irondadidontfeelsogood

[irondadidontfeelsogood]

Tower of Terror (reader request)

cw: vomit. This is another long, self indulgent one, and now one of my favorites—enjoy.

—————

To say that today was a long day would be a drastic understatement. After a school day full of his teachers somehow synchronizing their pop quizzes and exam reviews, he’d headed straight to the tower for training and lab work. His brain and his body are completely fried, so after being granted permission by May, he asks Tony if he can stay the night. He’s not sure he could stay conscious for the subway ride home.

“Sure, Pete. Does that mean you’re ready to cash?”

“Mhm,” Peter hums in response, his eyes threatening to fall shut and not open again.

Tony breathes out a quiet laugh. “Okay. Goodnight, kid.”

Peter murmurs something that sort of sounds like ‘goodnight’ but could also just be a random collection of consonants. He turns away, heading toward the elevator slowly. He feels totally drained, like his limbs each weigh a hundred pounds more than when he’d woken up this morning.

His head is throbbing with what’s sure to become a bad migraine if he doesn’t get to sleep soon. The air gets a little warmer as he ascends the elevator, and that nearly clocks him. He only just makes it to bed before he’s out, basically dead to the world.

Nightmares plague him instantly. He’s tossing at sea, and then he’s buried alive, and then he’s bleeding out fast—all alone in the middle of nowhere. At the end of it all, his heart clenches with the sharp feeling of free-falling, and he wakes abruptly, his lungs greedily gasping for air.

For several minutes, he has no idea where the hell he is. All he knows is that he’s soaked to his mattress in sweat, aching all over, and nauseous to the point of vertigo. He makes the mistake of sitting up. Instantly, the dark room around him seems to tilt forward endlessly, and he grips onto his sheets with white-knuckled fists.

God only knows what time it is or why his shoes are still on. He toes them off, hearing them land unceremoniously on the floor. He sits there for some time, trying desperately to remember anything about what happened before he’d woken up here. Nothing much surfaces.

He calls out for May, and is met with complete silence. That never happens unless she’s taken third shift. Maybe she had to pick up more hours?

Finally, he remembers that he’s at the tower, and he instantly feels worse. Being sick at the tower means he’s either going to suffer alone or bear the colossal embarrassment of having to ask for help from an Avenger. He groans, letting his head fall into his hands.

His headache is still pressing tight against his skull, and he feels like his brain and bones have turned to liquid. His stomach churns. With another groan, he lets himself lie back down against his sweat-cooled pillows.

Though he remains motionless in the dark room, his nausea only grows. He was hoping that it would fade as the nightmares did, but he isn’t so lucky. It feels like he’s swallowed an entire lake.

The internal battle has begun. He imagines how awful it would be for everyone to know. If he started hurling, it wouldn’t be long at all before everyone in the building caught wind of what was going on. FRIDAY isn’t great at keeping secrets.

He’s Spider-Man. He’s supposed to be a hero, not some kid that wakes up in the middle of the night with a tummy ache. The mere idea is mortifying.

Unfortunately, there’s nothing he can do about the circumstances that have been dealt to him, and if he tries to ignore them any longer, things are only going to get worse. So, he forces himself to his feet, feeling weak and full of dread.

The tower is silent as he makes his way to the kitchen, the floor seemingly tilting under his feet. He has to keep a hand on the wall beside him to avoid falling over. The journey feels ten times longer than it usually does.

He’s exhausted when he finally reaches the kitchen, heading straight for the fridge. He fills up a glass of water and sips at it gingerly. It feels nice going down his throat, but not very nice at all sitting on top of the dinner in his stomach. He groans, leaning over the countertop. He burps quietly, nauseated almost beyond what he can handle.

Miserable, he lazily drags his gaze toward the cabinet where Tony keeps all the medicine. Pepto is Peter’s absolute last resort. It almost never works, and it tastes so bad that he’s vomited from the taste alone on many occasions.

Unfortunately, he’s feeling like he might have to try. If he doesn’t, that means he’s accepted the inevitable fate of emptying his stomach in a building full of Avengers. With a dramatic groan, he moves over to the cabinet, grabbing the bottle of neon pink liquid.

He stares at it with distaste, nearly shuddering at just the thought of it. If he’s going to do this it has to be quick, like a shot of tequila. He pours some onto a spoon and stares again.

Finally, he takes it, chasing it immediately with water. He swallows convulsively, begging his stomach to grant him some sort of mercy. He feels a surge of violent nausea and presses a palm over his mouth.

He shuts his eyes, swallows again, and takes several deep breaths through his nose. The wave of nausea passes slowly, painfully. His stomach makes a noise that probably means fuck you.

Fuck you too, he thinks hazily. When he feels like he might be in the clear, he pours out the rest of his water and sets the glass in the sink. His stomach turns over as he begins his walk toward the stairs. Why he picked the stairs over the elevator, he has no idea.

He’s only halfway up when he suddenly feels the worst swell of nausea yet, stopping him right in his tracks. His stomach churns hard, bringing with it a hot, rising feeling in his throat. He cages his mouth again as it rapidly fills with watery spit.

He can feel the color completely drain from his face as he stands frozen on the staircase. His heart is hammering in his chest as he silently begs God, the universe, someone to keep him from puking right now. Unsurprisingly, his prayers go unanswered.

That awful feeling of dread doubles, pouring over him like hot tar. He feels an intense urge to gag, and he’s entirely unable to stop himself from submitting to it. He pitches forward suddenly, spewing a huge gush of pink vomit all over the stairs in front of him.

Again, he vomits, splattering his hours-old dinner all over the hardwood and his socks. Immediately, he throws up again for four straight seconds. He gasps for air afterward, dizzy from the effort of being so sick.

In the eye of the hurricane, he somehow convinces himself that now is his only chance to get to a bathroom. His whole body is shaking as he climbs the rest of the stairs. By the time he reaches the hallway that connects to the one where is room is, he’s sweating bullets and so overwhelmed with nausea that he has to stop again.

He takes one more uncomfortable breath and folds, throwing up all over the floor. With his stomach all but exploding out of him, he can hardly believe that no one has peeked their head out of their room to see what the noise is. At the same time, he’s so incredibly grateful for that.

He takes two more steps and pukes again, even more than he thought possible. He coughs, spewing out mouthfuls of vomit between each one. It’s nearly a full three minutes before he can get himself to stop retching.

He pants for a few more minutes, desperate for air. His vision is blurred with tears of exertion, and even if he weren’t crying, he’d barely be able to see anyway. His head is reeling.

It’s in that moment that he realizes he’s too sick to be alone. The terrible truth sends his heart down to his stomach, and his tears become real. He only allows himself a few minutes to cry in private before he begins to consider his options.

There’s Tony, of course, but he thinks he’d rather die than have Tony see him puke his guts out. There’s Nat, but she might remind him too much of May, and he’s not emotionally stable enough for that right now. He continues to go down the list, and by the end of it, he finds himself settling on Clint.

He has kids, so maybe he’d be a little less traumatized by the whole thing. He’s also generally calmer than most of them, so hopefully he won’t yell or treat him like a burden. Clint it is.

His room is a floor up, so Peter opts for the elevator this time. He wipes the tears from his face and tries his best to regain composure. Unfortunately, he’s still feeling like a giant pile of shit, so it’s easier said than done.

When he reaches Clint’s room, he pauses in front of the door. This is it. Either he leaves the mess and tries to stay conscious long enough to get back to his room, or he tells Clint the truth. As if on cue, he suddenly almost feels more ill than he has all night, apart from right before he’d been sick.

Before he can convince himself otherwise, he knocks on the door. When a minute of silence goes by, he knocks again, a bit louder this time. After a few seconds, he hears shuffling on the other side of the door. He steps back a little, and it slowly swings open to reveal Clint, still half asleep.

“Peter? It’s nearly four in the morning, what are you doing up?”

“Um,” Peter so eloquently breathes out, suddenly unable to get ahold of himself. Fresh tears well up without his permission. “I…I’m…”

Clint’s expression changes from one of confusion to one of parental concern. He steps a little closer.

“Hey, what’s wrong?”

A couple tears spill over, and he wipes them away before they reach his chin. He tries again to explain, but he can’t seem to form the words in the right order. This fever must be really cooking his brain.

“Do you wanna come in and talk?” he softly offers.

Peter shakes his head a little. His head spins. “I’m…I need help.”

“What’s going on? Are you hurt?”

Peter shakes his head again. If his stomach wasn’t still sitting high in his throat, this would be much easier. He doesn’t have that luxury, but he tries again.

“I…I just thr—,” is all he manages before his stomach decides to make another appearance. He has all of half a second to aim somewhere else besides Clint’s feet. He turns to the side, vomiting through his fingers, down the front of his shirt, and onto the floor.

“Oh—oh, wow. Okay,” Clint blurts, probably wide awake now. Peter chokes up another round of sick onto his socks. “Alright, hey, come here.”

He takes Peter’s arm and begins leading him into the room. Peter does everything humanly possible to keep from throwing up on Clint’s floor, and when he finally drops to his knees in front of the toilet, he vomits so violently that he sees stars. Clint curses under his breath, a hand resting on Peter’s back as it heaves.

For the next several minutes, Peter is barely lucid. With what little consciousness he has, he tries hard to aim toward the water and nowhere else. He’s made enough of a mess as it is.

“It’s okay, buddy. Breathe,” Clint urges. Peter’s trying.

He’s sure he’s throwing up his actual organs after a few minutes. The only thing he can do is drape over the bowl and try not to pass out. He nearly fails.

Mercifully, he stops throwing up before the lack of oxygen gets to his head. He takes several more minutes to recover. The whole time, Clint is telling him it’s alright, that he’s going to be okay. Peter’s not so sure.

He’s really glad he’s not alone, especially now that he’s gone severely downhill. He can’t imagine being holed up in his room. He’d probably still be decorating the carpet with his stomach contents if he hadn’t come here.

The calm lasts all of eight minutes, and then Peter is suddenly launched into a fit of dry heaving. Despite his stomach being totally empty, the nausea is still rampant. He has no idea what he did to deserve this. Poor Clint doesn’t deserve this either. When he breaks his silence, it’s clear he’s reaching his limit.

“Alright, Pete…try and take it easy, kid. You’re really sick, and I’m…I think I’m gonna have to get Tony.”

That same dread pours over him. That’s the last thing he wanted. Even just the thought makes his face heat up fast. He can’t exactly express his disapproval when he’s actively still gagging. It’s too late, anyway.

“FRIDAY, could you send Tony down here, please?”

“Right away, sir.”

“Thanks,” he murmurs, his hand now rubbing along Peter’s spine.

Only a couple minutes pass before Peter hears Tony’s voice call from inside the room. He groans, lurching forward with another gag. A small trickle of bile comes up this time.

“In here,” Clint calls back.

“What the hell happened out here, Clint? Are you—,” Tony asks, stopping short as he crosses the threshold of the bathroom. Peter can’t help himself. He retches again, another rush of acidic bile washing over the roof of his mouth and into the toilet.

He can only imagine Tony’s reaction to walking in on Peter curled around a toilet full of puke. He’s so mortified he could die. Why does this kind of shit have to happen to him?

“He’s been like this for probably over ten minutes,” Clint explains. “I didn’t really know how to help him or I wouldn’t have woken you up. You know him better than I do.”

“Oh, kid…are you sick or is this a head thing?” Tony asks, taking Clint’s place beside him.

“M’sick,” he manages, half-choked on another heave.

“I’m sorry, Pete. How long have you been feeling bad?”

Thankfully, the retches are tapering off, and he can finally breathe a little. He spits and swallows against the rawness in his throat.

“Only when I woke up a while ago,” he breathes out. Suddenly, he remembers his stunt on the stairs. He groans, letting his head drop to where his arms are folded across the toilet. “I…I threw up all over the stairs and the hall before I came here…m’really sorry, Tony.”

“It’s alright, kid, I know you couldn’t help it.”

“But…”

“It’s okay, really. Do you feel like you’re done?”

Peter hums lowly. He nods. It’s the truth. He’s sure there’s absolutely nothing left in him to throw up, and the nausea is finally waning.

“Alright, good. I’ve got him, Clint, you can go back to sleep.”

“Are you sure? I can start cleaning outside my room.”

Tony shakes his head. “No, it’s fine, I’ve got bots that can do most of it. I’ll handle the stairs. We’re good.”

“Okay, well come get me if you change your mind.”

“You’ve already done enough, thank you for taking him in.”

“It’s no problem.”

With that, Clint leaves, and Tony is alone with Peter in his misery and embarrassment. He offers Peter some toilet paper, and he thanks him, wiping his mouth. He closes the lid and flushes the toilet.

With Tony’s help, he gets up from the floor to wash his mouth out. It makes him feel marginally better. Tony leads him out of the room, and Peter does his best not to gag at seeing the result of his earlier performance in the hallway. Tony starts leading him to his room, and when they get in the elevator, he finally breaks the heavy silence.

“You know you can always come get me if you’re feeling bad, right?”

Peter wilts a little. “I know, thank you, it’s just…I thought I could take some medicine and just go back to sleep, but obviously that didn’t work out. And I really didn’t want to bother a literal Avenger just because I had a stomachache.”

“Well, last time I checked, we’re on a first name basis, so it shouldn’t be that intimidating, kiddo. If you’re feeling like you’re gonna puke, you should let me know. It’s okay.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. Just…future reference. I don’t know how much help I’ll be, but at least I won’t have to worry about you being passed out in your own sick somewhere.”

It’s nice to know that Tony isn’t pissed or grossed out, but Peter prays he’ll never have to put that earlier offer into practice. He’s had enough of everyone watching him hurl. The heat creeps back up onto his cheeks as they reach his room.

“Okay…m’still sorry I got sick on the floor.”

“It’s completely fine, kid. Don’t worry about it, shit happens. Are you feeling any better?”

Peter shrugs, sitting on the edge of his bed. Tony scoots the trash can over to sit beside his bed. He lets out a short sigh.

“Well, I have a feeling your immune system is going to knock this thing out pretty fast.” Peter hopes he’s right, for both their sakes. “Here, let me get you some clean clothes. Want anything specific?”

Peter shakes his head. Tony nods, turning to the dresser. He brings over a t-shirt, some sweatpants, and clean socks.

“You can just leave the dirty stuff on the floor.”

“M’kay. Thank you.”

“Sure thing, Pete. I’m gonna grab you some water. Hang tight. And remember, you can always call me if you need anything at all.”

“Thank you,” he repeats softly.

When Tony leaves and Peter is done changing out of his dirty clothes, he’s all alone with the memory of tonight. The mortification is stifling, but he pushes the thoughts away with all the mental strength he has left. Turns out it’s not much, and he’s out like a light before Tony even returns.

—————

A/N: Thank you for reading! And thank you for the request! I loved writing this one, and I hope it’s at least a little like what you imagined it would be.

#iron dad #marvel sickfic #peter parker #sickfic #cw vomit #peter parker sickfic #iron dad sickfic #iron man #tony stark #sick #clint barton #hawkeye #hurt/comfort #sickie

[irondadidontfeelsogood]

Middle of the Night

cw: vomit

—————

It’s 2:17 in the morning when Peter wakes up with violent urgency, stumbling to the toilet in near-complete darkness. He’s not even entirely awake when he starts to vomit, his whole body trembling and coated in sweat. The nausea is so bad that he has to brace himself against the sink beside him to avoid braining himself on the back of the toilet every time he heaves.

Eventually, his legs can’t support him anymore, and he sprawls out on the cold tile floor, panting. He starts to gain awareness as he lies there, and he begins to reflect on how much actually just fucking came out of him. His stomach roars underneath his sweaty palm, giving him a heads up that there’s somehow more where that came from.

It takes almost all of his energy to sit up and hang his head over the water where he lets the spit just fall from his mouth. He guesses it was adrenaline that made him be able to run to the bathroom, because he’d never be able to do that right now. So, he sits there, feeling his dinner coil back up from wherever it thought it was going.

When it re-fills his stomach, the nausea washes over him again, and he can feel his face go grey. With a soft whimper, he wraps his arms around his middle and prepares for another go. Right on cue, his stomach lurches, sending another wave of partially digested seafood splashing into the murky water below.

