Chapter 24
Chapter 24
Wednesday, March 4
“It’s only for a couple more weeks, okay?” May says, squeezing Peter in a tight hug. “Just until the end of the month. Then I’ll be home and you can come back for a little bit. We’ll get some Thai and binge-watch Netflix.”
“I’d like that,” Peter says, looking up with sad eyes. He knows he has to go back to Tony’s, that May’s got a flight to catch later today for a business trip. Steve has called her about a million times in the last 24 hours to reiterate that he knows asthma first-hand and can make sure that Peter’s okay while she’s on her trip, that Tony will come to his senses soon and apologize. She’s not entirely convinced, but she knows she can’t just stay home. “I just...miss you.” He goes into another round of tears, May rubbing his back as Happy pulls up in front of their apartment.
“I know, baby. I miss you, too.” She gives a small smile, kisses him on the forehead, and watches with tears in her own eyes as he climbs into the backseat of the SUV.
Thursday, March 5
Peter rests his forehead atop his forearms on the lunch table, is trying to block out the overwhelming noise of the cafeteria. His head pounds and his chest feels heavy, but a trip to the nurse three periods ago revealed no fever, so here he sits.
The nurse, Shannon, offered to send him home, but Peter decided to suffer through this at school rather than at the Tower. With Tony.
“Are you having a sensory overload? You should go to the nurse,” Ned comments.
“M’fine,” Peter mumbles, feeling anything but.
MJ rubs his back and leans in close. “I can feel your wheezing, Peter. You’re not fine.”
“Took my inhaler,” he mumbles. Was that an hour ago? Two?
“And it isn’t working,” MJ says. “You need the nurse.”
A coughing fit that nearly has him bringing lunch up is what sends Peter over the edge, has him giving in to MJ. She lets him lean on her, an arm around his shoulder, as she helps him to the nurse.
“Peter,” Shannon greets him when he enters the office. MJ signs him into the log book. “Chest still tight?” she asks.
“Yeah,” admits, rubbing it.
“Did you take any puffs?”
“Not yet,” he admits, a string of coughs escaping as the nurse leads him to a cot. She changes the paper and raises the back, brings a chair over for MJ.
“This your lunch period, MJ?” she asks, an eyebrow raising. “Or should I be sending you back to class?”
“It’s my lunch. I’ll go to class when the bell rings,” she promises.
“She can stay,” Peter adds before the nurse can question her being there. “For moral support. You know.”
“So you don’t barf again?” MJ asks, and Peter laughs, coughs again, which leaves him wheezier than before.
“A little warning would be nice next time,” the nurse jokes, looking Peter over. “You’re looking a little feverish,” she comments, digging into her nearby cart before clipping a pulse ox onto his finger and pulling a portable thermometer. She slips on a cover and slides it beneath Peter’s tongue. It beeps. “Hmm, no temp. Odd. But your pulse ox is only 95. You, my friend, get to go home. Are you with May or Tony right now?”
He closes his eyes, forces himself to mutter, “Tony,” because May is Nashville, will be home Saturday morning. Tony’s technically his closest legal guardian.
“Alright. I’ll call him and set up a treatment while we wait, okay?”
Peter nods and curls into himself on the cot as he coughs, MJ pulling her chair closer. She grabs for his hand. “Are you sure you want Tony to come and get you?”
“No, but…there’s no one else.”
“I can call my dad,” she offers.
“You’re not…calling your dad,” he argues, his wheezing growing deeper. “Can’t sign me out…anyway. Only May, Tony…Pepper, and Happy.”
x
“Hey, kid,” he hears Happy say from the doorway. “Feeling rough, huh? I already signed you out in the office, so we’re good to go.”
He turns from his place on the cot to look at him, notices that Tony’s not there, and sighs a slight breath of relief.
“He couldn’t get out of a big wig meeting, but he promised he’d come check on you after I got you settled at home.”
He flinches at the word home. “Sure,” Peter finally mumbles, getting up from the cot as Happy grabs his backpack. They thank the nurse, head into the hallway, and walk out of the front doors.
As he pulls away from the curb, Happy jumps into conversation with, “He cares about you, Pete. He’s just dealing with some stuff, and he’s taking it out on you in true Tony fashion. He gets like this. Try not to take it personally.”
“How do you suppose…I do that?” Peter wheezes, side of his head against the window, eyes closed. “After what he said?”
“Give him some time. He’ll admit he was wrong.”
“This ever happen…to you?”
“Plenty of times.”
