Death Curl

“Man, you look awful,” Is the first thing MJ tells him once they’ve sat for lunch. She’s tearing apart her sandwich, eating it layer by layer. Peter still thinks it’s weird, but they all have their quirks. Ned watches bad cartoons, MJ eats sandwiches incorrectly, and Peter is Spider-Man. So, he never says anything because they all have slightly abnormal tendencies.

“Thanks,” Peter replies dryly. He knows that there are bags under his eyes, knows that the hair peaking out of his Iron Man beanie is oily, but he doesn’t need her to point that out to him.

“Sorry, Peter, but you kind of do,” Ned pitches in. MJ shrugs, smirking slightly as if to say ‘It’s not my fault I’m right.’

Peter rolls his eyes, “Seriously guys, thanks for your concern, but I’m fine.” Neither MJ nor Ned look incredibly convinced, but she peels the avocado off of her bread, and Ned munches on a handful of chips.

“Anyways...” Peter shifts uncomfortably, “What did you guys do over the weekend?”

“I finally finished that Lego Avengers set!” Ned takes the bait easily, and Peter sighs in relief. MJ is still very clearly suspicious, but she can tell that he doesn’t want to talk about his personal wellbeing. Besides, what is he supposed to tell them? Yeah, I got shot in the head and then stabbed, but it’s not as bad as it sounds, I promise! Maybe not.

Ned’s speaking in detail about his Battle of New York scene, and how that particular set isn’t sold in the United States anymore, because Steve Rogers is a war criminal, or whatever. When he finally runs out of things to say, MJ cuts in.

“There was a literary festival in Manhattan,” She says, “I went with my dad, probably spent half of my savings, but it was definitely worth it.” MJ pats the fat canvas bag next to her, and that’s the end of that conversation.

“You don’t have any lunch,” Ned says, because Ned always notices the things that have to do with food, “Do you want some of mine? I’ve got pretzels, and you can have part of my cookie.”

“That sounds awesome man, thanks, but I’m not hungry right now. Maybe I’ll eat something when I get home.” They both know that Peter’s an awful liar. MJ rolls her eyes, she’s the one to call him out on it.

“You’ve got to eat something, Peter.” She digs around in her paper lunch bag, pulling out a single red apple. “We’re all going to sit here until you finish this.” She places it in front of him.

He should be grateful to have such good friends, but Peter really doesn’t want to eat. He’s not hungry, and there’s a nauseous lump in his throat when he thinks about swallowing a bite. MJ’s glaring at him though, and there’s no way she’s going to let him go until he satisfies her commands.

With a resentful sigh, he bites down. It’s crunchy, and sour, and it feels all dry and wrong going down his throat. Peter coughs, it feels like the piece of apple is stuck somewhere within his neck. He tries not to gag while MJ shoots him a pointed look.

“I’m cool!” He gasps, after a few seconds, “Completely fine! Totally great, dude! You don’t need to look at me like that. I’m fine, I swear.” There’s a single bit missing from the fruit and Peter already feels the bile rising in his chest.

It feels awful, and although Peter can agree that this is unusual and there’s something weird going on, he still finds himself slightly annoyed at his friend.

“Seriously,” He asks MJ, “Do I have to eat the entire thing? Why isn’t it okay for me to just wait for dinner?” Under her sharp gaze, he nibbles on another small bite.

“Because you’re pale and sweating and you have bags under your eyes. You look like you’re about to keel over, and fuck knows you’re incapable of taking care of yourself.” MJ doesn’t sugar coat things. She doesn’t hold back to perform niceties. Usually, Peter likes the directness, but today it just hurts.

He pulls a face and makes his best puppy dog eyes, “All-All I wanted was to talk to my friends,” He whines, throwing a fake sob into the air, “And you’re just being mean.”

MJ’s face doesn’t change. She’s obviously unamused, and the laughter bubbling to Peter’s lips dries instantly. He shuffles uncomfortably on the flat wooden lunch bench.