The pressure makes him feel like he has to burp, so he tries, but he ends up violently puking instead. Go figure.

He hears an awful splattering noise that indicates he failed to aim in the darkness, and the heat of embarrassment claws up from his chest to his neck and flushed cheeks.

He lets his stomach rid itself of everything it needs to, only opening his mouth in the general direction of the toilet and just letting the puke spill out. It’s not his finest moment, he’ll admit, but he doesn’t feel good enough to care right now. On the other hand, he really hopes FRIDAY doesn’t snitch on him. He doesn’t necessarily want Tony to find him in his underwear, throwing up all the expensive food he’d just bought for him not even seven hours ago.

When his stomach feels relatively okay, he wipes his mouth and flushes the toilet. He struggles to stand more than he’s willing to admit, but when he’s braced against the sink once more, he blindly reaches over to turn on the light and brave the damage from earlier.

He winces at the sudden onslaught of light, and when his eyes finally adjust, he freezes completely.

Because what the actual hell.

Not only is there some vomit on the seat and each side of the floor beside the toilet, but also all over the wall behind it and on the porcelain lid he’d frantically flipped up in his adrenaline-fueled panic.

The sight is enough to make him suddenly retch over the sink, thankfully only bringing up a few pathetic splashes of stomach acid and bile. His arms shake where he’s holding himself up, and when he glances in the mirror, he hardly recognizes himself.

He knows that if he looks over at the toilet again, he’ll start the cycle anew, so he actually gives up. He hopes Tony will forgive him for just going back to bed, because that’s what he’s doing. Needs to do, really. He’s getting lightheaded, and if he passes out, FRIDAY really will snitch.

He drags himself back to bed, shivering even under two thick blankets. With his last strand of consciousness, he turns off his alarm for school in the morning. At the very least, he’ll miss his first class cleaning his bathroom, anyway.

Not even a second later, he’s out cold. He doesn’t so much as stir until hours later when he wakes to the sound of someone’s distant voice. He groans, pressing his face against the mattress beneath him. The voice grows more insistent, echoing. He’s vaguely aware of the fact that his stomach feels like it’s rotting, but he can’t quite do anything about it yet.

Finally, the voice reaches his ears at a somewhat normal volume, and the rude reality of consciousness envelops him. The memories of last night all flood in, making him cringe and feel sort of like throwing up right where he’s lying.

“Peter,” the voice says again. Peter now knows it’s Tony. He hums, drawn out and tortured, letting Tony know he heard him. “C’mon, Pete, what are you doing? You were supposed to be up an hour ago.” He steps further into the room.

“Mm...turned off m’alarm,” he rasps, throat still raw from his lovely encounter with the toilet.

“Why? And God, kid, what died in here?” Tony suddenly asks, probably looking around for a forgotten pizza box or something similar. It wouldn’t be the first time.

“I did,” he mumbles, face still buried in his sheets.

“Huh?”

“The smell s’my bathroom,” he admits, feeling much too shitty to be mortified like he knows he’ll be later. “I wouldn’t go n’there, though, I kinda threw up all over the place.”

“What?”

“Yeah. M’about to clean it, don’ worry,” he announces, honestly feeling more like he’s just going to add to the mess.

“Like hell you are, kid. Stay put,” Tony says, disregarding Peter’s warning and swinging the cracked bathroom door open wider. He flicks on the light and lets out a string of curses under his breath.

He then closes the door abruptly, turning back to Peter, who hasn’t moved an inch. In all honesty, he feels like he might hurl if he does.

“That was—okay, wow.”

“Told you not to look.”

“Peter, that is so not the point right now,” Tony replies, walking over and perching on the edge of Peter’s bed. “Why didn’t you get FRI to tell me you were sick?”

Peter groans a bit at the mention of his condition. “Dunno.”

“It’s like you’re begging me to re-install the baby monitor protocol.”

“I really jus’ wanted to sleep. Didn’t feel good. M’sorry.”

Tony sighs, reaching out to brush the curls back from Peter’s forehead. “You don’t actually owe me an apology, kid. It just makes me worried that you were alone and that sick.”

Peter wants to reply and have an emotionally intelligent conversation, but he’s starting to get that tight feeling in the back of his throat again. Nausea stirs in the pit of his belly. He’s not sure if he has anything left to throw up, but he doesn’t want to take that chance.

“Um. Tony,” he strains. “I feel...” He can’t say the actual words or it’ll push him over the edge. Might be too late, anyway.

Tony thankfully gets the message and doesn’t waste any time. He swipes the trash can from beside Peter’s desk and has it under Peter’s chin in record time. It’s a good thing, too, because Peter was right. As soon as he moved a single muscle, his stomach took that as an open invitation.

Despite the horrendous amount of stomach contents that he’d already vacated in the middle of the night, he’s throwing up again. Only this time, it’s not so easy. Rather than being able to let the sickness run it’s course and pump him empty, he’s choking, and hiccuping, and tearing his throat up with every go.

“Jeez, kid.”

Peter wants to say I know, or maybe please just kill me, but all that comes out is more burning hot puke. He feels Tony start to rub a calloused hand between his shoulder blades, and he has to admit to himself that he wishes he had this earlier today. Maybe he does want the stupid protocol back.

Or maybe he’s just sensitive from being so sick. All he really knows is that he feels miserable, and he’s glad Tony came to check on him. There would probably be another mess to deal with if he hadn’t.

After a few more unsatisfying heaves, he stares blankly at the pool sitting in the bottom of the bin and tries to catch his breath. Tony gets up from the bed, and Peter feels a sudden, childlike urge to cry out for him. His future self will probably be grateful that he doesn’t have the energy to do so.

Tony comes back, anyway. He has a handful of toilet paper, and when he sits back down, he actually wipes the sick from Peter’s mouth. It’s parental, and Peter’s so gross, but Tony doesn’t seem to care. Peter must have a fever, because he’s about to cry over it.

The tears overflow despite his efforts to blink them away, and suddenly the bin disappears from his lap.

“You’re okay, Pete,” Tony soothes, collecting Peter’s still trembling body and holding him close to his chest. His hand curves gently up and down Peter’s spine.

“M’really sorry about th’ bathroom,” Peter murmurs, finally feeling the extent of his embarrassment.

“You don’t owe me an apology, kid. Anyone who’s sick enough to do that kind of damage gets a free pass.” Peter groans, feeling a bit sorry for himself. He can’t help it. Something about the way Mr. Stark is treating him makes him realize he should’ve gotten help.

“I think it was the sushi,” he murmurs. “Tasted a little funny.”

“Yeah, well, next time seafood tastes a little funny, maybe don’t proceed to eat twice your body weight in raw salmon.”

Peter groans. “I don’t think I’ll eat anything ever again.”

Tony breathes out a quiet laugh. They stay like that for a few minutes, listening to the birds outside Peter’s window. He’s glad he decided not to tough it out and go to school. A cramp reaffirms his thoughts.

“My stomach hurts,” he moans, pulling back to wrap his arms around his middle.

“I bet it does. You want some Pepto?”

He shakes his head. “I’d throw it up. I always do.” It’s true. Almost every time he’s ever taken Pepto, it ends up spewing back out of him almost immediately.

“Okay, maybe some Sprite? We gotta get some liquids back in you, kiddo.”

Peter thinks for a second and then nods, letting himself curl back into bed. Tony pats his knee through the blanket and stands up.

“Good. I’ll be right back.” He crosses the room, stopping at the door. “Anything else you want me to get while I’m down there?”

“Um. Maybe another trash bag? This one is making me nauseous.”

“I’m right there with ya, pal. Give me like, two minutes. Hang tight.”

Peter just hugs his stomach and groans, drowning in his misery. He wonders if it’s actually this bad or if he’s gotten dramatic, but for his ego’s sake, he’s probably dying. He can barely lift his head when Tony finally comes back.

He greets Tony with a whimper. A literal whimper. He’s going to hate himself later, but for now, he just wants Tony to wave some magic wand and give him a new stomach.

“I know, kid. Go ahead and sit up for me.”

Peter regrets ever sinking back against his pillow, because now sitting up sounds like the single most unachievable thing in the world.

“If I move, I’ll barf,” he replies, only half joking.

“Then we’ll ride it out and try the Sprite when you’re done.”

Peter groans, knowing he’s never going to win this battle. He begins to lift his head and eventually his torso, feeling the ache of his stomach muscles from overuse. The motion makes him very dizzy, probably from dehydration if he’s honest.

He holds up his hand, blocking Tony from bringing the glass to his lips.

“C’mon, don’t fight me, Pete,” Tony says, almost pleading.

Peter shakes his head barely. “One second...tryin’ not to puke.”

“Ah. Got it.”

Blessedly, Tony doesn’t push the glass on him again. He sits there swallowing convulsively for a minute before he can even open his eyes. When he does, he can’t help but look at Tony with open misery.

“I know you don’t feel good, kiddo, I’m sorry,” he says, seemingly reading Peter’s mind. They’ve gotten to that point apparently. He places a steady hand between Peter’s shoulder blades and rubs in a circle. “I really think you’ll feel better if you sip on this. Just try for me, Pete.”

Peter eyes the bubbling liquid and tries not to feel entirely disgusted. In a moment of pure bravery, he reaches for the cup and takes three whole sips. It’s cooling against his raw throat, and he’s grateful to get the taste of bile out of his mouth at least a little.

“That’s it, you’re doing good. You can take a break if you want to.”

So, he does. He sets the cup down on his nightstand and lays back down while Tony replaces the bin liner for him. His head swims a little as if he’s drunk, and he gets the sinking feeling that his Sprite victory won’t last too long.

“Mm...Tony,” he mumbles, snaking a hand under his t-shirt and trying to magically settle his stomach through touch.

“Yeah?”

“Can you turn on the TV? I really need to think about something other than my stomach for, like, two seconds.”

Tony gives him a sympathetic smile, grabbing the remote and turning on The Office. He uses his foot to scoot the trash can back to where it was and sets the remote back down. Peter starts to feel himself drifting off already.

“I’ll get out of your hair. Please actually tell FRIDAY if you need me, okay? I’m gonna check in every now and then anyway.” Peter nods, curling into himself. “Alright, I’m gonna go call Midtown, tell them you’re not feeling so hot.” Peter just nods again, blinks getting longer and longer.

The voices on the TV get jumbled and muted as he’s pulled into a state of half-consciousness fueled by fever. His dreams are far-off and confusing, often nightmarish and gory. When he wakes with a start, he wonders if it was a nightmare or a memory. Sometimes he worries that patrol has doomed him to a lifetime of night terrors.

It takes him several minutes to come to and make sense of the noises in his room. He eventually fumbles for the remote and turns off Netflix, flopping back down onto his mattress.

He’s coated in sweat, battling the swirling in his stomach yet again. He has no idea how much time has passed. It’s unsettling, and he finds himself really wanting company. His mouth is also bone try, so he grabs the Sprite with a trembling hand before speaking.

“Hey, FRI?” he rasps.

“Yes, Mr. Parker?”

“Can you, um. Get Tony?”

“Alerting Boss. Would you like me to deliver a message?”

Peter shivers at the condensation from the glass running down his forearm. “Um...just tell him I don’ feel good.” He knows he sounds like a child, but his head feels very funny and he doesn’t quite know what else to say.

He must be truly dehydrated, because once he starts drinking, the sips turn to swallows, and the swallows turn to desperate gulping, and before he knows it, the cup is empty. He winces almost instantly at the new sloshing feeling in his stomach. Maybe he fucked up.

He can’t even breathe in without heaving on the exhale, and in a fraction of a second, he’s refilled the glass. He promptly sets it down and leans over, vomiting into the trash bin.

Right on cue, Tony knocks on the door and cracks it open just a tad. When he peeks in, another wet retch is climbing up Peter’s throat.

“Ah, shit,” he mutters under his breath, crossing the room to pick up the bin so Peter doesn’t fall over with the effort of heaving. He’s grateful, because the blood rushing to his head was really starting to make his vision swirl.

Tony is silently rubbing his back, and Peter tries not to be too gross. It’s sort of a lost cause, especially when he misses a little bit and pukes on his hand that’s gripping the bin. Of course, that sets off his nausea all over again.

It takes him a long while to catch his breath. He has to close his eyes and forget where he is so he can stop gagging.

“You want some Sprite?” Tony asks, unintentionally sending Peter into his worst retching fit yet. “Okay, so that’s a hard no. I’ll let you have a minute to breathe.”

“It’s—,” Peter tries, cut off by a gurgling retch. He greedily sucks in air, heaving from deep in his belly on the exhale. “Not Sprite.”

“You wanna try some juice or something instead?”

“No, I mean—that’s-” More vomit. “I threw up the Sprite.”

“Yeah, I can see that, kid.”

Peter’s never going to be able to explain if he keeps imagining the glass. He’s panting heavily over the soiled trash. “No...I drank it all,” he strains. “That’s puke.”

Just like magic, Peter’s empty stomach finds more to shove up his throat. It trickles pathetically against the plastic.

Tony stands there, processing, and then:

“Oh. Oh, Pete.”

And then Tony’s visibly trying to figure out what to do about the full cup of vomit on the bedside table. Peter feels so embarrassed all of a sudden, and if he had the energy to escape the tower and go be by himself, he would. He knows he wouldn’t make it far.

“M’so sorry.”

“I’m sure you wouldn’t have done it if you had any other choice, kid. I’m just glad it’s not on the carpet.” That makes Peter feel a little better, actually. Not enough to actually make a difference, of course, but it’s better than nothing.

“When’s it gonna stop?” he breathes out, barely keeping his composure.

Tony lets out a short sigh. “I wish I could tell you. Hopefully soon.”

Peter wilts, not feeling optimistic about that at all. Last time he caught the flu, he spent the entire weekend hurling just about anywhere he deemed moderately appropriate. He hadn’t even felt as bad then.

“I’m gonna get rid of this. Do you want me to bring anything back?”

Peter takes a moment to think and then shakes his head. There’s nothing he can imagine that would ease his misery. The only thing he can bring himself to do is pray for sleep to take him, and even that’s a battle.

“Alright. Again, call FRI if you need me for anything at all, okay?”

“‘kay.”

Tony leaves him to what’s sure to be his slow death. He turns over and begs for sleep, receiving nothing but a lingering stomach ache. He lays awake for over an hour before he finally, blissfully slips into unconsciousness.

—————

A/N: Thank you for reading as always! You rock

#iron dad #marvel sickfic #peter parker #sickfic #cw vomit #peter parker sickfic #iron dad sickfic #iron man #tony stark #sick #hurt/comfort

[irondadidontfeelsogood]

Post-Decathlon Misery

cw: vomit

—————

Nausea creeps up on Peter halfway through the bus ride home from their latest decathlon. It begins slowly, just as a vaguely uncomfortable sensation at the back of his throat, but it’s gradually evolved into a churning, gurgling ache in the pit of his stomach.

He has the window seat, so he’s spent the last fifteen minutes faithfully watching the horizon. It hasn’t helped in the slightest. What little hope he held that it was only motion sickness has all but diminished, leaving him anxious and full of dread.

To make matters worse, Ned has been trying to get him to watch The Empire Strikes Back since they boarded the bus. He can’t afford to spare more than a few seconds of his attention at a time. When he tries to watch any more, he swears he can feel the sack lunch they fed him hours ago sitting at the back of his tongue.

He’s attempting to swallow down another rush of saliva when Ned tugs at his jacket, insisting that he can’t miss the next scene. Of course he’s already seen it upwards of thirty times, but Ned can’t seem to grasp that. Peter’s at his limit.

“M’not gonna watch.”

“What?” Ned all but exclaims. “Why not?”

Peter swallows again, feeling his insides protest against it. “M’like…carsick or something, okay? I need to just chill out for a second.”

Ned is silent for a moment. “Oh. Are you okay? Like—do I need to tell Mr. Harrington?”

“No, no it’s fine. I’ll be alright.” It doesn’t come out too convincing, but it was the best he could do.

“…Okay,” Ned replies, and Peter doesn’t miss the way he scoots toward the aisle a few seconds later. Peter doesn’t blame him. He’s sure he probably looks actually green at this point.