“How long?”
“Have we been friends?”
“Did it take?”
“Depended on what it was we were arguing about.”
“We’re not…arguing,” Peter says, the tickle in his throat forcing three forceful, barking coughs. He tries to stop the next one, sits up and leans forward, gives a slow, controlled huff to clear his throat, but it comes anyway, his hand squeezing his leg as he wheezes tightly between each successive one.
“Shit, kid, you okay?” Happy asks, pulling over, Peter nodding ‘yes’ as more coughs come, one after another, turning his face beet red as he tries to get his breathing to normalize and holds back the small bit of soup he’s managed at lunch.
This has been happening all day. He’d excused himself in math, and then again during study hall, is sure he maxed out his inhaler. But this shouldn’t be happening, not after so much Xopenex and then the Atrovent treatment in the nurse’s office. The Nucala has been in his system for weeks. He leans his head against the car window when he’s mostly sure his lungs are done and closes his eyes as he catches his breath. “I’m good.”
“You sure? You look really far from good, buddy,” Happy comments, his hand on Peter’s seat.
“Might need…another treatment…when we get back,” he whispers, refusing to open his eyes. He knows this is getting worse, is borderline critical, but Tony hasn’t texted him to check-in on him despite the notifications that must be popping up on his phone and Peter doesn’t want to be any more of a bother than he already is.
Because that’s why he yelled at me the other day, Peter thinks. Because I get in the way. Because I make everything more complicated than it needs to be.
“Gonna get you home so Bruce can check you over,” Happy says, throwing the car into drive and pulling out onto the road. There it is again. Home. It doesn’t feel like home to Peter. Not anymore, anyway.
“Don’t need Bruce,” he croaks.
“Kid, you are not dying on my watch, you hear? Tony’ll never forgive me.”
“S’that supposed to…be a joke?” Peter asks, wheezing. “Tony could give…two shits…about me.”
“He cares about you, kid, he’s just being Tony. A side of Tony you’re not using to seeing.”
Peter doesn’t answer, just sits up as straight as he can and focuses on breathing. The tightness growing in his chest has him just a tiny bit worried that this is going to get worse and he’s going to be alone in MedBay without Tony by his side, holding his hand.
Okay, so he’s actually completely terrified to do this on his own, doesn’t know what to do about this awful attack that’s building and making him feel like he’s got cement in his lungs again. He’s wheezing on every inhale and exhale, knows Bruce is going to give him that look of disappointment when he pulls up the data on how much medication Peter’s taken to try and fix this on his own without anyone knowing. He keeps his eyes closed and tries not to let Happy’s crazy driving make him carsick.
x
“You have a call from Bruce Banner, sir,” FRIDAY notifies Tony. “Should I play a busy signal?”
“No,” he says, sighing as he throws the hunk of metal in his hand down on the table. “If this is about my reactor, Bruce, you should just quit now while-”
“It’s Peter,” Bruce says, and Tony can hear Peter wheezing in the background, long, hollow wheezes between short coughing fits that make his stomach drop.
“FRIDAY!” he yells as he runs for the elevator. “Get me up there, double-time-”
“He doesn’t want to see you, Tony,” Bruce explains, but Tony ignores it, gets in the elevator anyway. “Please. I can’t have him getting any more worked up than he already is. He’s wheezy, but his oxygen levels are improving quickly. I’ve got him on an albuterol/Atrovent neb and oxygen, pushing fluids and steroids.”
“Albuterol sets his anxiety off,” he states as the elevator rises. “Why would you give him that when you know-”
Bruce sighs. “I can’t mix Xopenex and Atrovent, Tony. They incompatible. I don’t have much of a choice with this wheezing. I promise that it sounds worse than it is. He’s going to be fine once the IV steroids kick in. I just wanted to let you know.”
“Is this the attack that started at school?” Tony feels the guilt take hold in his stomach; he’d had Happy pick the kid up, told him to chalk Tony’s absence up to a big wig meeting when he was really downstairs in his lab, guzzling coffee and tinkering with the nanotech for a new reactor.
He still can’t get it right.
He was half-lying when he told Peter he could run his suit without his reactor. At this rate, he’ll be the man with the most technology that he can’t actually use once his reactor shits the bucket.
“Seems like he’s been having small exacerbations throughout the day. I took some blood to see if there’s anything infectious going on, but I think it’s just a virus. Lotta crap still going around this time of year.”
“He said he doesn’t want to see me? He’s talking?” Tony says, attempting to hide his sniffling.
