Peter hadn’t gotten sick since the spider bite. He had assumed (hoped) that he was now immune to all diseases or something, but alas, the snot flooding from his nose and the pounding in his temples proved otherwise.
He sighed and blew his nose on his third tissue on the subway. Three separate people glared at him in disgust. He shrugged apologetically. What could he do? He had a chemistry quiz today, so he couldn’t miss school, and he and Tony had a project to work on at the compound. So he was here, on the subway, feeling absolutely miserable. And he spent the whole day at school feeling miserable, barely answering any questions and definitely bombing that quiz.
Peter waved weakly to Happy as he came into the blessed air conditioning of the compound. He sighed happily. He hoped he didn’t have a fever. He pressed the back of his hand to his forehead as he used the other to press the elevator button. Crap. He was hot.
He rode the elevator down to the lab, slumping against the back wall and hoping that Mr. Stark wouldn’t send him home. He really wanted to work on their project.
The elevator doors slid open and Peter perked up, putting his best “everything is fine” face on. He flashed a smile at Tony and Bruce.
“Hey guys!” he said. Did they notice how rough his voice was? He studied them both, but he couldn’t see any tell tale signs. “Ready to work, Mr. Stark?”
“Ready when you are, kid,” Tony said, stepping back from his work bench, brushing dust off his hands. He smiled and slapped Bruce on the shoulder. “Keep working, bud.”
Peter was about to sneeze. Crap. Crap. Crap. He held it in, trying to discreetly hold his nose but—
“Ah-choo!”
The loud evidence of his misery echoed in the walls the lab, condemning him to concern glances and cold medicine and bed rest and—
“Bless you,” Banner and Stark chorused. Peter’s shoulders dropped in relief.
“Sorry it’s dusty in here,” Bruce said, sweeping some off his own desk.
“It’s fine, Mr. Banner,” Peter said, waving a dismissive hand. He ran his hand over his hair, wincing slightly at the heat radiating off his forehead. He probably did need medicine and rest, but he was going to work on this project if it killed him.
“Come on, kid,” Tony said, wrapping an arm around Peter’s shoulder. Peter froze in terror when Tony’s hand came a little too close to his forehead. “What were you thinking about the velocity...”
Tony stopped, as did Peter’s heart. The billionaire pressed his hand to Peter’s forehead with a frown. “You’re hot, buddy,” he said with concern. He turned to face him, placing both hands on Peter’s shoulders. “Your voice was scratchy, too.”
“Uh-oh,” Bruce said from across the room. He walked over. “Got a cold, Peter?”
Peter hung his head. “Yeah,” he mumbled unhappily. “I’ve been sick all day.”
Tony tsk-ed disappointedly. He lifted Peter up by the underarms and carried him to the makeshift examination table on Bruce’s side of the lab. He plopped him down. “Check up time,” he sang, patting the top of Peter’s curls.
Peter pouted like a child and crossed his arms like one too. He watched as Bruce fetched a thermometer and brought it back to him. He pressed the button, signaling a little beep, and popped it in the boy’s mouth.
“What’s the sentence, your honor?” Tony asked, watching them with crossed arms and barely hidden concern in his eyes.
Bruce took the thermometer out of Peter’s mouth and checked the numbers. “Ooh. 102.2,” he said. “Two days on bed rest.”
Peter sniffed and fell forward against Tony’s chest. Tony rolled his eyes as the boy groaned, but he ran his fingers through Peter’s hair anyway. “Come on, I’ll carry you home.”
“Aunt May’s at work,” Peter mumbled, not moving from his spot.
“Then I’ll carry you upstairs.”