Saying he’s okay was a stretch, especially now that the feeling in his throat won’t go away. The urge to gag is getting harder and harder to ignore. Maybe if he can distract himself, he’ll make it the extra twenty or so minutes back to school.

It only takes five minutes for him to scratch that plan. His jaw goes limp, and his stomach is really hurting now. He wishes that the school would’ve splurged and gotten them a bus with a bathroom. At least then he’d have some privacy if his body betrayed him.

As it is, he’s having to improvise. The only places to puke are the floor and his backpack. Poor May just bought him a new one, too. Unfortunately, this wouldn’t be the first time he’s gotten sick on the bus, and he really doesn’t want Mr. Monroe to have to clean up his puke again.

Now, there’s sweat beading on his forehead and down his back. Every movement the bus makes is amplified by the fact that they’re sitting in the back. He hates himself for fleeing from Flash when they boarded.

They hit another pothole, and Peter feels his stomach turn horribly. The urge to gag returns with a vengeance. He feels like he might not make it through this one.

In a last-ditch effort, he tries to burp and save his stomach from some of the pressure, but it only serves to increase the nausea. He suddenly wishes he had told Ned that it was okay to alert Mr. Harrington, although he doubts that would do any good—especially now.

All of a sudden, he flashes hot and realizes he’s not going to be able to make it for eleven more minutes. Just the idea makes him feel worse. He starts to taste the sandwich he had for lunch, and another attempt to burp sends warmth bursting up into his chest.

Trembling, he yanks his backpack from between his feet, bringing it to his lap. The zipper gets stuck for a moment, and he actually wants to cry. He breathes out a string of curses.

“Peter…,” he hears Ned say, but a reply is already impossible.

By the time he manages to open his book bag more than two inches, the vomit is in his mouth. He immediately hunches over in his seat and throws up a gushing stream all over his notebooks.

“Oh my God, Peter!” Ned exclaims in a hushed shout.

Peter pukes again, unable to stop himself. He’s trying his best to be quiet, but he really is sick to his stomach worse than he can remember being. He can’t help but retch violently.

It’s too late, anyway—he’s caught the attention of the classmates around him, and a growing roar of disgusted chatter starts to erupt. His cheeks and ears flame red-hot.

He feels the eyes on him as he’s overcome with illness again, bringing up—hopefully—the last of his lunch. The way it burns his throat gives him hope that he’s made it to mostly stomach acid. The nausea is starting to ebb away.

The damage is done, though, and now that his stomach finally isn’t trying to self-destruct, he’s altogether mortified. Ned has slinked to the very edge of the seat, and the bus is littered with sounds of disgust and laughter. The only bright side of this whole thing is that Mj stayed home sick and isn’t here to witness his stunt. He thinks for the first time that she probably gave whatever it is to him when they practiced in the library together yesterday. He makes a mental note to make sure she’s alright once his hands aren’t occupied with a backpack full of puke.

“Dude…are you okay?” Ned finally asks, sounding entirely traumatized.

Peter lowers the bag from his lap and runs the sleeve of his jacket across his mouth. With the way he feels now, he’s certain he has a raging fever. Perfect.

“Um. I think so,” he answers, throat raw. “I’m sorry.”

He spots Mr. Harrington struggling to make his way to the back of the bus through the bumps and turns. Bless him, he’s trying to get everyone to quiet down, but they just aren’t going to listen. Peter wonders if he’ll ever be able to go to school ever again.

“Who got sick?” Mr. Harrington asks, gripping tightly onto the seats beside him.

“Uh, Peter, sir,” Ned answers, still nearly in the aisle.

“Barfed all over his backpack! It was like the Exorcist!” Michael announces from behind him. A burst of laughter follows. Peter suddenly wishes he could just drop unconscious in his seat and not have to remember any of this.

Mr. Harrington looks uncomfortable and awkward to say the least. He leans over and glances at the damage.

“Oh boy. Are you alright?”

Peter does his best to nod without triggering another heave. “M’okay.”

“Did you get carsick?”

“Yeah,” he lies, hoping that’ll just make him go away.

“Do you want me to tell the driver to pull over so you can take a breather?”

“No. I just really wanna go home,” he replies, truthful this time. “I’ll be okay.”

“Alright, well. We’re only ten minutes out. Hang in there, Peter.”

“Thanks,” he says, even though he feels awkward. Funnily enough, he’s starting to go numb to the embarrassment. Exhaustion has taken its place, settling deep into his bones.

Mr. Harrington starts his wobbly trip back to the front of the bus, and Peter tries to pretend like there’s not a mess of puke between his legs. His stomach still hurts.

“I’m so sorry, Ned. I know this stuff freaks you out.”

“Oh…it’s okay. I’m sorry you’re sick.”

“S’okay,” he says, and then they’re silent.

They don’t say another word for the rest of the ride, and Peter does his best to tune out the remarks from everyone around him. He rests his head against the window and closes his eyes.

As soon as they’re back at the school, everyone books it off of the bus, and Peter doesn’t blame them. He would do the same if his legs didn’t feel like liquid. It’s a miracle he makes it off of the bus without collapsing.

He trashes his whole backpack in a dumpster by the school and sits down on the grass. He says goodbye to Ned when his mom picks him up. It’s sort of nice to finally be alone in his misery for a moment.

He pulls his phone from his pocket and selects Mj’s contact. His fingers hover over the keyboard for as he tries to figure out what to say. Eventually, he just settles on the fact that he’s going to tell her the truth.

hey, we just got back from the meet. sorry you couldn’t be there. how are you feeling?

He hits send before he can change his mind and heaves out a sigh, setting his phone down on the grass. He wraps an arm around his stomach where it’s starting to stir up again. Maybe it’s partially nerves. A couple of minutes pass where he wonders if he’s bothering her, but then his phone vibrates twice beside him. He picks it up.

didn’t know anyone could puke this many times, but i’m better than i was this morning.

i know it had to be hard to miss out on my genius. how did it go?

Peter’s lips tick up in a weak smile. At least she’s feeling good enough to act like herself.

it’s funny, we won actually. maybe next time we have a meet you should plan to get super sick.

see now that’s just luck

Peter actually breathes out a laugh at that one.

i wouldn’t exactly say i was included in any of that luck. keep your germs to yourself, m

Her reply is almost immediate.

wait, you’re sick?

He realizes then that the texting has been a pretty great distraction until now. It’s like seeing the words typed out in front of him brings back all his misery at once. He’s suddenly much more aware of the turning in his stomach, and he actually braces himself to lean to the side so he won’t get puke on his slacks.

Thankfully, the feeling settles after a minute or so, but now it’s much harder to ignore how he feels. He wonders if he’ll even be able to type out what happened without triggering round two. Another message urges him to reply.

did i actually get you sick? are you okay

That would almost be funny if he didn’t feel so terrible.

if by okay you mean having to barf all over my homework on the ride back, then yes

no fucking way

yep

peter i am actually so sorry

It’s always really nice when Mj is sincere. Those are some of his favorite moments. He just wishes this time didn’t have to be about him so gracefully throwing up in front of all his peers.

you know i’m not actually saying it’s your fault, right?

i mean yeah but i feel terrible enough just laying in bed

i literally can’t imagine enduring an hour bus ride that reeks of flash

That thought certainly does nothing to help his nausea, but he’s not going to make her feel bad about that too. Oddly enough though, it makes him feel a little better to know he’s not alone in his misery. That might be selfish, but he feels it all the same.

wasn’t exactly comfortable

i’m sure. you’re off the bus though?

yeah

feel better?

eh

yeah, i get it. i’m still sorry

don’t be, i was playing around. i mainly just wanted to make sure you were okay

He hesitates a little bit before he sends that one, because he doesn’t want to sound weird or clingy. It’s been hard not to show how much he’s grown to like her. Scaring her off is literally the last thing he wants to go through right now. He’s almost scared to look at the reply.

you’re the only one who’s asked me, so. thank you.

i’ll be alright

He feels his heart dip into his stomach. She deserves better than that. Suddenly, he doesn’t regret sharing his embarrassment at all.

well it won’t be the last time i ask. i can call later tonight if you want to talk

yeah for sure

cool, i’ll do that then

feel better

you too

He looks down at the messages and scrolls back though them a little. His face grows warm, but he tries to tell himself it’s just the fever.

Then he realizes again that he’s sick and alone out here. The longer he sits there, the worse he’s starting to feel. Just the thought of trying to stand is making his stomach churn.

His original plan was to walk home after the competition, but now the nausea is getting to be a little too much to deal with. May won’t be home from work until nearly 1:00 AM. After a few minutes, he bites the bullet and calls Tony.

It rings a few times before he picks up. Tears of exhaustion suddenly well up in Peter’s eyes when he hears Tony’s greeting.

“Hey, um. I’m really sorry to have to ask, but is there any chance you can pick me up from school?”

“School? It’s like eight pm, kid.”

“Yeah, we had a decathlon meetup. I was gonna walk home, but I…I just threw up all over my backpack, and now I feel too sick to walk that far.”

“Oh, Peter…why didn’t you just say that, kiddo? I can definitely come pick you up.”

“Really?”

“Of course. Do you want me to stay on the phone until I get there?”

“I…that would be really nice, actually. I don’t feel that great, though, so…I might hang up if I get sick.”

“Won’t bother me, kid. I’m already on my way, okay?”

“Okay, thank you. Really.”

“You don’t have to thank me, buddy,” he says, and Peter hears a car rev up in the background. “Where will you be when I get there?”

“M’just sitting on the grass by the bus lot.”

“Okay. Do you have water?”

“No. Don’ want any though…m’gonna be sick I think.”

“Oh, Pete, I’m sorry.”

“S’okay.”

There’s a bit of silence after that, broken up only by the muffled sound of Tony’s car running. Peter swipes at his cheek with the clean sleeve he has left when the first tear escapes. He’s not trying to be dramatic or anything, he’s just so exhausted and uncomfortable all of a sudden.

His mouth is starting to water again, and he really doesn’t wanna throw up any more. It’s not like he has much say in that, but he prays it’ll pass anyway. He brushes away a fresh set of tears.

“Still there, kid?”

He tries to swallow the lump in his throat so it won’t be too obvious he’s upset.

“Yeah,” he breathes out, the single word grating at his sore throat.

“How’re you holding up?”

He wants to lie and say he’s alright, but he’s just over the edge of too tired, and there would be no point in saying he’s okay if Tony’s about to see him in this state.

“Uh, not…not so great,” he admits.

“Do you want me to swing by the gas station and get you some Sprite or anything for the road?”

The thought of trying to keep anything down right now sounds pretty impossible, but he does wish he could get the taste out of his mouth. On the other hand, saying yes would mean a longer wait, and Peter is all out of patience. He just wants to go home.

“No, thanks,” he murmurs. Nausea begins to stir more intensely in his stomach, and he doesn’t try to wipe away the new streak of tears rolling toward his chin. “Are you close?”

“Five minutes tops, kiddo,” he answers. The relief helps Peter feel a little better. If Tony has noticed he’s crying, at least he’s been nice enough to pretend he hasn’t. “So, how was it getting to work with Bruce last week? S’he nerdy enough for you?”

Peter cracks a tiny smile despite himself. Dr. Banner showing him some of his new genetics work makes him feel really grateful to be in the position he is. Peter even got to see his research on the spider that bit him.

“S’really exciting, Mr. Stark. Has he shown you the way he’s gotten sarcoma cells to self-destruct before?”

“Oh, wow. No. Gonna have to annoy him about that one. When was that?”

Peter’s stomach twists into a cramp, and it ticks the nausea back up a couple notches. He brings his knees to his chest.

“Um…about a year ago, but…the new trials haven’t, uh,” he begins, but then it feels like all the blood is draining from his face. “They haven’t worked the same.”

“Gotcha. Did he get around to showing you the new lab on the eighth floor?”

Peter swallows carefully and takes a measured breath. “Not, uh, not yet.”

“Well maybe I can take you up there on Thursday. It’s not totally finished, but it will be in a week or two. Actually, I was gonna ask you if you wanted me to set up a workspace for you in there.”

Any other day, that news would make Peter freak out. It’s something he’s always wanted but never felt he had the position to ask. Right now, though, he has to be completely and totally focused on keeping his stomach where it belongs.

“Pete?”

“Sorry…m’trying not to puke.”

“Oh. No need to apologize, I get it. I’m almost there, kiddo.”

Peter tries to take comfort in that, but the inevitability of his situation is making it difficult. His stomach feels like it’s at the base of his throat. He‘s quickly losing the ability to swallow.

He spends the next couple of minutes manually breathing. The nausea retreats just slightly, enough so that he can close his eyes without feeling dizzy. That in itself is a miracle.

“I see you, Pete.”

He opens his eyes to see Tony’s car pull around the median. The tears start welling up again without his permission, and maybe it’s the fever, but there’s nothing he can do to stop them. He lets out a shaky breath and hangs up the phone when Tony stops along the curb.

It’s hard to stand up when his legs feel like liquid, but he manages to do it on his own. Unfortunately, the motion undoes every effort he’s made to settle his stomach. As soon as he closes the few feet of distance between himself and the car, the nausea comes back to life worse than ever.

He turns back toward the grass and doubles over, letting out a wash of watery spit. His arms are trembling where he’s braced himself against his knees. Just as he hears Tony’s car door pop open, he starts to throw up.

“Oh, Pete…,” he hears Tony say, and then a steady hand comes to rest at the middle of his back.

He retches again, somehow still bringing up his lunch. Maybe his stomach was trying to save him some misery earlier and cut it short before he was finished. Either way, he quickly starts to throw up straight acid and bile, which he firmly decides is so much worse.

When he finally does nothing but dry heave a few times in a row, he supposes he’s done. It’s hard to tell when there’s so little relief this time. He’d probably cry now if he weren’t already.

“Think you might be finished?” Tony asks, offering him a fast food napkin. He takes it gratefully, glad to avoid ruining his last good sleeve.

He straightens up and nods.“M’sorry.”

“Nothing to be sorry about, kid. Come here,” he says, wrapping an arm around Peter’s shoulders. Peter wilts into his weight a little.

When he pulls back, he presses his palms against his tired eyes and pulls in a trembling breath. Tony starts to lead him toward the car.

It isn’t until he’s buckled in that he remembers that he’ll be coming home to an empty house. The thought makes a chasm in his belly. He wonders if he’ll even make it up the stairs to the apartment.

“Mr. Stark…,” he murmurs, his forehead resting against the chilled window.

“Yeah, y’okay? I brought some bags with me if you need one.”

“No, m’good. It’s just…,” he starts, then it’s not so sure anymore. “Never mind.”

“What is it?”

Peter sighs quietly. His breath chokes like he’s going to cry again, so he takes a second for it to pass. His stomach clenches emptily.

“May‘s working second shift tonight, and she won’t be home for a while. I don’t….you can say no, but I was gonna ask if I can, like…crash on your couch for a little?”

“Of course you can, kid. You know, I’m not as terrible as the Bugle likes to say I am.”

Peter’s face grows warm. “Oh, I wasn’t…”

“I know, Pete, I’m messing with you.”

“Oh.”

“But you’re okay?”

Peter considers it for a moment, feeling where the nausea is slowly pooling back into the pit of his stomach. He’s just not sure he has anything left to throw up. He ultimately decides he’d rather not chance it in the Ferrari.

“I think m’okay for now, but can I hang onto a bag until we’re home?”

His ears burn hot at the way he called it home. He blames the stupidity on the fever to make himself feel better, but Tony doesn’t skip a beat.

“Sure. They’re in the console.”

Peter fishes one out and holds it in his lap, melting back to his position against the window. His eyes fall shut, and he tries to just focus the roar of the tires against the asphalt. He feels a little better with the security of knowing he has a bag if he needs it.

Thankfully, they reach the tower before too long. It takes all of his remaining energy to pull himself from the car and let Tony lead him into the common room. He’s never been happier to see a couch in his life.

“I’m gonna grab you a blanket and some water, crackers, all that jazz. You want anything else?”

The mention of food has his empty stomach churning. He sheds his jacket and lays down, breathing out a low groan.

“Maybe a trash can…”

“Alright, kiddo. Sorry you’re still feeling that bad.”