“Okay,” He says instead, “I get it. Shut up, Peter. Right?” MJ nods stoically while Ned looks between the two in strange curiosity.

“Peter,” The other boy says, “Seriously, man, are you okay?” The concern is evident and kind of touching, but Peter really doesn’t want to hear it right now. He wants to be home, curled up in bed, where nobody is going to question what he does or doesn’t eat.

He begins to answer that yes, he really is completely and perfectly okay, but that acid reflux is building up. It’s no longer only nausea, now Peter can actually feel chunks of apple coming back up his throat. He’s going to be sick.

His eyes grow wide and his hands go to cover his mouth. God, they’re in the middle of the cafeteria. The only thing more humiliating than throwing up in school is throwing up in front of the entirety Midtown High School of Science and Technology.

Thankfully, his friends have his back. Immediately they’re guiding him out of the room. They’re not going to make it to the nurse in time, but at least this is a little bit more sequestered. They stop in front of the trashcan. There’s a moment of baited silence when they all wait. And then Peter’s gagging.

He’s coughing and crying and vomit is burning his throat and his mouth and his nostrils. It’s his entire half-bagel breakfast, and what little of the apple he had managed to get down. Ned pats his back in his best imitation of a comforting gesture, but Peter doesn’t feel particularly comforted.

Despite how it feels, Peter doesn’t think he’s truly heaving for very long. When he looks up, there’s a very small congregation standing on the other side of the hallway. While many of the onlookers appear nauseated, Flash Thompson is holding his phone out with a shit-eating grin. Shit, he’s recording this. So much for saving himself that small amount of humiliation.

There’s a sour taste stuck in his throat, and it makes Peter want to gag again. His eyes are still tearing a little bit, and there’s vomit plugging up his nose. He runs a sleeve over his face, hoping that Flash didn’t see the tears. God, that’s embarrassing. He’s a superhero, for Christ’s sake. Superheroes don’t cry over a little bit of acid reflux.

“Peter…” It’s a woman’s voice, and Peter looks up. A few feet away, he sees a tall woman with dark hair. She’s the school nurse, Peter hasn’t needed to see her since he was a freshman. She approaches, puts a hand on his shoulder.

“Come on, sweetie,” She coaxes, “Let’s get you to the health room, okay?” Flash laughs audibly now, and Peter’s face is suddenly hotter than before. He’s fifteen, not five. She’s treating him like a child.

Peter shrugs the hand off of his shoulder, offers a close-lipped smile, and a few strained words. “I’m fine- really,”  He says, “I don’t need you to call my aunt or anything, I’m feeling great.”

But he’s not. Another wave of intense nausea is coming over him, and it’s nearly crippling. Peter stumbles where he stands. Suddenly, it’s like everything’s been changed to low definition. It’s like there’s styrofoam around his ears, muffling all sound, his mouth is full of cotton and his sight is blurred.

Fuck, he’s getting dizzy. His knees are weak, but he uses the wall to keep himself up. MJ and Ned are supporting him on both sides, but he can’t remember them getting there. The nurse is there, in front of him and saying words that Peter can’t hear. He blinks, and he’s about to ask her what’s happening, when somebody shuts off the lights.

And then the boy crumples to the floor.

...

When Peter opens his eyes, he’s in a completely new place. The fluorescent lights still buzz, and there are pencil penises drawn on the plaster ceiling tiles. Offhandedly, Peter wonders how some kid was able to reach the ceiling and doodle without a teacher noticing.

Then, Peter wonders why he’s on his back. He’s laying down during what could only possibly be the school day. It’s not soft, but it’s not hard either. Definitely not the floor then, and for a moment Peter’s glad that he’s not on the dirt and grime coated tile.

It takes embarrassingly long for Peter to fully realize that he’s lying on his back in the middle of the nurse’s office. And he should probably have actual emotions about that. Only- he doesn’t. He’s far too slow to feel much anxiety. It’s the complete opposite of that morning he woke up after the spider bite incident: Instead of overwhelmingly fast reaction time, it’s like he’s lost it all now.

