds him.
“I don’t think this is…gonna work.”
“It’ll work, Pete.”
“It’s okay if it doesn’t, though, right?” And he’s sniffling, trying not to get upset, because it feels like his lungs are deflating and he only did fifteen minutes of walking, not even jogging, and he wants to get back to patrolling, wants so badly to get back to before all of a sudden, but it feels so far away, so fleeting.
“Yes, it’s okay if it doesn’t, but this is why we have to show up and work on this every day. You don't have to want the walking, but you have to want Disney and Spiderman.”
“I’m trying to be okay with this but it’s really…it’s really scary, Tony. I should be able to walk. I just…want someone to promise me that some of this will be worth it…that I’ll be fine at Disney…that I can do the Spiderman gig again.” He shakes his head and tries not to cry, but he can feel them coming, can’t stop the tears from rolling down his cheeks.
“I can’t promise that you'll get to Spiderman again. I want to promise you that, but you know that I can't. I'm optimistic, kiddo but..."
He wipes his nose, tries not to get angry. “I get it,” he grits his teeth and whispers, looking down.
Tony puts a hand on Peter’s shoulder. “It’s going to take time, and that’s okay. That was one of the first things I think I said to you after you got sick. You’re exactly where you need to be right now, as crazy as that sounds,” Tony tries.
The words flip a switch inside of Peter.
He shirks away from Tony and chucks his inhaler clear across the room. “Could you just stop with the platitudes already?” Peter yells. “I want it to stop! Why can’t it just…stop?” Peter lets out the most pitiful sob, and Tony just lets him, doesn’t comfort him or say anything right away, just lets him cry everything out for a good five minutes or so with ragged, wheezy breathing.
When he finally starts taking smaller gulps of air, begins to calm down and dry his face with his shirt, Tony gives a small, sad sigh.
“You can be angry, Peter, but you can’t take it out on the people around you. And you can’t take it out on yourself. I know because I’ve been there. Not getting off of the treadmill when you were clearly not okay? And throwing your medication? There are other ways to channel your anger.”
“I don’t know why…I keep crying!” He’s wiping his eyes, trying to get it to stop, can’t tell if he’s angry or exhausted or furious or what.
“Kiddo, it’s okay, you know. To cry. Doesn’t matter if it’s every day. You’ve gotta get that frustration out. When you’re ready to start jogging and running, it’ll be a good outlet for that. But for now, we’ve gotta find something else. You were reading that book, right? On the couch last night? Does reading help.”
“I don’t know. I don’t think anything helps.”
Maybe the Ativan, Peter thinks, but he doesn’t say it, because he doesn’t like the idea of needing medication outside of nightmares and severe panic attacks.
He likes to think he can do this without medication.
Even if he knows he can’t.
“Just feels like I’m starting to deserve this? Like…if I’m not getting better, and I’m just becoming angrier…maybe…maybe…” His breaths quicken, and he feels like he might throw up at the thought, has to hold on to the bench to keep himself from getting too dizzy.
“Kiddo,” Tony says, shaking his head. “No. You are not going there, not even for a second. You are getting better, but it’s happening slowly because you’re still sick. You’ve only had one dose of the Nucala. Remember when you could barely walk? When you needed oxygen 24/7? The BiPap? We haven’t used that in weeks, thank God. You need less and less medication every week. We’re getting there. I’m gonna get you there, kiddo, but I need you to work on mentally getting there, because we can’t get there without that, too. And that starts with not being destructive toward yourself and others.”
They sit in silence for a few minutes, Tony chugging water as Peter sniffles and pants and feels guilty about throwing what he knows has to be an expensive medication; May’s eyes had gone wide when he’d mentioned the change to her, and she had commented that one inhaler alone could be upwards of $350.
He feels a small nudge in his side. “You look beat, kid. What midterm do you have tomorrow?”
“Math.”
“You need a study partner?”
“Think I’m just gonna go to bed,” Peter says quietly. He prepares himself for the task of standing up, likes that Tony doesn’t swoop in to help him or insist on dragging the oxygen back up to his room for him. He trudges across the room to grab his inhaler, the oxygen in tow, and trudges back. Peter wants to say I’m sorry and thank you, but he can’t get himself to say it, can only focus on putting one foot in front of the other again until he’s in the elevator, and then back at the residence. Soon, he’s curled into a ball on his bed with his oxygen on and phone against his chest, MJ’s tattered copy of The Fault in Our Stars open and propped against a pillow.
His phone buzzes. It’s MJ.
You’ve been quiet today. Everything okay?
Just tired. Reading.
What part are you up to?
They’re at the Anne Frank house.
Oh.
Oh? Please tell me Hazel doesn’t die on this trip. I need her to live.
🤐
Peter grumbles and reads on, is nearly half-asleep when he comes across the plot twist of all plot twists. It nearly knocks all of the air from his lungs, and he’s suddenly thankful he’s got his oxygen on.