“Not your fault,” he replies, turning on his side and loosely wrapping an arm around his middle.

“Just sorry we can’t trade places, Pete, ‘cause I’d do it,” he says, and Peter wonders hazily what he could’ve done to deserve the offer. “I’ll be right back.”

Next thing he knows, he’s being gently shaken back into consciousness. He has no concept of how much time has passed.

“Hey, Pete. How do you feel?”

Once his brain deciphers the words, he starts to take mental inventory. His head hurts, his muscles are aching, and it feels like he’s been on one rollercoaster too many. All he can muster is a hoarse groan.

“That good, huh? Well, I know you probably won’t like me for this, but you gotta drink some water before you go back to sleep.”

“Mm…no,” he manages to reply. The thought sounds nice for his throat but dangerous otherwise.

“You’re dehydrated, kiddo. You need to drink something. Just a little, c’mon.”

It takes some more coaxing and a lot of help sitting up, but Peter finally takes a few sips of water. He was right, it feels really great on his raw throat. Fortunately, he doesn’t have the immediate urge to retch it all back up.

“See? Not so bad,” Tony says, reaching up to guide the cup back up toward his lips. Peter turns away. “Try a little more and you can knock out.”

Peter squints at the glass with distaste, but for the promise of sleep, he takes another couple sips. and even eats half a saltine. Tony takes the glass from him after that, setting it down on the coffee table. Peter tries to ignore the uncomfortable feeling in his chest.

“Alright, I’ll leave you alone now. You did good.”

“Don’ leave,” Peter mumbles, laying back against he cushions again. Tony readjusts the blanket on top of him.

“I’m not actually leaving, kiddo. I’m gonna be right across the hall. Get some rest, okay?”

Peter doesn’t need to be told twice. He drifts off quickly to the sound of the TV playing on low beside him.

Some time later, Peter wakes abruptly, his heart hammering in his chest and thumping in his head. He’s drenched in sweat, soaked all the way through his shirt. It isn’t until he gags for the third time that he realizes it’s not just sweat—he’s thrown up water and bits of poorly-digested cracker all down his shirt.

He fights to sit up, sloppily pressing a hand to his mouth. The movement makes him feel sick all over again, and he heaves a gush of watery vomit between his fingers. He has to pull his hand away to keep from drowning when it happens again.

After a couple of dry heaves, the bout mercifully seems to be over. He works hard to catch his breath, and then he’s finally awake enough to realize what he’s done.

The blanket is pooled at his feet, and the puke on his lap is soaking through to his skin. Goosebumps break out across his skin. He’s alone. At first, all he can do is choke out a quiet, broken noise of distress. The tower is silent apart from Parks and Rec still running nearly on mute to his left.

“M’ser—,” he starts, but then a gag catches in his throat. He hangs over the trash can he remembers is on the floor, but ironically, his stomach is empty now. He swallows laboriously. “Mis‘er Stark?”

He feels a wash of fear and sadness at being alone, amplified by the extra heat coursing through his veins. He feels himself start to cry, but he must really be dehydrated, because no tears come. The awful feeling just sits ugly and heavy in his throat.

“FRI?”

“Hello, Mr. Parker.”

“Where’s,” he coughs. “Mister Stark?”

“Boss is in the restroom adjacent to the common hall. Would you like me to contact him for you?”

The tension in his chest fades just slightly, but he’s not sure anything could make him feel better right now. He trembles harder as the sick on his shirt starts to go cold.

“Please.”

“He has been alerted of your request.”

Peter suddenly feels dizzy from holding himself up and lowers back to lie against the armrest. Aftershock nausea echoes dull in his throat. His head thrums with his heightened pulse.

He hears a toilet flush and water running, and then the faint click of the door opening. Footsteps trail closer, and Peter wills his burning eyes to stay open.

“You okay, Pete? FRI said you—oh. Oh, kiddo, you threw up?”

Peter crumbles. “I woke up getting sick, m’so so sorry,” he rasps. The tears still don’t come, but a sob unfurls in his throat.

Tony is at his side quickly. “Woah, hey, it’s okay. Don’t be upset, I know you couldn’t help it,” he reassures, his hand brushing across the top of Peter’s head and resting there. “You all done?”

Peter is still so disoriented that he just can’t tell. “I don’know,” he weeps dryly.

“That’s alright. I’m gonna help you get cleaned up, alright? I’ll be right back.”

Peter doesn’t even have the energy to protest his departure. He feels disgusting and weak lying there in his own sick, but there’s nothing he can do about it. Another dry heave clenches his sore stomach.

Tony returns a minute later carrying a wet towel and a grocery bag. As humiliating as it is, he silently lets Tony help him discard the dirty clothes and wipe himself relatively clean. He stays silent as Tony manages to get him up and lead him down the hall to the bathroom.

He lowers himself down to lie on the cool tiles as Tony starts him a shower. This time, despite the nausea, he gratefully takes the water that Tony tells him he has to drink before he gets in. He leaves, and Peter sits on the shower floor for nearly twenty minutes before he starts to feel remotely human again. Enough to get out, at least.

Tony has placed clean clothes of his own on the edge of the countertop, and Peter gets dressed with all the speed and grace of an elderly psych ward patient. When he emerges, his eyes are darkly sunken in, and he has nothing but sleep on his mind.

Tony supports some of his weight as he’s lead to a sort of guest bedroom, and there’s similar supplies from the couch surrounding the bed. Tony makes him drink more water, but he’s finally feeling good enough to drink more than a few mouthfuls. He knows he needs it.

“I called your aunt,” Tony says, taking the water from him when he announces that he thinks he’s done. It makes his chest feel hollow. He’s so grateful for Tony, but he misses home now more than ever.

“You did?”

“Yeah. She’s really sorry you’re feeling so bad, and she says she’ll be home pretty soon. You’re more than welcome to stay here, but I’m ready to take you back whenever you say the word.”

The tears that wouldn’t come before start to blur his vision. He’s so tired he might die. “Thank you…will you, um…will you wake me up when she gets home?”

“Sure, Pete. Get some more rest, I’ll still be right across the hall, okay?”

“Okay. Thank you. Not just for the waking me up thing, but for…you know. All of it.”

“I’ve got you, kiddo.”

With that, he gives Peter’s shoulder a squeeze, dims the lights, and leaves with the door cracked. Peter figures he should talk to Mj. He grabs his phone and opens their messages.

hey, sorry it’s been so long

it’s okay, how are you holding up?

i’ve upgraded to puking in my sleep. you?

oh, peter. i’m sorry. i’m doing okay.

it’s fine, just embarrassing. i’m at stark’s.

yikes. was he mad?

no, he’s being really nice. i just wish he didn’t have to clean up after me.

i understand that. are you still feeling up for that call tonight?

not really. i’m sorry.

it’s fine, i get it.

i just feel like shit or i would

trust me, i understand. that was me at 3 am. feel better, peter.

you too. goodnight

goodnight.

As soon as Peter lays his phone down, his eyes fall shut. He’s so exhausted that it takes him all of two minutes to knock out. He doesn’t dream. He’s not sure what time it is when he wakes again.

“Hey, Pete? You with me?” He hums again. “May’s home.”

That pulls him a little further from sleep, and he’s able to open his eyes to slits. He sees Tony’s silhouette in the darkness of the room.

“‘kay,” he manages, his mouth dry.

Tony helps him sit up again, and it takes a moment for the room to stop spinning. Thankfully his stomach doesn’t feel so sensitive right now. Maybe he’s on the other side of this thing.

“You alright?” Tony asks, dragging Peter’s shoes closer to where he can slip them on.

“Mhm.”

“That’s good. Feel up to heading home?”

“Yeah,” he answers, and nothing has ever been truer. He loves the tower, but he really misses May and his own bed.

“Alright, let’s get going.”

Tony helps him gather his things and get to the car, handing him a water bottle and reminding him that there’s bags if he needs them. Peter just nods, sort of floating in his body with exhaustion.

Being in the car doesn’t feel great, but thankfully the ride is short. He manages to make it all the way there without needing to reach for a barf bag. He even finishes half the water, and he feels his body thanking him for it. Maybe his immune system is finally kicking in, but even if it’s not, he feels he’s through the worst of it. Thank God it’s the weekend. He’ll be okay.

——————

A/N: Thanks for reading! I know this one’s a long one. Take care!

#iron dad #marvel sickfic #peter parker #sickfic #cw vomit #peter parker sickfic #iron dad sickfic #iron man #tony stark #sick #hurt/comfort

[irondadidontfeelsogood]

67 Percent Sure

cw: vomit

—————

Mj turns around in her seat again and bites at the inside of her cheek, frowning a little. It didn’t take Betty this long to get opera glasses, so where is Peter? The curiosity that’s stirred inside her since Washington arises again.

She turns back around when she hears her name. Brad is smirking at her like he knows something she doesn’t. She’s not sure about a lot of things, but she’s definitely sure he knows severely less than she does.

“Hey Michelle, I was thinking maybe we could ditch this whole bullshit and leave once the lights go down. You with me?”

She hums. That would give her an excuse to go look for Peter, but she’s really not wanting Brad to try and tag along for that.

“Eh, actually the opera sounds pretty cool to me,” she lies. “Feel free to ditch if you want though.”

Hopefully he’ll leave. That’ll make it even easier for her to slip out unnoticed. He’s been freakishly clingy this whole trip. The relief she feels when he decides to go is so nice.

She turns to see Ned shuffling into the aisle next to Betty and gets his attention. He turns to look at her just as the lights dim.

“What’s up?”

“Have you seen Peter?”

Ned hesitates a little before he answers. “Oh, yeah, I forgot. He, uh, told me to tell you he’s going back to the hotel because he feels sick.”

“Huh. Okay.” Funny. He looked just fine a few minutes ago. Well, maybe he was a little awkward, but that’s not too out of the ordinary for him.

Still, the curiosity burns brighter than ever. She’s done with him running away and disappearing every five seconds. If she leaves now, she might finally catch him in the whole spider act.

There’s nothing stopping her. She stands and starts making her way down the aisle, slipping away easily now that Brad has taken her advice and left. Mr. Harrington doesn’t so much as lower his opera glasses.

She heads out into the crowded street outside the opera house and starts trying to spot Peter. When she has no luck, she heads back to the hotel to see if maybe he did actually stop there. It’s a long, impatient ride up the elevator, and it only increases her will to just ask him directly on the spot if she finds him.

Still, standing in front of his door is making her palms sweat. She shakes them out a little, breathing out sharply in determination. Finally, she bites the bullet and knocks on the door.

Her heart is racing when he actually opens up and his face fills with an unreadable expression. It looks like he’s about to say something, but she has to beat him to it before he tries to slither his way out of this one, too.

“I’m gonna be real honest here, Peter, and I need you to be, too. Don’t try to lie to me, because I already know. So just say you’re Spider-Man.”

Peter’s mouth opens and closes a couple times, and she sees that he’s really pale. He blinks at her with what seems to be straight-up confusion. He’s looks like he’s in his pajamas, which she wasn’t exactly expecting, but she can’t back down now.

“Mj, what are you—“

“Don’t play around with me, I’m not entirely stupid, okay? I just need to hear it from you.”

“What makes you—I don’t. I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m not Spider-Man,” he rushes out, but Mj doesn’t miss the way his voice goes quiet with the last part.

“Explain to me, then. Explain all the times you’ve disappeared.”

“I’m—I told Ned to tell you I don’t feel good, that’s why I left the opera.”

“I’m not just talking about tonight,” she clarifies. Peter’s throat clenches, and he looks stunned to say the least. “Peter, Washington? Homecoming? Not to mention the fact that you’ve quit nearly every club you were ever a part of.”

Peter shuts his eyes tight, leaning his weight against the doorframe. A wash of discomfort colors his face, and then he steps back a little.

“Just…come inside for a minute, okay? I need to sit down.”

She wasn’t really expecting that, either, but it’s a good sign, she supposes. Especially when she was half-convinced he would shut the door in her face. Now her heart is hammering in her chest as she follows him into the room, shutting the door behind her. It feels oddly private to be in his room even though it looks just like hers.

He sags down against the couch in the corner, and she slowly joins him there. A blanket of silence falls over them, and Mj watches as Peter lets his head fall into his hands. They stay there for a moment and then run through his hair. He breathes out shakily. She’s suddenly not ready to hear everything, but she’s too frozen to stop him when he starts to speak.

“Look…it’s hard to explain, but the thing with me and Liz was…,” he starts, voice unsteady. He wraps his arms around his stomach. “I didn’t like having to do that to her at all, but I figured out her dad is, like…really mixed up with the wrong crowd, and when he talked to me in the car it really freaked me out. I went home.”

Mj feels the disappointment sinking in her chest. What he’s saying makes sense, but she knows in her heart that there’s something else he’s not telling her. The bruises and cuts on his face the next day tell her a different story. Unless Liz’s dad beat him up. She really doesn’t want to think about that.

“And Washington, I went…”

He trails off, swallowing audibly. His eyes fall shut again, and Mj prepares for another lie. It’s really frustrating, and to be honest, it hurts. She thought she was making friends that she could trust and that trusted her for the first time, but now it feels all wrong. She was wrong.

She’s about to just tell him never mind, and that she’s heading back to the opera, but suddenly Peter is shoving himself off the couch. He stumbles past her and nearly trips over himself as he flees. Mj feels totally caught off guard as he disappears into the bathroom.

He leaves the door open, but she can hear him knock something over, and then there’s a thud. She’s up in an instant. What if she pushed him so hard he passed out?

She quickly follows him and freezes at the door. He’s knocked over all the mini soap bottles into the sink, and she finds him on his knees in front of the toilet. Not even another second goes by before he gags, and she hears vomit splash into the water.

“Shit,” she curses, moving closer so she can sit on the edge of the tub beside him. He throws up again, and it’s pretty violent. Mj is sure now that she’s never felt like more of an asshole. He coughs a few times and almost chokes on the next wave that comes up. “Oh God, are you alright?”

He shakes his head, because of course he’s not fucking okay, he’s puking his guts out. Mj feels her cheeks heat up with embarrassment. It feels awkward and intimate, but she starts rubbing his back so he hopefully doesn’t nearly choke again.

“Sorry, I know. That was a stupid question. Do you want some water?”

He shakes his head again, and she realizes his whole body is trembling a little. He probably has a fever and she was just sitting there grilling him like a criminal. She thinks hauntingly that she’ll probably never get over it.

He lets out a sick burp and heaves out the biggest stream yet. She’s starting to get seriously concerned. Maybe she should go back and get Mr. Harrington, although she doubts he’d be able to do much to help either. Peter retches out a couple small streams in a row. Maybe she should just call May.

“I’m really sorry,” Peter finally says once he has a moment to catch his breath.

“You don’t owe me an apology.” It’s the exact opposite, really.

“S’just…,” he starts, swallowing back a half-gag. He dry heaves and spits. “M’gross.”

“Doesn’t bother me. I just wasn’t expecting you to actually be sick when Ned told me…I don’t know, I just had that whole idea, and I thought I’d find you, like…yeah. I’m really sorry you’re feeling like this.”

Peter takes some toilet paper and wipes his mouth, throwing it into the toilet and closing the lid. He flushes and lays his head down on the toilet with a sigh. He hiccups quietly.

“It’s okay…I feel a lot better now. I really needed to throw up. Think I’m done.”

“That’s good.”

“Yeah…do you think I could maybe have that water now?” His voice is weak, and Mj is suddenly so much more upset with herself. All Peter has ever been is sweet, and here she is acting like he owes her something.

“Of course. Um, just give me a second.”

“M’kay,” he replies, letting his eyes fall shut where he rests. “Thank you.”

She stands up and goes back into the room to find the stash of lable-less water bottles and empty coffee cups. She grabs a couple waters and heads back to the bathroom, sitting back on the tub and opening one for him.

“Here,” she says, and he opens his eyes. He thanks her again. “Don’t thank me, Peter. I’m doing the bare minimum as a friend now that I’ve grilled you about a lie in the middle of you trying not to get sick.”

Peter takes a few sips and swallows an extra time for good measure. He shakes his head slowly, and she knows he’s about to try to make her feel better. She thinks that might really just make her feel worse.

