Chapter 21
Chapter 21
Tuesday, February 4
“I’ve got decathlon and then I’m out to do some swinging again,” Peter reminds Tony over the phone after school as he walks toward Mr. Harrington’s classroom.
“Peter,” Tony warns with a tone that makes the teen roll his eyes.
He sighs, knowing what’s coming. “What?”
“Don’t overdo it, kiddo. You’re just getting back into the swing of things and you need sleep. Bruce clearly said-”
“I know, I know.” Tony has been on his back about slowing down for weeks now, and it’s not that Peter doesn’t know how to, it's that he doesn't want to. Breathing without effort? Having a routine at school again? Swinging through the crisp New York city air and taking in the gorgeous skyline on a clear, winter night? He’s missed this. All of this.
“You just went out last night, and you were out later than we decided on.” Tony’s trying to tone down his concern and his scorn, but he can’t really help it. Peter’s just getting over being sick, is finally doing some of his normal activities, albeit modified, but he can’t fully shake the fear from the last month, has been trying to keep Peter as healthy as he can without any possibility for relapse, even though he knows he can’t control that, not completely, anyway.
“You know I can’t sleep well even with-”
“The low dose of steroids, I know. Still. I want you in by ten.”
“Tony! Come on,” he protests, practically whining.
Tony considers, takes a deep breath. “Fine, nine. Remember, though, you have the gala tomorrow. And no patrolling. Just swinging.”
“Nine? Really?!”
“Nine thirty.”
“Deal.”
Peter grins, thankful for the extra freedom, and disconnects the call before sliding into a desk for practice.
Wednesday, February 5
Peter pulls down on his tie, finds that the front section is too short and the back too long, and tries to undo it, only to find that it’s tangled too tight around his neck. He drops his tired arms to his sides and sighs.
“Let me,” Tony says from behind him, expertly undoing the knot and mess Peter’s created and working at it until Peter’s looking at a perfectly tied tie in the mirror.
Tony stands tall in a navy blue tailored suit with subtle stripes and a crisp white dress shirt. His tie is purple, silken, and perfectly snug against his neck. It’s a far cry from the pajamas and t-shirts Peter has gotten used to seeing him in. Peter can’t help but wish his hair was slicked back, every hair in place like Tony’s, rather than the mess of gel and short, brown curls he sees in the mirror.
“T-thanks,” he says, trying to ward off the embarrassment of Tony having to fix his tie for him. The moment is a reminder that his life isn’t like everyone else’s, that there are things missing, people missing, and it’s the same feeling he’s always gotten on Donuts with Dad or Muffins with Mom days in elementary school. It also doesn’t help that he’s practically vibrating with nerves. He’s supposed to give a speech tonight at the gala, has been practicing the line Stark Industries has been the leader in technology and innovation since 1940…
“I’ll teach you and have you practice when we’re not running behind schedule, kiddo.”
Peter nods. He grabs the dress coat jacket Pepper’s purchased, and slides his arms in.
“Backpack,” Tony reminds him.
Peter groans. “Come on, Tony! I’ll be fine! I’ve been doing okay!”
“It’s coming along. You got your watch on?”
“Yes, I’ve got my damn watch on!”
And maybe it’s the embarrassment or the nerves that make it come out so angrily, but suddenly, all Peter wants to do is stay home, away from the gala and people mother henning him about his watch and backpack.
“Hey,” Tony warns, putting a finger up. “Cool it, kid. We talked about this.”
Peter feels the guilt rise up in his chest and tries to swallow it down, but it stays put. He knows this isn’t just about him, even though he’s at the center of all of this, but somehow, that isn’t helping settle any of his emotions right now.
“Talk it out. What’s on your mind?” Tony coaxes.
“I’m just really tired of everyone being on me about my shitty lungs all of the time! I just want to be able to do this one thing without having to plan ahead and think about it.”
“I’m not asking you to wear the backpack,” Tony reminds him gently, and it takes everything in him not to match Peter’s level of emotion. “You can leave it in the car with Happy,” he offers as a solution.
Peter grumbles. “Fine.”
“Proud of you, Underoos,” Tony throws in, putting his hands on Peter’s shoulders.
Peter exhales and deflates, looking away from the mirror. “You keep saying that.”
“Because I mean it. Remember, tonight is all about fun. It’s a party, and I’m great at throwing parties, so there’s no possibility of disappointment on that front. You’re gonna get up there and knock the socks off of that crowd.”