WHY DID YOU GIVE ME THIS BOOK?!
Ah, so you got to THAT part.
Fuck, he responds. This is heartbreaking.
I’m sorry, I thought you’d like it. I wasn’t thinking about how it might affect you. You don’t have to keep reading. I can give you a summary of the end if you’d prefer.
She texts again when he doesn’t respond. I’m really sorry, Peter.
Peter ignores the rest of her texts, can barely see through the tears in his eyes, keeps reading because he has to know.
Even though he knows how this is all going to end, even though he knows it’s almost midnight and he should be getting to sleep, he keeps reading.
“I thought being an adult meant knowing what you believe,” Hazel’s dad admits in the book, “but that has not been my experience.”
And maybe, Peter thinks as he closes the book, tears drying and ending still unknown because he can’t keep his eyes open any longer, this is what Tony’s been trying to tell him all along.
That Tony wishes he had all of the answers, but that he doesn’t. That it’s okay to not have all of the answers.
That it’s okay to be living in the in-between of sick and healthy.
That it’s okay if he’s just Peter.
Maybe that’s part of why he’s been so scared. He’s so used to being Spiderman that he’s lost sight of Peter.
And maybe that’s part of what May’s been trying to instill in him: That Spiderman or not, Peter is still special to her, the most special of everyone that exists, even with a brain that likes to race and wheezy lungs.
This last month has been full of Peter being just Peter, and he’s hated most of it except for his time with MJ. (And okay, May, Tony, Pepper, the list goes on.) He would rather not need oxygen some nights, doesn’t like waking up mid-nightmare/panic attack or doing treatments at school, but the people in his life, the ones who have stuck this out with him, like Hazel’s parents who remind her they love her in the least cliché ways possible at every turn, are the one good thing he’s got in all of this, and ending of the book be damned, he decides, he has to start focusing on that rather than the anger living inside him.
He pulls his phone out and types out Not mad at you. Just angry about a lot of things right now and this book is making me feel and, I don’t know, I guess I just wasn’t expecting everything to hit me like it did today. I like the book. I’m going to finish it, so don’t spoil it. Night. <3
x
Friday, January 24
Tony deflates as he enters the kitchen, sitting down at the island to take a moment for himself.
“I thought Peter might want some dessert,” Pepper comments, pushing a plate with a small slice of chocolate cake and a fork across the counter toward Tony. She gives a small, sad smile, can only imagine how awful Peter’s injection was based on the litany of swear words she heard a moment ago from across the house.
“Came to grab some ice, but I think the cake might be the better option here,” Tony decides, rubbing his face.
Pepper goes for the freezer and pulls out an ice pack. “Couldn’t tell with the full-on sobbing,” she comments sarcastically, but there’s a softness to it.
“He’s got a pretty high pain tolerance, but watching him sit there and inject and get so upset... I can just tell how painful it is, you know? He broke down in the gym yesterday. Kid’s going through such a hard time all of a sudden and I can’t explain why.”
“It’s been more than a month, Tony. He’s frustrated. I wouldn’t expect him to be anything but right now, honestly.”
Tony lets the thought ruminate for a moment. “His injection site started forming a raised, red lump so I snapped a picture of it and sent it to Bruce, who assured me that it’s normal. But nothing about this is normal, right? People shouldn’t have to do this kind of stuff? Am I even doing the right thing by making him do all of this?”
Pepper wraps the ice pack in a dish towel and places it beside the cake on the island. “Sometimes the things that are best for us are what cause us the most pain.”
“Wow, insightful,” Tony comments, pretending to be impressed as he looks up at Pepper with a smile. “So, I cause you pain, then?”
“Oh, all the time,” she jokes with a loving laugh, coming over to hug him from behind.
“Hm, and you still love me?”
“The things that are best for us…” she trails, resting her chin on Tony’s head. He relishes in the touch for a moment, takes a deep, relieving breath as he closes his eyes. “You’re doing this with Peter because you love him,” Pepper reminds him.
“Think you can make that two slices of cake to go?” he asks, looking up at her.
“Anything else?” she asks with a laugh as she pulls away.
“A kiss,” Tony says, pulling her back in.
x
Tuesday, January 28
Tony and Peter are on day 6 of what Tony has coined Operation Disney. Peter’s managed twenty minutes of slow jogging, which is improvement from his fifteen minutes of walking that left him needing his oxygen nearly a week ago. The injections and his healing factor have kicked in more fully and completely, and Tony doesn’t want to jinx it, but he’s sure Bruce, Dr. Cho, and May are about ready to clear Peter for some light patrolling.
Okay, so maybe not patrollingpatrolling, but swinging, yes.
The kid is panting on the bench as he tries to calm his lungs down post-jog, but he hasn’t needed the oxygen to work out in three whole days, and Tony’s taking that as a good sign.
“I have a surprise,” Tony says, barely able to contain the smile working to spread itself across his lips. It’s not until he pulls Peter’s suit from his gym bag and nudges it toward him that Peter looks over. “Try it on.”