“Mj…I’m telling you this because you deserve to know, and I feel really guilty right now.” She frowns, confused, but he looks like he’s going to continue. “Mj…I am Spider-Man.”

The room goes dead silent. Mj doesn’t so much as breathe. It’s not like she could, anyway. Several seconds pass before she can even manage words.

“Are you being serious right now? Because if you’re joking this really isn’t funny,” she breathes out. He looks at her and nods slowly, smiling in a wincing sort of way. “I mean—I was only like 67 percent sure, I—“

“M’not lying. Not anymore, I promise.”

She can’t even begin to process the way she feels in that moment. Everything she’s been thinking and obsessing over for months is true. She’s not crazy, but she sure feels like it.

“Prove it,” she blurts, then wishes she could take it back. Then again, it would be nice to know for sure now that she’s probably losing her mind entirely. What if she’s just asleep at the opera house?

Peter breathes out a shallow laugh, resting his forehead on the toilet seat again. He sets the water bottle down on the floor and sighs.

“I would, but I sort of feel like human garbage right now, and I think swinging across the city would definitely make me hurl again.”

“Right, sorry, I didn’t really mean it to come out like that.”

“S’okay,” he says softly, hiccuping again. “What if I just show you the suit?”

Suddenly, Mj flashes hot. Something about seeing the suit up close makes her feel like she’s meeting a celebrity. I mean, she is, but it’s also Peter. Her Peter.

“Oh,” she says. “I don’t want to force you or anything.”

“You’re not. I’ve sort of been dying not telling you, but…I also know that the people who know are in more danger. I never wanted that for you, so I have to be completely clear that this could be a huge mistake. I really care about you.”

Her face grows hot, and words seem lost again. She nods. Here she is, finally getting the satisfaction that she’s wanted, if you can call it that. She didn’t exactly imagine finding out in a hotel bathroom after watching Peter throw up his lunch, but she figures it is what it is.

“C’mon, I’ll show you,” he says as she’s trying to collect her thoughts.

She helps him off the floor and back into the bedroom, where he slides his suitcase closer to the bed where they’re sitting. Her heart is nearly in her throat. This is all so strange.

“Ready?” he asks, voice a little raw. Mj nods slowly.

He flicks open the closures and hesitates a bit before he lifts it up, revealing the red and blue suit she watched scale the Washington monument. She freezes completely, in awe of the reality she’s now faced with. He bends over with a groan and holds it up, starting to quietly explain some of the features.


Mj’s mind is humming, and it’s like she’s hearing him from several rooms over. She just keeps blinking at the thing, flashing back to all the times she saw it on the news. All the fire and destruction. He was there, and here it is. Here he is.

She tears her eyes away from the suit after a moment or two, staring at Peter as he continues to explain things she couldn’t begin to understand. Suddenly it all makes sense, and she is so, so screwed. This boy with a heart of gold is responsible for helping and saving so many people, and she can’t take her eyes off of him for even a second. She never wants to.

Suddenly, he’s staring back, but something is wrong. He doesn’t look excited, he doesn’t look happy, he doesn’t look like he’s feeling the same thing at all.

“Mj…were you…,” he starts, gaze falling to his lap where he laid the suit. “Were you only watching me…because you thought I was Spider-Man?”

She wasn’t expecting that in the slightest. The answer is complicated, but ultimately no. At the same time, she’s already made herself look like a massive stalker. The last thing she needs is to scare him away by getting emotional all of a sudden. Especially when the love that she feels for him will be interpreted as love for Spider-Man and not Peter, which couldn’t be farther from the truth. Suddenly, the suit seems to hold no value.

“Yeah…why?” She settles on lying, hoping that she can bring the other stuff up right when the time comes. But then, heartbreakingly, he looks disappointed. She wishes there were an easier way to do this.

“Oh.”

She changes her mind, never wanting to see that kind of sadness in him ever again. Maybe she can redirect this.

“Why did you think I was?”

“No, never mind, it’s…it’s stupid,” he breathes out, suddenly looking ill all over again.

“Try me.”

Instead, Peter starts to stand up, swaying. The suit falls to the floor. Mj is up in a second, ready to keep him from hitting the ground if he passes out. He looks nearly grey.

“I don’t feel good,” he murmurs. As soon as the words are out of his mouth, he throws up a gush of water between his fingers. It splatters down onto his shirt, his suitcase, and the floor.

“Oh—okay, alright,” Mj panics, looking around for something to save them from more damage. She spots a small ice bucket on the top of the dresser and rushes to get it, but from the sound of it, Peter’s just been sick again.

She moves as fast as she can and returns to him, positioning it under his mouth. His hands are covered in watery stomach acid and bile, so she holds it for him when the next wave comes up, keeping a steady hand between his shoulders. His breathing starts to pick up.

“You’re okay, Peter, I’ve got you,” she says, wishing there were some way she could just make it all stop. He doesn’t deserve this.

This round is considerably shorter, but he looks twice as spent when it seems like it’s over. His eyes are brimming with tears, and her heart feels like it’s dropped clean through the floor.

“Feel like you’re done?” she asks, rubbing once over his back. She doesn’t care that it might embarrass her later to be so attentive, but Peter is clearly really sick, and her insecurities can’t get in the way of making sure he’s taken care of.

He nods slowly, swallowing with effort. She lowers the bucket. He stands there sort of in shock and looking half-conscious, so Mj takes it upon herself to guide him to the bathroom.

While he washes his hands and rinses out his mouth, she dumps contents of the bucket into the toilet and flushes. When that’s done, she finds him braced against the sink with his eyes closed.

“I’m gonna grab you a fresh shirt, okay? You wanna hop in the shower?”

He shakes his head, and she can hardly blame him. It looks like it’s killing him just to stay upright.

“Okay, come here.”

He follows her into the bedroom and she pulls out the first t-shirt she sees in his suitcase. She turns away while he gets changed, but her face burns crimson all the same. He softly lets her know she can turn back around now.

She finds him eyeing the splattered carpet with what she can only describe as sorrow and disappointment. She can’t have that.

“Hey, it’s okay. It’s totally fine,” she insists. He doesn’t look convinced in the slightest, so she moves toward him regardless of whether she’s going to regret this or not.

She wraps her arms around him, and he wilts, slowly bringing his arms up around her back. It’s the first time they’ve hugged like this, serious and gentle. Mj hopes it makes up for at least some of her stupidity tonight.

“It was an accident, Peter. I know you feel really shitty, but things are gonna get better, okay? I can take care of that, you don’t have to worry.”

Finally, she pulls back to get a better look at him. He’s worse off than she’s ever seen—even the times when he came to school probably freshly thrown around in the street.

“Why are you being so sweet to me?” he asks suddenly, voice paper thin.

“Because you deserve it. And I really do care about you,” she says. This is her chance to try and clarify this whole mess. “I mean it, with or without Spider-Man. You’re closer to me than anyone has ever been.”

Peter’s face all but crumbles, and that’s not what she intended at all. She doesn’t know what to do. The apology is on her lips when Peter cuts her off.

“Mj, I…I had this whole plan with the Eiffel Tower and…now that I’ll probably be too sick to go, I think I should just do it now.”

She’s listening so carefully that she’s not sure time is passing for them anymore. Nothing exists outside this room as Peter walks past her to the desk in the corner, opening the drawer and pulling out a small bag. She recognizes it from a couple days ago and gets unexpectedly nervous.

He sits on the foot of the bed and quietly urges her to come over. He looks really sick. She almost feels like she should go get the bucket from the bathroom, but suddenly whatever this is seems more important, and she finds herself crossing the room to join him.

He reaches in and fishes something out, which she quickly realizes is a chain. He pulls at it, and hanging at the center is what looks like a couple of dark glass petals.

“Oh no, no, shit,” Peter curses suddenly, sighing and sounding like he actually might cry now. “It’s broken.”

Suddenly Mj can tell what it used to be, and something so big swells inside of her that she’s on fire all over. Peter starts rambling about his plan and how the elementals ruined everything, but she cuts him off.

“Hey, Peter, stop it, it’s okay. It’s perfect.”

“It’s supposed to be—“

“Black dahlia. Like the murder, right?”

Peter freezes. “Yeah, like the murder,” he breathes out, a laugh barely audible, then the sadness overtakes him again. “I really wanted this to go differently.”

“I love it, Peter. Giving it to me whole on the top of the Eiffel Tower wouldn’t make it mean any more to me than it does right now,” she says, watching him look at her with something unreadable filling his eyes. She opens the small latch and places it around her neck. “I love it. Thank you.”

Before he can try to regret what happened anymore, she wraps her arms around him again, holding there for a moment before she pulls back and places a gentle kiss at the corner of his mouth.

“Mj, m’gonna get you sick,” he murmurs, turning away.

“I don’t care,” is her reply, and she reaches up to align his face with hers. She kisses him fully now, her heart threatening to escape wherever it can.

When she pulls back, she hopes she hasn’t gone too far, but then he’s looking at her, and suddenly no decision she’s ever made has made more sense. She trails the hand that made its way to the back of his neck slowly down to the bed, and she rests her forehead against the heat of his.

“Thank you for trusting me,” she whispers, her hand finding his and placing her pinky on top of his. “I wasn’t just watching you because I thought you were Spider-Man.”

He pulls back a little, his eyebrows half-raised in a softly pained expression. He looks at her in mute suspension.

“Mj…I don’t want you to get dragged into this…,” he says, so quietly she can hardly hear him from inches away.

“Whatever happens, we can figure it out together. I’m not scared.”

He reaches a hand up to scrub at his face in frustration. Wilting, he covers his eyes and drops his chin to his chest.

“You don’t understand. Everywhere I go…people get hurt. Ben, Tony, May. Everything I touch gets ruined,” he says, voice heavy. “It’s like I can feel death breathing down my neck all the time, Mj…all the time.”

Mj immediately takes her hand to the back of his neck, fingertips just barely brushing through his hair where she rests it. “Peter, that is not true. Life hasn’t been fair to you, but you hold absolutely no blame for that. You shouldn’t have to carry that around.”

He slowly lays back against the mattress, and she can see where tears begin to trail down his temples. She lies beside him.

“You know what actually happens when you’re around?” She asks, turning on her side to face him. “People feel safe. You buy them food. You save them from burning buildings. You give them back what the bad people in the world take from them.”

He closes his eyes tightly, and more tears escape. He wipes them away, breathing out shakily. In the dim light shining from the bedside lamp, she sees just how worn he looks. Suddenly, she realizes he’s been letting thoughts like those consume him for a long time.

He’s sick, he’s tired, and there’s no doubt he’s still injured from fighting the elementals just a day earlier. The ugly feeling in her chest spreads deep, and she reaches over to rest her hand on his heart. She can almost feel how run down he is.

“I really like you, okay? But I don’t want you to have to worry about me. You already have more than enough on your plate. I’ll be a friend if you need me to be, and if you ever feel comfortable with more than that, I’ll still be right here,” she promises, knowing now that there’s nothing she won’t do to help him, even if that means waiting. Even if that means they’re never more.

Peter turns his head and slowly opens his eyes. She wipes away a tear that pools at the bridge of his nose.

“I really like you,” he finally says. “I…I need to think about things for a little, but…I don’t think I can go on and act like everything that’s happened tonight doesn’t mean as much to me as it does.”

“Me either,” she replies honestly. “I really just want you to be happy. Whatever that means for you.”

He’s silent for a second, eyes flickering between hers. “This makes me happy. Even though I feel like someone ran me over, I’m happy. It’s always been you.”

“Then that’s enough.”

Mj can’t imagine feeling any more content than she does in that exact moment. No one else exists outside this hotel room. There’s enough life in the two of them to sustain the rest of the universe. She leans closer and softly brushes her lips against his shoulder.

“You need to get some rest, Peter. Come here,” she urges, sitting up and scooting back to the headboard.

He manages to get himself up and under the duvet, resting his head on one of the pillows. Exhaustion covers his face. Mj stands up.

“I’m gonna grab your water and put it on the nightstand. Do you feel like you might get sick again?”

He hums, shutting his eyes. “I don’t know…maybe.”

“Okay. I’ll bring the bucket and set it on the floor next to you just in case.”

“Thank you.”

She does just that, urging him to take at least a couple sips before he actually falls asleep. He doesn’t put up too much of a fight, but that’s probably due to being absolutely drained.

His breaths even out quickly after that, so Mj tries to be as quiet as she can while she does her best to clean up everything from earlier. It’s mostly just water, so it’s not too bad. Oddly enough, because it’s Peter, it doesn’t bother her one bit.

When she’s done, she gently climbs back onto the bed next to him and takes a minute to try and comprehend everything that’s gone down in the past hour or so. She reaches up to grasp at the remnants of the black dahlia, feeling a wave of warmth draw over her whole body. She wouldn’t change a thing.

————-

A/N: Thank you guys for reblogging my posts and reading! It means a lot :)

#iron dad #marvel sickfic #peter parker #sickfic #cw vomit #peter parker sickfic #iron dad sickfic #iron man #tony stark #sick #hurt/comfort

[irondadidontfeelsogood]

A Darkness No One Can Stomach

cw: vomit

—————

There was one day in 2008 where Happy begged Tony to petsit his dog. The dog was small enough, and the list of things to do for him could fit on a post-it note, but Tony was lost. He felt so completely stranger to the feeling of caring for another living thing that it took some heavy convincing. In the end, he’d been able to take the dog out when he needed to go and feed him at the right times, but he always felt on edge. Like he must be doing something wrong.

Still, he’d take that stress every day over what he’s feeling now. What he feels now isn’t just a vague sense of uneasiness. He’s petrified.

He’s been petrified since the very day lawyers reached out and informed him of May’s will.

How could he care for a kid? He can barely take care of himself—Pepper does that for him most of the time. How can he look at this poor boy who just lost the last blood relations he had left and be expected to comfort him?

He doesn’t know the first thing about parenting a kid.

When they’d arrived with Peter’s things earlier that afternoon, silence rung out louder than any sound could dream of being. They dropped his things up in his room, and when Peter requested to be left alone, they were the first words he’d said all day.

Tony paced around the flat, debating going down to the lab and attempting some degree of normalcy before deciding against it. If Peter came out of that room, he was not going to be met with more empty space.

Tony was going to be there for him, even if the only way he knew how to right now was physically.

Eventually, he was hit with the realization that Peter hasn’t eaten all day—probably in the last two days. For a kid built like him, that must be painful.

Tony made some of what he would consider comfort food, hopefully filling up the space with warm, soothing ambience. He has no idea what he’s doing. This is all he can think of.

He walks toward Peter’s door slowly. God, Peter’s door. That’ll be his door permanently now. Tony’s so out of his depth.

He hesitates and then finally knocks on the door, leaning in. He hears nothing in response. “Hey, Pete?” He tries, met with nothing again. Maybe he’s asleep. “Peter?” Nothing.

Tony is suddenly hit with the ice-cold weight of realizing that Peter could’ve done something terrible to himself. Tony feels sick with it. “Peter, I need you to make some sort of noise, alright? Just let me know you’re hearing me.” He leans in and focuses hard, and he finally hears Peter groan. The surge of relief is dizzying. “Thank God...okay, kiddo...I—could I come in for a minute?”

A muffled sound that sort of seems like affirmation comes from the other side, and he finds that the door had been unlocked all along. Poking his head in, he realizes the sun has gone down, and Peter is laying on the bed in almost total darkness. The only light in the room is what’s spilling in from the doorway.

“I’ve got some dinner ready out here, kid. I need you to try to eat for me, cause I know you haven’t eaten today.” It’s silent for a second, and Peter just lays there with his sunken eyes barely cracked open. He shakes his head just barely. Tony sighs. “I know you don’t feel like it, Pete, but your metabolism is too fast. If you want to go on a hunger strike, we’re gonna have to bring in Dr. Cho, and I know you definitely don’t want that, yeah?”

Peter shakes his head again, faster this time, but makes no move to get up. The look in his eyes makes Tony’s heart crumble. He can’t do this.

“Just come out and try for me, okay? You can come right back in here after if you want. Please,” he tries, about two seconds away from recruiting Pepper over the phone.