“Giving a speech isn’t exactly my definition of fun.”
“And afterwards, you’ll have a blast dancing with MJ.”
Peter bites his lip, refuses to look up. “I don’t know.”
“What don’t you know?” Tony asks, fixing the collar of Peter’s shirt in the mirror.
“I don't know if I should go.”
“You’re going, Peter,” Tony says with a small chuckle. “No turning back now! The future of my internship depends on that speech. That, and MJ probably spent hours getting ready to try and wow you. We’re already running late, so technically, you’re keeping her waiting while you wallow in your public speaking anxiety, which is rude.”
Peter huffs.
“Tony, we’re going to be late!” Pepper yells down the hall.
“That’s our cue,” he says, smiling, nudging Peter to get him to at least smile. “Perk up, buttercup. Tonight could turn out to be the best night of your life.”
Peter grabs his backpack and his phone, feels it buzz in his hand but doesn’t look until he’s in the back of Happy’s Suburban.
Can’t wait to see you, Loser 😜, MJ texts, every ounce of apprehension leaving Peter, a smile spread across his face in anticipation of seeing her.
x
The cocktail hour is the most elaborate scene Peter’s ever seen, with white glove service, glistening chandeliers, and a band playing live music. He’s still breathless from seeing MJ in her lavender cocktail dress, makeup natural, hair pulled up and into an elaborate style that makes her look older, somehow. They’ve been sitting in a corner on the most comfortable couch imaginable talking about everything from NASA’s proposed mission to Mars to Top Gun for over an hour, and while he and MJ can’t drink the strawberry champagne going around, they’ve already commandeered enough Shirley Temples to last them a lifetime.
“Sweet potato puff and shrimp tartlet?” a server asks as he holds out a silver tray of treats.
“Thank you,” they say in unison, taking one of each for their plates. They’ve already devoured cheese and crackers, mini quiche, bruschetta, and chicken satay.
“Have you had shrimp before?” MJ asks before dipping and biting into hers.
“I think so?” he answers, going for the sweet potato puff first. There’s cinnamon, which reminds him of May’s sweet potato casserole on Thanksgiving. “Oh, this one’s good,” he comments, pointing to MJ’s on her plate.
“Here,” she says, dipping Peter’s shrimp and holding it up to his lips. “You have to try this!” He lets MJ put the shrimp in his mouth and chews. The taste is different than he’s expected, and while he’s not a fan of seafood (has May ever cooked fish?), he decides he likes it.
“Not bad,” he comments, nodding.
“So, how much money do you think these people have?” MJ whispers, surveying the room.
Peter finishes chewing and swallows. “More than God but definitely less than Tony,” he jokes. “I don’t even know why he’s holding a fundraiser; he has the money for a number of grants and projects.”
“Does he, though?” And it’s the first time Peter’s ever wondered if maybe something isn’t right, that maybe Stark Industries is losing money rather than making it. He shakes his head, gets the thought to disappear.
“This gala happens every year. It’s been going on since Howard started the company. I think Tony does it as more of a formality than anything else.”
“You sure about that? Seems like Tony’s doing an awful lot of networking.”
“I don’t think Tony is ever not networking,” Peter jokes.
“T-minus thirty minutes until speech time,” Tony says as he approaches, patting Peter on the shoulder. “You ready?”
“I, uh, think this is gonna be a no-go,” Peter answers, swallowing the lump in his throat. His hands grow sweaty at the mention of the speech, at the window of time until now and then closing. “I can’t do this, Tony.”
“You’re doing this,” Tony reminds him with a look and a wide smile. “And you’re gonna be great. Gotta prepare the next Tony Stark somehow, right?”
And while Peter wants that more than anything, he doesn’t want to have to do it right now.
“Freshen up and meet me near the ice sculpture in fifteen,” Tony says, waving at someone across the room before walking away.
Peter puts his plate down and groans.
“He’s right, you know,” MJ says, fixing his collar and tie. “You’re going to be perfect.”
“Can’t be perfect if I can’t get words out.”
“You practically have the speech memorized,” she says, laughing. “Stark Industries has been the leader in technology and innovation since 1940…”
“You should do the speech,” he jokes nervously.
“Not happening.”
“Please? Just this once, MJ.”
“Nope. You got the internship and grant first. Not my show tonight.”
Peter groans and closes his eyes.