“Steve brought him up, said it was all Peter could get out before the wheezing really set in. I’m gonna let you go so that I can run these labs, but I’ll update you in a few hours.”
As Tony nods, thanks Bruce, and disconnects the call, the tears hit. Hard. He has FRIDAY bring him back to the lab, asks her to dim the lights, and pulls up the video and audio feed of Peter’s bed in MedBay on his screen. He watches Steve hold Peter’s oxygen mask with a nebulizer reservoir attached against his face for a moment before Peter coughs heavily, pushes it away, and pukes into a basin. He drags in a congested breath and coughs again, long and deep, Steve replacing the mask and securing the elastic when he’s sure Peter’s isn’t going to puke again.
I should have never said any of those things after the mission, Tony thinks, shaking his head. He inhales a shaky breath and pinches the bridge of his nose. They weren’t even true! I should be the one sitting there with him. Fuck.
“This…sucks,” Peter wheezes, pulling the white MedBay blanket over his shoulders.
“Tell me about it, kid. We didn’t even have medicine when I was your age, just waited the hours or days it took for it to pass.”
“Days?!” he asks from behind the mask, incredulous.
“If the asthma cigarettes didn’t kick in,” Steve says, chuckling.
“Asthma…cigarettes?! Isn’t that…an oxymoron?”
He shrugs. “Doctor’s orders..”
“Wow, that’s…nuts.”
“Is it getting any better?” Steve says, looking up at the machines as if he knows what all of the numbers mean. He’s new to this, to seeing Peter like this, but the kid seems to be in good enough spirits despite the situation; Peter hadn’t flinched when Bruce inserted the IV in his left hand, nor did he complain when Brue stuck heart monitor patches on his chest and back, a blood pressure cuff on his right arm, and a pulse ox clip on his right index finger. There had been a brief argument over Peter refusing to put on a gown, but Bruce had given in in favor of getting his breathing treatment started, let him stay in his jeans and gray actually, it is rocket science NASA t-shirt.
“Still…hard to breathe,” he wheezes, rubbing his chest. “Not usually…like this…after two close treatments.”
“Being emotional always made my asthma worse.”
“M’not…being emotional.” He doesn’t try to hide his offense, not in his tone at least, but he can’t tell if Steve can see his expression behind his mask, so he pulls the blanket tight around his shoulders like a cape and hopes that sends the message.
Steve shifts in his chair. “You know what I mean, Pete. You should talk to him.”
“He made it clear…that he’s done. I can’t make people…want to be in my life. Seems like…everyone’s…always leaving, so…” he trails, catching his breath as he tries not to get too emotional. The blood pressure cuff begins to inflate. “It’s fine. It’s…my fault anyway. I always…”
“Try and do the right thing, kid. You always do, and that’s why you’re such a great asset to our team.”
“Some asset,” Peter huffs, lifting his arms to showcase all of the tubing and wires.
“Hey, doing what’s right is important, even if you pay for it later,” Steve argues softly. “That’s a true sacrifice. It counts for something.”
“Does it, though?” Peter asks, and Steve isn’t ready to see the kid’s eyes filled with tears.
“It always counts, even if people convince you it’s uncountable,” he affirms. “Hell, it counts for more than anything that’s countable.”
“Language,” Peter says with a laugh through his tears, and Steve gives him a smile back.
“I owe you an apology, Peter,” Steve admits. “I know I was a bit condescending with my Christmas speech, when I went off about challenges making people better? That wasn’t fair to you and I’m sorry. You were good before all of this. You had to have been to be the kid you are now. I know I made it sound like you deserved this, which you don’t. No one does. I’ve been in your shoes and I know how hard it is. I’ve had a few close ones and it’s been a long time, but you never forget, you know? It’s just…been on my mind for a while now, since the gala, and I wanted to make sure it got to you.”
“Thanks,” Peter replies, his cheeks burning, because did Captain America just apologize to him?
“You did the right thing by going out there the other night. And I know by the look on your face that you think I’m the last person who’d ever say that to you, but I know why you did it, kid. Powers or not, I would’ve tried to do it, too.”
“B-but wat if…the right thing ends up being the…w-wrong thing?” He sniffles.
“If I’ve learned anything in all of the years that I’ve known Tony Stark, it’s that he does this when he thinks he can’t protect the people he loves. When he thinks he’s got nothing good left to give. Tony keeps a lot to himself, even from Pepper and you. He thinks he’s protecting you in doing this.”