Very slowly, Peter pulls himself off of the mattress. It looks like he hadn’t even had the energy to get under the comforter. Tony’s heart is going to give out looking at the kid walking towards him.

“Thank you, Pete. Let’s go get some grub. Can’t promise it’ll be great, cause Pepper’s not here, but I really did try, alright? C’mon,” he says, deciding to lay a gentle hand on Peter’s shoulder as they walk. He doesn’t know what to do. He just can’t seem to help.

Peter sits at the table and immediately buries his head in his crossed arms, curls sticking out everywhere. It would be cute if it wasn’t because he was actively grieving, unable to care for himself. Tony sighs again, finishing up Peter’s plate and bringing it over to him.

He gently taps Peter’s arm and announces the arrival of his food before turning around and getting his own plate. When he returns to the table, he’s surprised to see Peter’s head actually up. He’s got his fork inside some mashed potatoes, just sitting there.

Tony sits across from him, giving him a soft, awkward smile as he tucks into his own food. “Just a few bites, kiddo, nothing too bad. Pepper would kill me if I let you go to bed on an empty stomach.”

Peter grimaces. “I...I don’t feel...” he starts, but doesn’t continue.

“Just a few bites,” he urges gently.

Peter looks at him for a few seconds and then at the food, and Tony can actually hear his stomach growl. He pauses before taking the first bite. Tony tries not to stare and make him uncomfortable while also trying not to show his own discomfort. How can he help someone who’s grieving when he never fully finished grieving his own parents?

They eat in silence.

To Tony’s surprise, Peter doesn’t stop at just a few bites. He keeps going, and Tony can’t help but pat himself on the back and feel relieved. That’s one thing checked off the list of making sure Peter’s taken care of, he guesses. He hopes May isn’t somewhere out there regretting her decision.

He hopes Peter doesn’t regret her decision.

Once they’re almost both done, Tony finally speaks up again. “So, I thought that maybe—I mean, you can do what I said before and go back to bed, but...I thought maybe you might want to watch some Star Wars tonight?” Peter looks up, and there’s a complicated mess in his eyes. Tony doesn’t know how to decipher it. “It’s just, I don’t sleep well when I’m stressed, or, you know...just overwhelmed. I thought I’d give you a chance to avoid staying up by yourself if you’re the same way.”

Peter, looking rougher than he’s looked all day, begins to tear up. Tony’s heart sinks. He flounders for something redeemable to say, but Peter cuts him off.

“That’s...really nice of you, Mr. Stark, I...I’d like to, um. I’d like to do that, I think,” he says, voice so unlike himself. He’s so pale. Nevertheless, Tony slowly melts back into a smile, panic mostly diverted.

They finish eating, and Tony announces he’s going to set up the TV and grab some blankets. He tells Peter to go grab anything he wants in the meantime. Peter doesn’t move.

Tony cringes a bit as he walks away, knowing the only thing Peter really wants is what he can never have again.

After he grabs his best blankets and a few pillows and pulls up a set of the first Star Wars movies, he heads back to the kitchen. He finds Peter with his head buried in his sleeves again. His back rises and falls rather alarmingly.

“Hey, Pete, everything’s set up over here.” Peter doesn’t respond. “You know, if you really do just want to go lie down, that’s totally okay.” More silence. “Could you just let me know-“

Peter’s back lurches a bit, and a harsh gushing sound erupts from below the table. Tony stands back with wide eyes, entirely shocked as he realizes Peter has started losing his dinner all over the floor and himself.

“Oh, shit, shit—okay,” he starts, rushing to the cabinets and cringing when he hears the sound of another wave splattering onto the tile. He grabs a plastic mixing bowl and gets back to Peter as fast as he can. Holding it under him, he lays a steadying hand on Peter’s back, rubbing softly. “It’s okay that you’re throwing up, alright? I didn’t mean to freak out on you. Just shocked me, that’s all.”

He’s never had to deal with parenting a kid, not to mention a sick one. He can’t even tell if it’s grief or not. He makes a mental note to ask FRIDAY about his temperature. Suddenly, he remembers what Peter was saying before they ate. He was trying to tell him that his stomach didn’t feel good, and he was just so focused on doing the right thing that he totally bypassed it. Shit.

“Oh, God, kid. You tried to warn me that you felt sick, didn’t you?” Guilt is black tar dripping in his heart.

Peter doesn’t answer, because he can’t. Tony tries not to flinch when he sprays a mouthful of vomit into the bowl. He coughs, and it turns into a retch almost immediately. He continues to throw up violently, and that’s when Tony knows this can’t be just grief. Poor kid is getting hit by life on all sides.

When he gets a break to breathe, he starts whimpering, and Tony feels like he’s going to pass out from heartbreak. “Hey, hey, it’s alright. Well, it’s not really alright, but it—it will be, okay? It will be.” Peter’s breathing picks up, and he starts to sob. “Oh, Pete...c’mere.” He brings Peter’s head to rest against his chest. It’s all he can think to do.

He might be getting tears and vomit on his t-shirt, but he doesn’t care. He’s being assaulted with almost all stages of fatherhood at once. But it’s not about him, it’s about Peter. If anyone’s getting life thrown at them all at once, it’s Pete. He holds him closer at the thought.

Peter’s shoulders tremble with the breathless sobs he chokes out, wrapping his arms around Tony’s torso and gripping onto his shirt with a white-knuckles grip.

“I want May,” he finally weeps.

It knocks the wind out of Tony. He’s not made to survive this kind of sorrow.

“Kid, I...I know you do. It’s okay that you do...but I’m so sorry that you have to miss her.” Words will never be enough—nothing will. “I also know I can’t be her, and I can’t begin to replace her, but I’ll do anything you need me to do, okay? Anything.” He’s never meant anything more in his life. This is a promise he can’t break.

Peter keeps crying, muttering incoherently under his breath, and Tony remembers his mental note from earlier. “Hey, FRI? Help me out here. What’s his temp?” he calls.

“Mr. Parker’s internal temperature is currently 100.1 degrees Fahrenheit.”

“Okay, uh, that’s okay, right? I don’t need to call anyone?”

“Medical assistance is not necessary at this time.”

“Thanks.”

“Mr. Stark...”

Tony looks down at the mop of curls pressed against his chest. “Yeah, buddy?”

“That was so gross,” he whimpers.

“Can’t argue with that, kiddo. You think you can manage a shower without braining yourself on the tile?” Peter hiccups, nodding just barely. “Okay. You can leave your dirty clothes in the bathroom across from your room. Everything you need should be in there, just call me if you need anything, alright?” Another nod. Tony helps him up out of the chair and tells FRIDAY to keep an eye on his vitals as he cleans up.

In the silence of the kitchen, Tony let’s the shock sink in. He’s got a kitchen decorated with vomit and a kid with a fever down the hall, and the responsibility falls completely on him. He shouldn’t have forced him to eat. He feels a kind of guilt he hasn’t felt since he took the kid’s suit away a good while ago.

After allowing himself to process the feeling for a minute, he starts the stomach-turning task of cleaning the kitchen. It’s a struggle not to add to the mess when he first sets to it, but he’s oddly desensitized by the end. He requests updates from FRIDAY multiple times, being met with the same response each time: Mr. Parker is in the shower, temperature slightly elevated.

He finds comfort in the fact that he hasn’t received any alerts from the baby monitor protocol and heads over to the living room. Looking over the setup, he wonders if he should put everything away. He stands there for a moment, and in his indecision, shuffling footsteps can be heard approaching.

Tony’s eyes quickly settle on Peter. His eyes are the type of swollen that only happens after a much-needed cry, but the kid has had too many of those lately. Tony watches as Peter walks closer, looking so small in his hoodie and sweats.

“Hey, kiddo. I was just about to pack all this up, I think.” Peter’s shoulders stiffen, and his expression tightens too. He shifts from one socked foot to another, eyeing the blankets on the couch. “That is, unless you’re still up for it.”

Peter seems relieved that Tony offered, nodding minutely. “I know I won’t sleep if...I just don’t want to try,” he admits, voice gravely from being sick.

“Yeah, I hear ya, kid, we can definitely still do it. Go ahead and get comfortable, I’m gonna grab a couple things.”

Tony heads back to the kitchen and retrieves a bin, a glass of water, and some fever reducers. When he comes back in, Peter is a lump of curly hair underneath the blankets.

“Alright, Pete, if you think you can, I want you to take some Tylenol, okay? You don’t have to, but here’s some water either way. I don’t want you to get dehydrated.” He hands the glass to Peter, who snakes an arm out from the covers and starts to sip.

He visibly musters up some bravery and takes the Tylenol, resting back against the cushions while they try to decide on something to watch. Tony sets the bin by Peter’s feet. They settle in, but Peter breaks the silence after a minute.

“M’really sorry I puked on the floor. I just didn’t feel like I could move,” he admits, color flushing up his neck.

“I meant it when I said it was okay, Pete. Did throwing up make your stomach feel better?”

Peter shrugged, then nodded. “Think so.”

“Well that’s good, I guess. But seriously, don’t worry about it. I’m just glad we get some time to relax after everything today, yeah?”

“Yeah. Me too,” Peter replies softly, finishing his water and lying his head down against the cushions.

It’s quiet after that, and once they finally decide on classic comfort choice Star Wars, it seems like things are looking up. Peter shifts so that his head can rest on Tony’s shoulder, and Tony would be lying if he said it didn’t make his heart bleed. It’s only been half a day, and he already feels like he would do anything to protect Peter.

God, Tony’s knows he’s screwed. He realizes quickly it’s the best type of screwed.

They’re about thirty minutes into the first movie, and Peter actually groans. Tony pauses the movie. “What was that about? You okay?”

Peter swallows twice, looking at Tony a little desperately. “I think the pills made my stomach hurt...c’n I have s’more water?” He asks, hand resting gingerly on the organ.

“Ah, shit. I wondered if that might happen, I’m sorry. Give me a second.”

The parent guilt hits in a fresh wave as he carries Peter’s glass over and has it refilled. He gets back as quickly as he can, handing the glass over to Peter. They settle back in, and Tony plays the movie.

He looks over at Peter every now and then, waiting for the discomfort to fade from his face. It doesn’t. Poor kid.

At about the halfway mark in the movie, Peter grabs his glass from the end table and starts to sip the last bit. Tony’s forgotten all about this scene in Episode I, and he’s glued to the screen. That is, until he hears Peter grunt in a choking sort of way.

He looks over to see Peter go for one more sip and watches him swallow it. Not even half a second later, Peter’s cheeks suddenly fill, and the water sprays right back into the cup. Before Tony can really react, Peter’s shoulders roll forward, and the glass fills to the brim.

In a moment of pure reflex, Tony quickly and carefully takes the glass away and replaces it with the bin. The glass is warm in his hand, and it makes him dry heave, setting poor Peter off again.

Tony sets the glass on the table and pauses the movie once more so he can place all of his attention on Peter. “It’s gonna be alright, kiddo, just let it come on up.” Another violent, oddly productive retch sends more vomit splashing against plastic. “That’s it, try to get a few breaths, kiddo.”

He tries, but the waves keep coming, hitching his breath every time. The water is tinted a sickly beige now, bringing up the last of his attempt at dinner.

He sits there burping and retching over the trash for several minutes, producing more sick in one night than Tony ever had after his benders. He tries not to be worried, and his work pays off when Peter finally stops, pushing the bin away.

“Done?”

Peter nods, face twisting up in sorrow. “Tony, I really don’t feel well,” he announces, as if it weren’t perfectly clear from his display seconds earlier. It breaks Tony’s heart all over again.

“I know, Pete, I’m sorry. It’s gonna be alright. Come here.” Tony brings the boy close, holding him as he shakes with fresh sobs.

He cries himself to sleep before Tony ever hits play on the remote.

——————

A/N: Hello again! Thanks for reading and have a great day :)

#cw vomit #iron dad #marvel sickfic #peter parker #sickfic #peter parker sickfic #iron dad sickfic #iron man #tony stark #hurt/comfort #grief #tw grief

[irondadidontfeelsogood]

Midnight Blues

cw: vomit

—————

“Hey Tony, can I talk to you for a second?” Pepper asks, leaning over the arm of the couch.

“Yeah, where?”

“Let’s go outside, it’s nice.”

Tony stands from the couch, following her out to the porch. When the door closes behind him, she sighs. That’s never good.

“What is it?”

She shifts her weight a little. “It’s Peter.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Well, I’m not totally sure, but he’s not acting like himself at all. He came in to help us clean the kitchen, and now he’s been sitting at the table completely silent ever since. I don’t think he’s feeling well.”

“Oh. I was wondering where he was. We were supposed to watch a movie.”

“Yeah, I just think something upset his stomach. I asked him if he was alright, but he insisted he was fine, so I left him alone. I think he might talk to you, though, so I thought I’d ask.”

“Yeah, of course. He’s probably pretty exhausted, I mean we drove for, like, ten hours today.”

“Maybe that’s part of it.”

“Maybe. I’ll go talk to him. Thanks Pep,” he says, leaning forward to kiss her cheek before turning to go inside. She follows him, but they split before the kitchen.

As promised, Peter is slumped over the table, staring at the wall. He doesn’t look good at all. If it’s possible to actually turn green, Peter has just about managed it.

“Hey kid,” he greets, pulling out a chair and sitting next to him.

“Hi.”

“You still up to watch a movie?”

“Mm…maybe. I’m a little tired.”

“I don’t blame you. But, uh…are you feeling okay? You’ve looked better.”

Peter exhales slowly. What Tony didn’t expect was for him to suddenly crumble, holding back a weak sob.

“Hey, hey, it’s alright,” he soothes, scooting closer so he can rub his back. “What’s wrong?”

Peter shakes his head, tears tracking down his cheeks. He breathes out shakily and then inhales sharply. It takes a moment for him to compose himself.

“M’just…I don’t know. I thought my stomach would stop hurting on its own, but now I don’t know,” he murmurs.

Tony reaches a hand over to feel his forehead, and it’s scorching. That probably explains the sudden breakdown.

“You’re really warm, kid. I’m sorry you don’t feel good.”

“S’okay.”

“Do you wanna call it a night?”

He nods just barely, pulling away from the table. When Tony helps him stand, he pales. Tony’s just a little nervous.

“Can we…I think I need to go to the bathroom.”

“Sure thing, kid. C’mon.”

He leads him to the bathroom, picking up the pace just a little. He watches Peter tremble as he lowers himself to the floor. He wishes he had FRIDAY here to tell him how high Peter’s fever is.

Peter hovers over the bowl, silent tears still escaping. He hugs his middle, groaning every now and then. Tony continues to rub his back.

“I really don’t feel good, Tony,” he moans, resting his head on the arm he has draped across the bowl.

“So sorry, kiddo. Maybe throwing up will make you feel better.”

That seems to only upset him more. He actually whimpers.

“I don’t wanna,” he breathes out, voice strained. He swallows with effort.

Tony continues to just keep him company, and several minutes go by before Peter rolls forward with a heave. Nothing comes up, but Tony can hear how unhappy his stomach is. He feels his phone vibrate in his pocket. He takes it out to see a message from Pepper.

Everything okay?

He quickly types out a response.

In the bathroom. Think he might throw up.

Poor kid.

I know. Maybe get him a damp washcloth and some water for when he comes out?

Sure. I’ll have it in his room.

Thanks Pep

He pockets his phone again just as Peter coughs out another retch, just as unproductive as the first. With a weak sob, he rubs at his stomach a little.

Tony didn’t think it was possible, but Peter suddenly goes an even more impressive shade of grey-green. Watery spit starts to drip into the bowl, and Tony remembers from the last time Peter had a stomach bug that it isn’t a good sign.

“I don’t feel good,” he nearly weeps. Almost immediately after, he pitches forward and vomits a heavy stream against the back of the bowl.

“There you go, kid, you’re doing good.”

He throws up again, even more than the first time. He struggles to catch his breath before the next wave comes up, and then the next. Tony just tries to make him feel comfortable and calm.

He finally begins dry heaving, and then those taper off too. He sits back on his heels, tears collecting at his chin. Tony rubs his back.

“Feel any better kiddo?”

“I don’t know,” he murmurs. “M’tired.”

“Alright. Let’s get you to bed, okay?”