It takes a few seconds for the nurse to appear within his sight lines, and even then Peter’s having trouble registering her face.

“Peter.” She says, and he’s reminded of the multitude of times he visited this room, back when he was still Puny Parker, “How are you feeling?”

He grimaces, “Really weird, actually,” He admits, running a hand through his hair as he sits up, “What happened?”

“Peter, have you ever had a seizure before?”

“A seizure?” What is she talking about? Peter’s an enhanced individual with a healing factor and bulletproof immune system. He doesn’t have seizures. He can’t have seizures. Or- Maybe he can. Maybe he just did.

Well, that’s kind of terrifying. It hasn’t even been too long since his mutations occurred, there’s still so much he doesn’t know about them. Maybe he’s not only having seizures, maybe he’s sleep walking. Maybe he’s seeing things and making Spider-Man up and he’s too insane to know it.

“You had a seizure,” The nurse says, and Peter knows she’s trying to be gentle, calming, but he’s not feeling it at all, “It lasted almost two minutes.”

Peter reaches towards his pocket for his phone, but it’s not there. Everything has been taken out of his pants. They’re wet. It looks almost like Peter…

“I have some sweatpants you can change into, but we don’t have any underwear. Sorry.” Shit, Peter actually truly has peed his pants. His mind flashes to the image of Flash holding his phone up. The bully has video of him puking, dropping into a seizure, and peeing himself. That’s just great. Peter’s head drops into his hands. His life might as well be over, he’s never going to live this down.

“I called your aunt already. The hospital of choice in your file is actually the Avengers facility, I guess Tony Stark set something up for you there as his intern. The ambulance should be here to pick you up soon.”

Peter says nothing. He stands, walks into the bathroom, locks the door, and sits on the closed toilet seat, pointedly ignoring the soft squelch of his wet pants.

This is awful. May and Tony already know. MJ and Ned must have been standing by his side when it happened. Flash has a goddamn video and everybody in the entire school is going to see the images of Peter writhing on the ground and pissing himself. Not once in his life has he been this humiliated. The discomfort of soaked jeans only serves to remind him how utterly pathetic he is.

When he exits the small tile bathroom, somehow feeling even more embarrassed than when he first walked in, there are already EMTs speaking to the nurse. Two of them are waiting with a stretcher.

Peter’s going to be carried out. One of the rails on the stretcher are folded, and their directing him to sit down. He bites the bottom of his lip before he obeys. A quick glance at the clock confirms that fifth period is well underway, so hopefully most students will be locked away in their classrooms. Still, kids skip, and rooms have windows, and at least somebody is going to be watching as Peter is strapped down and wheeled away.

He’s better than this. Peter doesn’t need to be secured in a stretcher. He doesn’t need a blanket over his sweatpants-clad legs. He doesn’t need an ambulance to take him to Tony Stark’s private medical facility, or wherever it is that he’s going. He’s Spider-Man, for God’s sake. He’s magnificently strong, fast, smart… And this? This is just humiliating.

There’s some debate over the directions to the complex, and whose GPS system is the best. Peter lays, slightly inclined, and watches through the window while the EMTs start the vehicle. There are two in front -one drives and the other navigates- and one in the back.

She’s petite- can’t be more than five feet. Her face is round and kind and she looks like she’s barely out of college. She works around him, listening to his heartbeat, taking his blood pressure, recording his temperature. Peter can’t bring himself to meet her eyes.

Observing the impressive midday traffic, Peter’s attention shifts to the small clutter of belongings on his lap. His phone keeps lighting up, unanswered texts and calls lining up from MJ and Ned.

He’ll be back in school by the end of the day, he’s sure. He’s had one incident, and it’s no indication of anything. It’s not as if there’s seriously something wrong with him. It’s not like he’s going to die.