“That sounds…wildly abusive,” Peter argues.
“Oh, it is,” Steve answers, giving a nod in acknowledgement. “Don’t get me wrong, what Tony did to you, said to you, was unacceptable. But you just wondered it aloud yourself: What if what you think is the right thing in the moment ends up being the wrong thing?”
Peter feels the pain of the confrontation the other day flood his system, but he thinks, somewhere deep inside him, he can try and make a little sense of what Steve is trying to say.
“It’ll get better,” Steve offers, Peter’s blood pressure cuff inflating on his arm.
“The asthma?”
“Probably, but I meant the stuff with Tony,” Steve says, giving him a genuine smile.
“It could also get worse,” Peter reasons, dragging in slow breaths of the medication from the mask.
“He’ll apologize when he’s got his head on straight again.”
Peter gives a small laugh, but tinged with sadness. “Not sure I’m ready to accept it.”
x
Tonight, Peter’s chest feels heavy. Full. He can feel his chest crackle with every inhale and exhale, debates a few puffs and a treatment. He’s just attempted chemistry homework but given up, his brain and lungs too tired for both thinking and breathing. He just wants to stay in the little ball he’s formed on his bed and fall asleep, forget everything he’s supposed to do and everything going on in his life. He closes his eyes, promises himself he’ll only sleep for a little while and then handle the crackling, lets himself drift off.
“Peter?” Tony’s soft voice wakes him sometime later, Peter coming to slowly. He rubs his chest, his inhales and exhales crackling louder than before. The room is dark until Tony switches Peter’s bedside lamp on, the brightness blinding the teen. “How long have you been like this?”
“M’fine,” he groans, turning away from Tony. “Don’t need your help.”
“Your lungs sound like they’re full of water,” Tony notes, ignoring Peter’s words and helping him sit up. Peter tries to protest, but his body is too weak, brain is too fuzzy to coordinate his movements. He finds himself leaning into Tony’s embrace, tries not to cry. He doesn't want to admit it, because his argument with Tony has come flooding back, nasty emotions and all, but he can feel the fear at not being able to breathe well building, has an inkling that he might be spending the night in MedBay if they can’t get this under control here.
By the time Tony’s set up a treatment, Peter’s airways feel as if they are half as open as they were before, and he can now feel whatever’s inside moving as he tries to breathe. He sits hunched, eyes closed, and works to pull any air that he can in.
Tony wordlessly secures the oxygen beneath his nose, helps him into the vest that shakes the mucus loose, and connects the tubing to the machine. Tony doesn’t need to look at his watch to see that Peter’s oxygen level is low, doesn’t need to steal a glance at Peter’s pale face and red cheeks to know that this isn’t good. The very fact that Tony’s forced the vest on Peter without any pushback says everything they both need to know. Peter can barely process his emotions and thoughts as the vest shakes against his chest and moves the mucus, can only focus on trying to breathe and coughing up thick, green gunk into the tissues Tony’s holding in one hand, nebulizer mouthpiece in the other, between breaths of the medication. He hates having to do this, hates that Tony is here, wants to lean over and press the off button on both machines because this fucking hurts with his lungs feeling so sore and full, but he holds back, listens as Tony encourages him with the same, gentle remarks he always makes over the buzzing of the machines: Good, kiddo. Deep breaths. You’re doing great.
He does it even though he and Tony haven’t talked about what happened the other day, even though he’s beyond angry, because he’s terrified of drowning. Because this came on so suddenly and he doesn’t understand why.
It feels a lot like nearly drowning.
Like almost dying.
That’s why he’s closing his eyes, taking deep breaths from the nebulizer mouthpiece, letting the vest go through its cycles and pound at his tired, mucus-filled lungs.
When Peter’s nebulizer runs dry, Tony turns both machines off and helps Peter out of the vest before propping him up against his pillows to help him breathe easier. He adjusts the oxygen and puts the back of his hand to the teen’s forehead, checking his watch to confirm what he already knows: No fever.
It doesn’t make sense.
Not after Peter had gotten so sick at school.
Not after his stint in MedBay this afternoon.
Not with his lungs so murky despite the treatment and vest machine.
Tony can’t make sense of it, and he can’t stop feeling that something isn’t right.
It sticks with him he sits at the kitchen island going through emails, Peter’s vitals up on an extra StarkPad he’s got beside him, and again while brushing his teeth at two in the morning. It’s the only thing on his mind as he slips into bed, one last check on his StarkPad showing no temperature.