“Okay…”

He lets Tony help him to the sink to wash his mouth out and then leads him to bed. It’s quiet in the house, and Peter is becoming increasingly limp against his side. They make it to his room, and he quickly crawls under the blankets.

Tony grabs the wet cloth Pepper made and lays it across his forehead.

“You want some water, Pete?”

“No…my stomach hurts.”

“I’m sorry. How about you get some rest and see if you feel better?”

“Mm…okay.” It sounds like he’s already halfway there.

He steps out quietly, turning off the light and leaving the door cracked. He sighs, shuffling to his own room, suddenly aware of his own exhaustion. It’s been a long day, he can’t imagine how Peter feels.

He makes it in, crawling in next to Pepper. She turns toward him and pauses the TV.

“Is he okay?”

“Been better, but he’s resting now. He threw up a lot.”

“I knew something was up. Did it help any?”

“Not sure, but he was pretty upset about it. I think the fever made him cry.”

“Poor kid.”

“I know. I’m gonna check on him in a few hours, I think. He needs to drink some water, but I don’t wanna force it on him when his stomach hurts.”

“Yeah, that’s probably for the best. You should get some rest too. C’mere.”

She holds him close as the day wears heavier on him. He just barely manages to set an alarm before he drifts off.

Some time later, he’s woken, but not to what he expected. There’s no alarm, just a hand pressing gently at his shoulder. He wills his eyes to open, and he sees a small silhouette against the light spilling from the door.

“Pete?”

“Tony…,” Peter repeats, voice watery.

“What’s wrong? You sick?”

Tony sits up and turns on the lamp beside the bed, illuminating Peter’s pale, tear-slick face. He’s up in an instant.

“Hey, hey…it’s okay,” he whispers. “Wanna tell me what’s wrong?”

“I don’t feel good,” he all but sobs, arms wrapped tightly around his stomach.

“I’m really sorry, kid. C’mere, let me take you back to your room.”

He lets himself be led, but they come to a full stop in the hallway.

“Pete?”

Not a beat goes by before he’s projectile vomiting onto the floor, splattering what has to be last night’s dinner all over the hardwood.

“Oh, kid…”

He throws up again, doubling over completely. Tony keeps him from falling and rubs his back while he rides it out. He figures there’s no use in trying to get him to the bathroom now. Peter’s legs are shaking too much, and there would probably be even more of a mess to clean up.

“Tony, what’s—oh Peter, honey…are you okay?”

Peter responds by retching violently, stomach contents splattering against the others.

“He woke me up and told me he didn’t feel good. Guess I should’ve expected an encore, you know?”

Peter throws up again.

“Let me grab some paper towels.”

“No, it’s okay, you go ahead and go back to bed. We’re okay.”

“You take care of him, I’ll take care of the floor, okay?”

“Alright, sure. Thanks.”

She disappears to the kitchen, and it seems like Peter has run out of things to throw up. He straightens up slightly.

“Feel like you’re done?”

“I’m so sorry,” he slurs, suddenly seeming years younger.

“Don’t apologize, it’s alright. I know you don’t feel good. Think you’re ready to move back to bed?”

He nods just slightly, still ghostly pale. Tony helps him the rest of the way to his room, and he all but collapses onto the bed. He looks so small.

“M’so sorry.”

“I said it’s okay, Pete. Does your stomach feel any better?”

“I guess…”

“It’s alright, you’ll feel better soon. Fast metabolism. Just rest up, and I’m right down the hall if you need me again.”

“Thank you,” he murmurs.

“Always.”

—————

A/N: As always, thanks for reading! More to come!

#iron dad sickfic #peter parker sickfic #marvel sickfic #sickfic #sick #peter parker #tony stark #iron dad #iron man #hurt/comfort

[irondadidontfeelsogood]

Falling to Pieces

cw: vomit

—————

Peter has already gone to the nurse once today, and all she did was give him a peppermint and let him lay down on a cot for fifteen minutes. He’s pretty sure if he came in with a broken femur, she would do the same thing. She’s rude to him for no reason. It’s not his fault he gets sick so often.

The only reason he hasn’t just called Tony or Happy to come pick him up is because they’re both at a business convention in Manhattan. Mj offered to take him home, but he knows she has an exam in fourth block, so he’s not going to take her up on that no matter how much he wants to. So here he is, sitting in english class with the worst stomachache he’s had since he got the bite. He keeps eyeing the trash can in the corner as if it’ll grow legs and walk out of his reach.

He’s sweating through his hoodie, but he has nothing on underneath, so he can’t take it off to get any relief. At the same time, he feels chilled to the bone, so he’s not sure it would be any relief anyway. He takes another swig from his water bottle and struggles to swallow it down.

The words Mr. Garcia is saying make no sense to him at all, but he stares straight ahead like he’s paying any sort of attention. He swears the clock has stopped. His stomach starts another round of churning, and he feels his face wash white. Maybe he really should try going to the nurse again.

He tries to listen for another minute, but it’s almost impossible when he’s swallowing against the urge to puke. When his pulse starts to surge in his ears and his mouth starts filling with metallic spit, he shakily packs up his bag. With all of the strength he can muster, he grabs his things and stands from his seat, shuffling to the front of the room.

It takes a moment for Mr. Garcia to notice he’s there and stop talking, but then all of the attention is on him. He just really wants to go home.

“Oh, Peter. You need something?”

“Um, I’m sorry for interrupting, I just…I was gonna ask if I can go to the nurse. I think I’m really sick.”

“Yeah, you don’t look so good. I’ll write you a pass, hang on.”

It’s silent as he pulls out the pass notebook and starts to write, and it feels like an eternity. People start to whisper behind him, and for once, he’s grateful that his senses have dulled. Mr. Garcia hands him the pass just as his stomach starts to feel worse.

“Feel better, Peter.”

“Thanks.”

Eager to leave, Peter walks out the door and shuts it behind him. He feels mildly relieved to be in the hallway by himself now, but mostly, he’s trying to decide whether he should go to the bathroom or the nurse.

When the most recent wave of nausea sort of passes, he decides he’s probably safe to wait on going to the bathroom. He drags himself across campus to the small, cold infirmary at the front of the school. He pretends not to notice when the nurse looks annoyed to see him.

“Back again?”

“Yeah, I’m…I really don’t feel like I can be in class anymore.”

She looks down her glasses at him for a moment. She scribbles something on a piece of paper.

“You got a pass this time?”

“Oh, uh. Yeah,” he suddenly remembers, feeling a little stupid as he hands her the little pink slip.

“Take a seat.”

He readily obeys, dropping his bag and wilting down onto the cot, shivering. She hands him another peppermint, and he sighs quietly. He unwraps it and puts it in his mouth. Unsurprisingly, it helps nothing at all.

“So, your stomach hurts.”

“Yeah…”

“Have you been sick?”

“Um, no. Not yet.”

She hums, writing more down, then typing onto the computer. He’s just about to ask her for a bag or maybe a bucket when the phone rings, and she picks it up. He slumps back against the wall, praying his stomach will stay down until he has somewhere convenient to puke.

The feeling thankfully passes, and when she hangs up the phone, she just looks at him. He shifts uncomfortably under her gaze, feeling awkward.

“Can I go home?”

She shakes her head lightly. “Go ahead and lie down for a while. I’ll wake you when it’s time to go back to class.”

He should have expected that really, but it doesn’t make him any less upset. Just the idea of going back to class makes him want to cry. He tries his best not to, but once he’s laying down facing away from her, silent tears slip out and fall across the bridge of his nose.

It does make him feel a little better to lie down, but nowhere near enough. It’s about two degrees in here, and his stomach is aching like he got hit with Cap’s shield. He wants Tony.

Those fifteen restless minutes pass by with no relief, and he nearly starts crying again when he feels her hand on his shoulder. She tells him something about class, but his pulse is rushing too loudly in his ears for him to make out any other words. His brain is cooking itself, too, so that never helps.

When he goes to sit up and beg for at least some more time, a wash of vertigo pours over him. His stomach turns, and more spit rushes over his back teeth. The urge to gag tightens in his throat.

“Ms. Nelson, I think I’m gonna be sick,” he just barely manages. He feels himself go entirely pale, and that must scare her into action.

She goes over to the cabinet to get a bag, but Peter’s body is tired of waiting. He goes to swallow down the warmth in his throat, but it’s in his mouth before he can even try. Before she can get over to him, he doubles over and starts losing his breakfast on the floor beside the cot.

She hisses something that sounds like a curse and shoves the emesis bag in front of his face. He takes it from her, vomiting into it so hard that his vision whites out a little. His stomach turns again as he’s trying to catch his breath, and he throws up another heavy gush against the plastic.

After that, it feels like he’s done, so he pulls away from the bag, panting with tears of exertion running down his face. He wipes them away.

“Please let me go home,” he finally moans, voice raw.

“Let me fill out this form. Then you can go. Do you have someone to pick you up?”

“No,” he sniffs. “I take the subway.”

He sits there shaking while she writes. The lingering nausea is beginning to slowly fade, but the ache in his stomach won’t let up. His head is starting to hurt, too.

She silently hands him a copy of the nurse’s office incident report and then tells him to go in a short voice. He doesn’t bother thanking her or apologizing for that matter, he just drops his sick bag into the trash and grabs his things, pushing his way out the door.

His body feels like lead as he trudges out into the snow. The only thing keeping him from collapsing right there is the thought of being at home in his bed. One foot in front of the other is the only option.

After about five minutes, he starts feeling really sick. The nausea is so intense that he has to turn back and sit down at the bus stop he just passed. At least he’s not getting snowed on anymore.

The same vertigo he felt in the nurse’s office comes back, and he rests his head against the advertisement beside him, letting his eyes fall shut. He feels like he’s moving backwards. With a groan, he wraps his arms around his stomach.

Feeling sick in public is embarrassing and torture enough, but apparently his life just sucks a little more today, because a guy comes over to sit beside him. Peter swallows thickly, willing his stomach to stop churning so he can start the walk home again. It isn’t more than two minutes later when his body flashes hot and spit gathers under his tongue.

He prays and prays that it’ll pass, but the panic in his chest is just making him feel worse. He gets an intense urge to cough, and with the cold, he can’t stop himself. When he does, he feels something hot and acidic shoot up his throat.

Realizing it would be rude to just throw up all over half of the bus stop, he stands, swaying. He braces himself on the bus shelter, hiding behind the advertisement. Before he can even get another chance to breathe, he’s vomiting into the snow. He’s trying to be quiet, but the gushing splatters alone are enough to pull the attention of everyone passing by.

“Oh, woah. You alright, kid?” The guy at the stop asks, making Peter’s face grow hot.

“I’m—,” he starts, pitching forward to throw up again. “M’okay.”

“You sure? I really think you’re sick, man.”

“Mhm,” he forces out.

The force of the next heave nearly sends him to his knees. Thankfully, he seems to be over the worst of it after that, but he stays hunched over the mess for a moment just in case. When it seems like he’s safe, he does feel a little better, so he decides to take advantage of that and start walking again.

He grabs his bag and apologizes quietly to the man still sitting there with mild horror on his face. Turning away, he blinks hard to clear away the fogginess in his head. He wonders absently how bad his fever is, how far he is from home, and what time it is. He doesn’t have the energy to find the answer for any of his questions.

He makes it about three more blocks before he starts wondering whether he’s about to pass out or throw up. There’s a sinking feeling inside of him, and suddenly he can’t go on. His legs shake as he lowers himself into the snow outside the laundromat on 25th, leaning over to the side and throwing up.

He didn’t think he had anything left in his stomach, but the proof comes splattering out beside him yet again. This time, no one who passes by stops to ask him if he’s alright. He throws up a few more times, only stopping when he finally feels hollow.

With a groan, he braces his elbows on his knees and cradles his head in his hands. He stays there until the world stops spinning around him. Blindly, he reaches into his backpack and pulls out his phone.

It’s hard to get his hands to stop shaking long enough to select Tony’s contact, and when he brings it to his ear, he can’t stop himself from crying. He hugs himself and tries to stop trembling.

The fourth ring is interrupted by a click. He holds his breath to keep from sobbing.

“Hello?” Tony says. Hearing his voice is enough to break Peter. He can’t speak yet—his throat is too tight and raw. “Pete?”

“Yeah—sorry, m’sorry, m’here,” he strains, swallowing like his throat is full of glass.

“Aren’t you at school?”

“I’m, uh, no. I’m,” he starts, trying so hard to form a sentence with his brain turning to soup. “Please come get me,” he finally cries.

“Peter, what do you mean? What happened? You sound terrible.”

The air doesn’t want to stay in Peter’s lungs. It takes him a while to stop crying into the phone and actually say words.

“I—I left school ‘cause I threw up, and Ms. Nelson was being really mean, and then I threw up at a bus stop, and I—I can’t make it home, please-,” his breath hitches with a cough. He suddenly throws up a thin stream of bile down his hoodie. “I can’t make it home, please pick me up.”

“Oh, Peter, I’m so sorry. Hang on.” There’s some shuffling on the line, and Peter cries to himself. “I’m coming to get you, alright? Where are you? Your phone’s GPS is putting you in the middle of the road.”

“I’m—I’m sitting on the ground outside the laundromat on 25th. I don’t feel good, Tony, please come get me,” he slurs.

“Oh, God. Alright. Look, can you go inside the laundromat? It’s gonna take me, like, fifteen minutes to get there.”

Peter lets out something between a groan and a sob. “Tony, please,” he breathes out, barely above a whisper. “Please, I need you.”

“I’ve got you, kid, okay? I’m already on my way, you just gotta promise to get inside somewhere, alright?”

He sniffs. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Okay.”

“Alright, hang tight for me kiddo. I gotta hang up now, but I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

After the call ends, it takes a while for Peter to be able to scrape himself off the snowy grass. He drags himself and his backpack over to the laundromat. He hauls himself into to the first open chair, dodging the people staring at the vomit stain on his hoodie.

He shivers for the first several minutes, completely frozen to the bone. He leans close to the dryer running beside him and tries to leech off of the heat coming from it. His eyes fall shut, but he’s far from sleep.

He checks the time on his phone every now and then as it crawls by. This is easily the longest half hour of his life. It grows longer as his stomach starts to turn, quietly threatening him. He can only hope his stomach is completely empty.

The feeling gets worse and worse, but he knows he won’t be able to do anything about it if it happens. There’s no way he can carry himself back outside to be sick. Just the thought makes him feel like passing out.

Tony should be arriving at any minute now, and Peter keeps his eyes set out the window. He doesn’t even know which car to look for. He watches the snow come down and pretends like his stomach isn’t trying to turn inside out.

He grits his teeth when he starts to feel really bad again. The taste in his mouth certainly doesn’t help, and neither does the smell of his own sick down his hoodie. He gets to the point where he can’t even swallow his own spit anymore.

Out of complete desperation, he pulls his backpack to his lap and opens it up, hoping and praying he won’t have to actually use it. The feeling in his stomach tells him he won’t be so lucky. A cold drip of dread crawls over his spine, and he hiccups over the bag.

To his complete horror, he feels his stomach coming up. He holds back with every ounce of energy he has, but he retches anyway, spewing pure stomach acid all over his notebooks. Someone a few seats over gets up and leaves, and he doesn’t blame them. A second wave is close behind, washing bitterly over the roof of his mouth.

“Alright, kid, I don’t know what you’re on and I don’t care—you gotta get the hell up out of here,” someone spits.

“M’not—,” he starts, then vomits again.

“I said I don’t care, you’ve got five seconds before I throw you out of here and call the cops.”

The bell above the door chimes just as Peter is heaving up pure bile. He feels seconds away from losing consciousness.

“You heard me, get the hell out.”

“Oh, God. Hey—wait, leave him alone. This one’s mine.”

Peter suddenly feels so many emotions at once that he can’t help but cry again. He’s going home.

“I don’t care who he is, and I don’t care who you are, he’s gotta go.”

“I know, I’ve got him, alright? Give us a minute.”

Tony is suddenly helping him to his feet, and he feels like he’s dreaming. He hardly feels like he’s moving at all, but then he’s in Tony’s car, and he doesn’t know how it happened at all.

“Tony…” he all but whimpers, now aware of the seat warmers and the hand at the back of his head.