“No, Tony,” Peter says, shaking his head, even though he really wants to. “If I try it on, I’m only going to get more upset, and I really don’t want to cry right now.” His voice breaks.
“I think you need this more than you realize. I’ve reconfigured some of the coding so that Karen and FRIDAY can talk seamlessly. I also updated the Boomerang Protocol so that we get the proper alerts. Your mask now warms and filters the incoming air when it’s below a certain temperature, and Bruce and I found a way to incorporate your inhaler and epinephrine, just in case.”
“Tony,” Peter says, looking up with tears in his eyes as he holds the fabric in his hands. “Y-you didn’t have to...”
“Yes, I did, kid. You are the only Spiderman in our universe, and you deserve a suit even if you can’t be in battle right now.”
“But I’m…I’m never gonna get to wear it again.”
“You can still wear it. Doesn’t mean you’re going out to fight crime just yet, but I want to make sure I got it right. Go try it on.”
Peter’s still got the suit clutched in his hand as he throws himself around Tony, who holds him there against his chest. Tony knows that the kid’s had a long day, that he didn’t do as well on one of his midterms as he’d hoped, that he needed an Atrovent treatment this morning with it being so cold. Things have been getting better, yes, but they’ve also been staying frustratingly consistent, and Tony knows that Peter has pretty much resigned himself to being on the sidelines permanently.
The teen goes into the locker room to change into the suit and studies his figure in the mirror.
“Welcome back, Peter,” Karen chimes in his mask. “Would you like me to go through all of the new upgrades in your suit?”
It’s the best sound Peter’s heard in months.
He walks into the gym as Karen lists off the new features and asks if he wants to try some new webshooter combinations. He holds his arms out, as if to shoot webs, and pauses in realization.
“Go for it,” Tony says, giving him a nod.
“They don’t work, with the steroids…”
“Ah, but maybe they do,” Tony says, and he’s smirking, because he’s made some changes to the chemical structure, knows that while the tensile strength is somewhat compromised by his tinkering, the steroids Peter has been taking will no longer have such a devastating impact on his ability to shoot webs.
Peter takes a deep breath, bracing himself for the failure, before shooting webbing clear across the room.
“No way!” he yells, repeating the process, and soon, half of the gym is covered in webbing, Tony included. “Sorry, sorry!” Peter’s apologizing as he works to get the webbing off of Tony’s left arm and shoulder, but he’s grinning, can’t keep the smile that Tony hasn’t seen in over a month from coming out. “Can I…swing?” he asks, afraid of the answer.
“I don’t see why not,” Tony offers up, though he’s nervous on the inside; Peter’s arm strength isn’t what it used to be, not with the weight loss, and they’ve only focused on cardio at the gym so far. But Tony knows that he can’t show his apprehension, that even though he’s scared and anxious that Peter will have another attack, be it in the middle of the night, at school, or on patrol, he can’t let that fear affect Peter.
Peter’s cautious at first, shoots a small web at the ceiling to see if it’ll hold his body weight, grunts when he tries to get his arms and upper body to pull himself up. He fails, landing back on his feet with a thud, but he goes for it again, and again, until he’s able to lift himself up and swing across the room. “Yes!” he cheers, shooting another web, circling the gym for nearly fifteen minutes until he lands flat on his back, which knocks the wind out of him.
“Underoos?” Tony’s calling, running to him, and when he kneels beside Peter, he thinks he can hear wheezing, but then Peter’s laughing, even though he barely has the breath to do it, is pulling his mask off and rolling over onto his side. “Shit, kiddo. I wasn’t kidding when I said you’re gonna give me gray hair one of these days.”
“That…was…awesome,” he says, a hand on his chest. He’s wheezy, his chest heaving, but Tony can’t deny the look of contentment on the kid’s face.
“Think it’s about time for bed,” Tony comments, ruffling Peter’s hair.
“It’s not even that late!”
“It’s nearly eleven. Treatment and bed.” He sniffs at the air for a second and makes a face. “Maybe a shower too.”
Peter laughs, lets Tony help him up from the floor. He doesn’t take the suit off when he gets back to his room. Not yet, anyway. It makes him feel powerful in a way he can’t describe, is filling him with this happiness in his chest that radiates throughout his body. He can feel his breaths coming up short, but he doesn’t care, just wants to enjoy this feeling, the idea of being Spiderman again.
In that moment, he decides that he wants this. That he needs this suit and everything that comes with it to survive beyond the in-between, that he’ll do anything to get as far with this as he can, even if it means he can’t patrol.
He is the only Spiderman, after all.
He just has to figure out how to be him when he can’t be.
Easier said than done.
He sits on his bed doing his breathing treatment, suit still on, and snaps a picture to send to MJ.
Lol I feel like an Instagram with pictures like this would help a lot of little kids feel better about their treatments, she texts.
And that’s when Peter gets an idea.