“They had warm towels in the bathroom. Go clean up while I get you a glass of water.”
MJ disappears into the crowd, so he goes into the bathroom, wipes his face and hands with a warm towel and meets MJ back where they left off. A few sips into his ice water, he realizes that he feels weird. He presses a hand to his stomach, tries to take a deep breath, and finds that he can’t. That, and there’s a painful tightness growing right around his diaphragm.
“Peter?” MJ asks, and she’s looking at him funny.
“Hmm?”
“You’re sweating. You okay?” MJ asks, putting her plate down on a nearby table.
“Y-yeah,” he lies. “Yeah yeah yeah.” His entire body feels electrified, tingly, and he can’t place the feeling. “Just nervous.”
“Peter, please don’t lie to me. You promised you’d tell me if you weren’t okay.”
He tries to take a deep breath again and comes up short, and it’s not until he rubs his fingertips over his lips that he realizes they’re tingling.
“Your lips,” MJ comments, eyes wide, as she turns him so he can look in a nearby mirror. They’re puffy and red with hives. He goes to speak, but all that comes out is a wheeze. He looks up in panic, presses a hand to his chest, and tries again to take a deep breath, only to fail. “Shit,” MJ says, sitting him down on the couch. She presses the emergency button on the side of Peter’s StarkWatch and works to undo his tie and collar so that he can breathe easier. “I’m gonna go find Tony, okay?” she asks, and before he can protest, she’s gone, lost in the party while Peter sits and gasps, feels everything slow and dim around him.
x
Tony feels his world collapse the second he receives Peter’s emergency alert on his Stark Watch. He’s pushing through the crowd, nearly knocking people over in the process, stopping only when his eyes fall on Peter on the floor, his lips red and swollen, chest fighting for air with deep, punctuating wheezes.
It brings him to his knees.
He can barely process that he’s crying as he takes Peter’s hand in his and chokes out, “What happened?! What’s happening?” to Pepper, who’s holding a used epi pen in her hand.
“He had shrimp,” MJ’s trying to explain, her hands shaking. “He didn’t know he was allergic!”
He’s scooping Peter into his arms, can see just how blue his lips are up close, and dashes through the crowded gala to the front doors of the hall, Pepper and MJ following closely behind.
“Boss, what’s-” Happy starts, but stops when he sees Peter, opening the back door to the Suburban before rushing to the driver’s seat.
They scramble into the car, MJ in the front while Pepper tries to help Tony keep Peter’s airway open in the back.
“Come on, Pete! Come on!” Tony’s coaxing with tears as Happy zips through traffic to get to the Tower. He rips the end cap of a second epi-pen off and jams it into the kid’s thigh, and dammit, Peter’s looking up at him, but his eyes are dazed, and Tony would almost prefer the look asking him to fix it and Peter’s hand reaching up to grab his shirt, because having him limp and nearly lifeless in his arms is making his heart stutter in his chest. “Stay with me, Underoos! Please!”
He can’t get a breath, not even a baby gulp, until suddenly, he can, is taking uneven, raspy intakes that sound awful and don’t slow Tony’s racing heart. He’s trying to cough, but they’re getting stuck somehow, his eyes going wide as his airways spasm against his will. Tony’s got him up and against his chest now, feels Peter fighting with everything in him just to get air, and he’s about ready to just jump out of the car and start running the last two blocks with him in his arms, but Happy’s pulling up to the Tower.
And even though Tony can barely see through the tears in his eyes, he’s running. With his heartbeat staccato and a sharp pain radiating from his sternum, Tony is running as fast as he can with his kid in his arms, can only think of getting him to Bruce, of getting him breathing again.
He turns down the familiar halls, his dress shoes slick against the tile as he holds Peter to his chest. Peter’s lips are still blue despite the injections, and Tony feels like he can’t breathe, either, because he’s convinced that this is it, that this is where he loses him, that this is the thing that takes Peter from him.
He rushes into MedBay, thankful that Happy’s called ahead to the Tower, and places him on the bed, watches as Bruce and Cho begin to apply monitors and administer oxygen and medication. A nurse is cutting Peter’s tie and dress shirt off, ignoring the buttons, so that Bruce can attach heart monitor pads to his chest.
It’s the tie that Tony fixed hours earlier, when he convinced Peter to go to the gala despite his reservations.
“He's not getting enough oxygen,” Bruce is trying to explain, as if Tony doesn’t already know that, as if Peter’s blue lips and fingernails aren’t enough of an indication. But Tony knows what he’s saying, is just unable to process it because he’s trying not to fall apart completely, is pushing himself to calm down because needs to be alert and advocating for Peter.
Only he can’t. The sobs ripping through his body aren’t doing his heart any favors, and he’s clutching Peter’s free hand as a nurse gets an IV line going in his arm, willing his kid to just breathe.
x
When Peter opens his eyes again, he’s propped up in MedBay, an oxygen mask over his mouth and nose giving him a treatment. He can’t breathe, realizes that there are hot tears sliding down his face and landing on his bare chest. He’s still in his dress pants, but his chest is bare and covered in small electrode pads and wires connected to nearby monitors. His senses are overwhelmed by the hissing of the machines and the beeping of the monitors. He can’t remember how he got here, how much time has passed, and it throws him into a higher level of panic.
He pants hysterically beneath the mask, lets out a small sob, and he doesn’t think anyone’s heard him until Tony comes into his vision, sits on the side of his bed, and cards his fingers through his hair.
“Pete?” he asks, panic in his eyes. “Can you hear me, kiddo?”
“Can’t breathe,” he wheezes deeply, squeezing his eyes closed.
“Trying to fix that, Underoos. This was a bad one. Hang in there for me, okay?”
He wheezes in response, uses his whole body just to get a decent lungful of air, but when he goes to get another, he realizes that his lungs are seizing, that they aren’t responding to his brain’s directions. His eyes go wide as he works to get another breath in, and he succeeds but it’s short and wheezy, makes his head spin, and he’s suddenly scared to fall into the darkness again. He grips Tony’s hand, squeezes as tightly as he can.
“I’m right here, kiddo. Not going anywhere.” That’s when Peter notices the tear marks on Tony’s cheeks.
“His oxygen’s gone up only slightly and he’s having apnea spells.” Bruce moves the metal disc of his stethoscope to Peter’s chest, listening intently as Peter’s airways spasm again and refuse to let him breathe. The kid coughs, and Bruce pulls his stethoscope away from his ears to wrap it around his neck. “His airways are constricting and clogged with so much mucus that the nebulized medicine isn’t getting in. See this?” he asks, pointing to Peter’s lower abdomen and then again near his shoulders as he finally gets a breath in. “His lungs are tired from working so hard, so his body is using auxiliary muscles to breathe. I can’t use the vest on him to clear the mucus with his breathing so compromised. He needs mechanical help. I’ve already given him a dose of epi, and that’s after the two you said you gave him at the gala. This has turned critical, Tony. Someone without healing abilities might not survive a reaction this extensive. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
Peter feels himself going in and out, wants to ask what medications they used because his lungs feel tighter than ever and his heart is about ready to take off out of his chest. And then he remembers MJ, needs to know if she’s okay, if she got home okay, and he’s crying again, trying to speak but unable to make anything but the awful dying seal wheeze that he hates more than anything else.
“Peter, we’re going to put you on a BiPap mask and do another breathing treatment with some steroids,” Bruce announces. “It’s going to feel different than the nasal cannula, but it’ll help. I’m also going to give you another shot of epinephrine. I know your heart feels like it’s pounding but we’ve gotta get your airways open, kid. Just a little bit longer, okay?”
The contraption, a mask with large tubing rather than the cannula he’s used to, a nebulizer reservoir, and lines for oxygen and the machine, is much more involved than Peter anticipated, but his brain is getting foggy again, and he doesn’t have the energy to fight it when Tony removes the oxygen mask and Bruce fits the new mask and the straps around his head. It takes him a few breaths to get used to the rhythm and pressure against his face and he feels his airways start to open after Bruce injects him with another dose of epinephrine. His heart still feels like it’s throttling, but he can finally breathe.
He turns his head to the side and closes his eyes in relief, tears falling down and around the mask. The machine is forcing his inhales when his lungs seize up and refuse to breathe on their own, which is weird, but his head isn’t as fuzzy anymore, fingertips don’t feel as tingly. He relishes the timed inhales and exhales, feels the ache in his chest muscles dim marginally.
“Oxygen’s looking better,” Bruce announces as he listens to the kid’s breathing and looks up to read the monitors, but all Peter cares about is how much easier it is to get a simple breath.
“I’m gonna go check on those labs and x-rays,” Bruce says, a hand on Tony’s shoulder, adding, “I’ll only be a couple of footsteps away, alright?”
Tony nods as Bruce leaves, but one look over at Peter, and he breaks.“ Kiddo,” Tony says, voice shaking, his face twisting before he becomes a mess of sobs and tears from his place seated on the side of Peter’s bed. “Fuck. I’m so sorry.”
“M’scared,” Peter puffs beneath the mask, a new round of tears forming and falling as he tries not to get hysterical. He doesn’t want to make his breathing worse, doesn’t want to go back to whatever was happening before.
“I know, kiddo,” Tony says, sniffling as he wipes the tears from under Peter’s eyes. “I know. I can’t imagine what that must have been like for you. This one was so bad. So so bad. I’m sorry it took so long to get it to stop.” His voice cracks on the last word, lips trembling as he tries not to sob.
Peter reaches a hand out, misses Tony’s because he can barely see over the behemoth of a mask on his face and his arms are so tired, but Tony re-takes his hand in his, tries to put on a smile. “I’m just really thankful you’re okay,” he says quietly, sniffling as he squeezes Peter’s hand. “At the gala, you were…blue, and I thought…fuck.” He sniffles, turns and covers his face, shakes his head. “FRIDAY was alerting and your meds were in the car, but Pepper had her epi-pen in her purse and got there first. Thank God she had it in her purse.”
“May?” Peter puffs beneath the mask, fresh tears in his eyes.
Tony checks his phone, sees that Pepper’s left him three brief but hopeful messages. He reads them out loud to Peter. “Pepper left a message for May. Happy took MJ home. She’s shaken up but okay.” He lets out an unsteady sigh, puts his phone in his pocket, and runs a hand through his hair. “Did you know you had a shellfish allergy?” Peter shakes his head ‘no’ and it’s only then that he realizes it was the shrimp that did him in.
This wasn’t so much asthma as it was anaphylaxis.
Food allergies.
One more thing to worry about.
“I’m really sorry, Pete. I had no idea. I would never have let them serve shellfish if I knew,” he says, brushing Peter’s hair out of his face.
And Peter wants to interject and reassure Tony that this isn’t his fault, but he barely has the breath to do it, wouldn’t be able to get all of the words out. He’s exhausted and his body aches horribly. All he can do is sit there and let the machine time his inhales and exhales, let his body rest.
“You must be freezing,” Tony says, and while Peter is shaking from the medication, he’s also a bit chilly. He’s been so distracted, so focused on breathing, that he hasn’t even felt cold until now. Tony grabs a blanket from a nearby cart and carefully covers Peter to his shoulders, tucking in the sides so it doesn’t slip. He’s mindful of the tubing, wires, and Peter’s IV, sits right back where he was on the edge of the bed when he’s done. “You’ve been working so hard to get back to patrolling. I’m so sorry, Underoos.”
And it’s that last word that makes Peter’s lip tremble, makes him realize how close this time was. He’s finally with it enough to realize how serious this is.
“Please don’t cry,” Tony says as he cries, his chin hitting his chest. “Crying makes it worse.”
“T-tony,” Peter manages, his voice cracking as his hand frantically reaches out beneath the blanket to make contact with Tony’s. The panic is welling up again, his eyes going wide.
“Right here, kiddo. I’m right here.” He squeezes Peter’s hand again and tries to hold back his tears. “I’m gonna stay with you, okay?”
Peter nods, tries to sniffle, but finds he can’t with the mask.
“Close your eyes and get some rest.”
Peter shakes his head, feels the panic swell within him as he sobs.
“It’s okay to be scared. I’ll be right here all night. You’re okay, Pete. You’re gonna be okay.”
“G-gonna…die,” he whispers, new tears falling.
“You’re not going to die,” Tony soothes, brushing Peter’s hair.
“Almost did,” Peter adds. “Like Gus. M’scared, Tony! What if…what if…”
What if it comes back when the medication wears off?
And even though Tony has no idea who Gus is, he says, “I know, kiddo. I know. I was so scared I was gonna lose you and I’m going to do everything in my power to make sure this doesn’t happen again. Do you hear me? I’m going to make Bruce do every allergy test under the goddamn sun and then some!”
And Peter isn’t expecting it, but Tony takes his jacket off and kicks his shoes to the side, climbs right into the bed next to him, fixing the blanket again even though it’s fine where it is, and holds his hand so tightly that Peter’s convinced he will be okay if he just leans into Tony and closes his eyes.