“I know, kiddo, I’m so sorry. I’m gonna get you home.”

Hearing those words flips a switch somewhere in the remnants of Peter’s brain, and he folds over onto the console, finally feeling safe. Tony’s taking him home. He’s going to be okay.

—————

A/N: Helloooo again, here’s another! Thank you for reading <3

#iron dad sickfic #peter parker sickfic #marvel sickfic #sickfic #cw vomit #iron dad #hurt/comfort #peter parker

[irondadidontfeelsogood]

cw: vomit

Faking It

—————

Peter squirms in his seat, the AC not nearly cold enough. He’s been sweating from violent nausea for the past half hour, and his stomach is going to kill him. He feels so sick.

“Tony…I know we just stopped and all, but could we please pull over for a little while?”

Tony sighs. “Kid, I told you to use the bathroom.”

“I did, it’s—it’s not that.”

“Alright, then what is it?”

Peter groans, his nausea peaking. He should really tell Tony he’s sick, but he doesn’t feel good enough to speak anymore. His mouth is flooding with watery spit.

“Seriously, kid, we’re not gonna make check-in time at this point.”

Peter shuts up. He’s tired of feeling like a burden. He just curls into himself and looks out the window to the horizon. Maybe that’ll make his stomach stop churning.

He lasts another fifteen minutes, and then he’s pin-straight in his seat, the color draining from his face all at once. His stomach gives an almighty lurch, and he throws up a little in his mouth. He swallows it back.

“Tony, I’m really not feeling good back here,” he chokes out.

“Shit, kid, you get carsick?”

“I don’t know, I just—I think I’m about to throw up.”

Tony swerves his way to the side of the road, but it’s too late. Peter pitches forward, spewing a huge wave of vomit all over his sneakers, his jeans, and the floorboards. By the time the car rolls to a stop, Peter has thrown up three times.

He yanks the door open and all but falls out, vomiting on the grass at the side of the highway right in front of God and everyone. He’s coughing, and retching, and choking, and he’s going to die. He’s sure of it.

By the time his stomach is empty, he’s shaking and seeing stars. He spits, wiping his mouth off on his sleeve. He’s gotta change, anyway.

Tony lets out a string of curses from the drivers seat. Peter’s face burns hot. He turns back toward Tony.

“I’m so sorry,” he nearly sobs, full on exhausted. He wants to go home.

“It’s—it’s fine, kid. Just get in the passengers seat.”

“Okay,” Peter murmurs, thoroughly mortified.

He gets in, stinking like puke, and doesn’t bother buckling himself in. The hotel is only ten minutes away.

The rest of the ride is silent, and though Peter’s stomach feels a lot better, he’s in an awful mood. He’s ruined everything. Instead of going to the conference tomorrow, Tony’s going to have to get his car detailed. Hopefully at Peter’s expense.

They pull up at the hotel, and Tony tells Peter to wait in the car while he checks in so they can just sneak back in through the side and avoid too much attention. Peter obeys, wishing he wasn’t starting to feel nauseous again. By the time Tony comes back out, Peter feels like he’s going to throw up.

He’s quiet as he gets out, being led by a hand on his back. He stares at the floor as they board the elevator, and his eyes stay glued to the floor the whole time until they get in the room.


His stomach turns, and he quickly locks himself in the bathroom, collapsing in front of the toilet. The rest of his lunch comes spilling out noisily. Tony knocks on the door.

“Go away,” Peter chokes out, vomiting again. Tony’s seen him puke enough today.

“I’m just bringing you some clean clothes, kid.”

“Leave them—,” he pukes. “Leave them at the door.”

He’s shaking violently and heaving uncontrollably. He’s not entirely sure his entire stomach isn’t going to fall out. He’s feverish and sore all over.

By the time he can get himself to stop gagging, it’s been ten whole minutes. He uses toilet paper to wipe his mouth and then flushes the toilet, standing on weak legs. He washes his mouth out in the sink.

As requested, Tony left the clean clothes by the door, and once he’s changed, he gathers the courage to face Tony again. His face is burning. It takes everything in him not to get upset.

Tony looks over when he walks in. He’s looking at Peter with pity, and he hates that. He just wants to pretend that none of it ever happened.

“Did that make you feel better?”

He shakes his head slowly, lowering to sit on the mattress. “I’m really sorry I threw up in your car. I should’ve said something sooner.”

“Well, I can’t exactly argue with that second part, but you don’t need to apologize. It’s okay.”

“No, it’s not, you’re gonna miss half the conference tomorrow waiting for someone to clean up my puke.”

Tony laughs a little, but Peter isn’t finding any of this funny at all. Tears sting in his eyes, and when Tony sees them spill over, the smile drops from his face. He sits down next to him and settles a hand on his back.

“Hey, I’m not laughing at you. And as for the car, I’m gonna get it cleaned tonight, okay? Everything will be fine for tomorrow. I really don’t want to leave you alone here sick, though.”

Peter feels a surge of panic in his chest. He wipes at his face. “I’ll be fine, I promise. I think it was just something I ate.”

Saying those words out loud makes his stomach churn. He immediately feels sick again. Round three might be coming on sooner than he hoped. He groans.

“Let’s hope so.”

He lays down on his side, curling into himself. Maybe if he can go to sleep, he’ll avoid throwing up again. The turning in his stomach violently disagrees.

He feels Tony’s weight shift from the bed, and he opens his eyes just a little. Tony rubs a hand over his face and goes to look out the window. Peter hates that he’s ruined this whole thing.

He turns over so that Tony won’t see him cry. He feels like such a burden. He has no idea why he gets sick so often, and always at the worst possible time.

Eventually, he does somehow manage to fall asleep. The only reason he knows is because he wakes up at three in the morning, more nauseous than he can ever remember being. He sits up in the darkness, laying a hand on his stomach and willing it to settle.

When he feels something warm at the back of his throat, he immediately gets out of bed and walks to the bathroom as silently as he manage. The last thing he needs is for Tony to know he’s still not feeling good. That would just make everything worse.

He kneels in front of the toilet and begs whoever will listen to keep him from throwing up. He begs, and prays, and begs some more, and then, he vomits as quietly as he can. There’s only so much he can do.

His stomach aches badly, sore from earlier and pissed at whatever is causing this. He can’t believe he still has anything left to throw up. It’s like he ate an entire meal before the last round and this one.

Finally, he stops retching, and thankfully Tony hasn’t knocked on the door. He makes his way back to bed and lays down, eyeing Tony’s sleeping body in the bed next to his. He feels the smallest bit of relief.

After a while, he manages to get back to sleep. He prays he’ll be better in the morning. It’s all he’s asking.

Unfortunately, when he does wake, it’s not peacefully. His stomach is churning, and his head hurts. He feels like he got hit by a bus, and he knows all too well what that feels like.

Tony is awake and already getting ready to go. That’s a good sign that Peter hasn’t completely ruined everything. A little more relief settles in his chest.

“Hey,” he breathes out.

Tony turns around. “Oh, hey, kid. How are you feeling?”

“A lot better,” he lies, and it’s like karma hits him immediately. His stomach rages like hellfire. “I’m great.”

Tony doesn’t look convinced. He walks over to the foot of Peter’s bed. “You sure? Cause I’m pretty sure people don’t turn green when they’re feeling great.”

“I’m good, I promise.”

“Yeah? You hungry?”

And that just feels mean. It almost makes him drop the act. Almost.

He nods. “Mhm. Do they serve breakfast here?”

Still skeptical, Tony nods slowly. “Wanna go get some before I leave?”

“Yeah,” he breathes out, hating himself entirely.

“Alright, get dressed and we’ll head down.”

“‘kay.”

Peter forces himself out of bed, and the movement of bending over to get clothes out of his suitcase nearly has him projectile vomiting on the floor. He swallows repeatedly, picking a shirt and jeans at random. He goes to the bathroom to change and almost considers trying to sneak and vomit quietly, but he doubts he’ll be able to manage it while Tony’s awake.

He sighs, trying to collect himself before leaving the bathroom. Tony wasn’t lying when he said Peter was green. He looks awful, but there’s nothing he can do about it.

Tony is waiting on him outside. He forces a smile onto his face and follows Tony to the elevator. The small drop it does when the ride begins almost sends him doubling over. He just barely holds himself together.

When they get to the dining area, Peter’s stomach is rolling. He fills up his plate with the lightest food he can find, which isn’t really light at all. He has two pancakes and some eggs, and because Tony is watching him, he grabs some fruit too.

The only thing that seems mildly appealing is the bottle of water he snags before sitting down. He puts on his absolute best act and braves the first pancake. It goes down like wet cement.

Tony is still watching him, probably entirely expecting him to fold at any moment. He refuses. He’s going to get a damn Oscar at this point.

By the time he’s finished, he feels so sick that he could faint. Thankfully, though, he seems to have passed the test. Tony takes him back up to the room.

“Alright. I guess I’m going, but this is your last chance. If you’re half as sick as you look, you better tell me now.”

The temptation to tell the truth hits Peter like a brick, but he’s sticking to the plan. He swallows down the urgent, rising feeling and shakes his head. What a liar.

“I’m okay, Tony. You should leave before you’re late.”

“Shit,” Tony replies, looking at his watch. “You’re right. Okay, call me if you need anything, alright? If you feel sick again, I’ll come back early.”

“Okay. Thank you,” he manages, his stomach pressing hard into his throat.

His stomach is in shreds by the time Tony walks out the door. Suddenly, he’s overwhelmed with the nausea he’s been suppressing all morning, and the room spins. He can’t even turn toward the bathroom before the first gag tears through his throat.

Right there in the middle of the room, Peter bends at the waist and throws up all over the floor. His whole body is shaking, and he can hardly hold himself up. He braces himself on the TV stand and vomits again.

The discomfort of throwing up a meal that has had less than five minutes to digest is indescribable. The effort makes his head spin. He doesn’t stop retching until long after he’s thrown up everything he ate.

He’s still doubled over and panting when he suddenly hears the door click, and his heart pounds in his chest. He looks up to see Tony standing in the doorway with solemn concern on his face. He walks in and closes the door behind him.

“Yeah, I had a feeling that might be about to happen,” he says, taking his coat off. Peter is speechless. He walks over and lays a hand on Peter’s back. “Do you think you’re done?”

Peter nods, straightening up. His stomach still really hurts, but he’s not insanely nauseous anymore. He’s just mortified.

Tony urges him to take his shoes off and then leads him to his bed. He scoots the trash can so that it’s in reach. Peter wilts, his face flushed.

“So, when were you planning on telling me that you’re still sick?”

“…Probably when you got back.”

Tony nods slowly. “Figured as much.”

Tears well up in Peter’s eyes again. He’d tried so hard. “I’m really sorry,” he breathes out.

“I just wish you would’ve been honest with me, kid. Could’ve probably saved the hotel staff some trouble.”

“Sorry,” he repeats, the tears spilling over.

Tony wraps an arm around his shoulders, and he melts into the touch. Everything sucks. He wants to go home.

“I think I’m really sick.”

“Yeah, I’d say so. Considering that,” he replies, gesturing toward the splattered remains of Peter’s breakfast on the floor.

“I just meant that it’s something more than what I ate. I threw up in the middle of the night, too, and I think I have a fever,” he admits. If he’s being honest now, he might as well own up to all of it.

Tony sighs. “Oh, kid…I’m sorry. You should’ve woken me up.”

Peter shakes his head. “I really wanted you to be able to go,” he says quietly, more tears spilling over.

“There’s about a million of these things a year, Peter. It’s okay. Please don’t be upset, it’s not your fault you’re sick.”

Peter stays quiet, not trusting his voice. Tony sits with him for a while, and then he urges him to sleep while he calls Pepper and catches up on some things. Exhausted, Peter obeys, drifting off slowly to the clicking sound of Tony’s keyboard.

—————

A/N: Thank you for reading! Let me know what you think :)

#peter parker sickfic #peter parker #iron dad sickfic #iron dad #marvel sickfic #sickfic #cw vomit #hurt/comfort

[irondadidontfeelsogood]

cw: vomit

The Stomach Bug Sucks

—————

It’s a rainy Tuesday in Queens, and Peter is holed up in the tower. He’s in the library—something he begged Tony for, specifically for days like this. It’s his refuge.

He curls up on the cushioned bench by the bay window and sighs. He wishes Tony were home. He’s not feeling that great, although that’s no surprise. At first, he thinks he just ate way too much for lunch—it wouldn’t be the first time—but then, he figured out that half the school is coming down with a bad stomach bug. They’re dropping like flies. Figures he’d get it the worst since his immune system only lets in the most terrible of illnesses.

He can feel his stomach churning, what was once mild is now bordering on unbearable. In hopes of distracting himself, he grabs a book from the shelf beside him and picks up where he left off. It’s a pretty good book, but he’s not sure he has the stomach for doing anything right now.

He only makes it twenty pages or so before he’s really nauseous, and the words start to blur and droop on the page. He shuts his eyes with a groan, wrapping his arms around his middle. Eventually, he fishes his phone out and dials Tony’s number.

It rings, and rings, and rings, and he’s sent to voicemail. He wilts. When the beep sounds, he’s not sure what to say.

“Um…hey, Tony. I was just, uh, wondering when you’d be home. I’m feeling a little sick kinda. But, um. I’ll be okay. Just give me a call when you’re headed out, I guess. Okay, bye.”

He hangs up and sets his phone down, swallowing carefully. His mouth is starting to water, and that’s never good. It tastes bitter.

He decides to try taking a nap. He lays down and curls on his side, trying not to let the change in position make him heave. He’s really not feeling good right now.

He drifts in and out of sleep for the next half hour, each time waking a little sicker. Eventually, he gives up on sleeping and just lies there groaning every now and then. He thinks that he should get up and drink some water, but his body won’t seem to obey.

The sound of soft rain hitting the window is his only comfort. His stomach begins to really ache, the waves of nausea getting increasingly violent. He sits up when he finds himself unable to swallow back the newest round of spit.

All the color drains from his face, and his stomach lets out an extended growl in warning. He tries several times to swallow back the rising feeling with no success. The nausea suddenly gets so bad that he wants to cry. His heart is pounding, and his whole body starts to shake.

Don’t throw up, don’t throw up, don’t throw up, he internally chants.

He wills himself not to be sick for three more torturous minutes before he’s so violently nauseous that he pitches forward, throwing up a huge, splattering wave of pizza all over the floor. Again, he pukes, twice as much. He sucks in air greedily and vomits again.

The sickening sound of vomit hitting the wet carpet is enough to push him over the edge again. He coughs and retches up his whole lunch right there between his feet. He’s sweating and shaking uncontrollably by the time it’s all over.

He wants Tony to come home so badly. He does finally cry for a while, sobbing over his mess. He doesn’t know how he’s going to clean it up without getting sick again.

The taste in his mouth is enough to finally get him to stand up and head to the kitchen. By the time he gets there, his stomach feels full all over again. It gurgles under his hand, promising a repeat performance.

He gets a glass of water and drinks it with shaking hands. Not even thirty seconds after he’s finished it, he’s rushing to the bathroom with a hand clamped over his mouth. He barely makes it through the door before he throws up on the tile.

His knees hit the ground hard in front of the toilet, and he blows chunks all over the seat. Thankfully, the subsequent waves manage to make it into the toilet. With a safe spot to vomit, he doesn’t hold back.

He throws up on and off for half an hour. He’s sore and shaking, panting over the dirty water. At least he’s not nauseous anymore.

With trembling hands, he grabs a wad of toilet paper and does his best to mop up the vomit by the door and on the seat. Once it’s all up, he uses cleaning wipes to finish the job, and that does make him feel better. At least he was able to clean up one of his messes. He doesn’t think he’ll be able to look at the one upstairs without puking again. Just the thought has him hovering over the water for an extra few minutes.

His stomach is aching as he retreats to the couch, wrapping the throw blanket around himself and feeling his consciousness slip away. The room is mildly spinning as he falls asleep, and he prays he’ll feel better when he wakes up.

Unfortunately, when he wakes up, he’s immediately rushing to the bathroom, half awake. He throws up in the sink, then drops down in front of the toilet and lays his head on the seat, letting the vomit come up whenever his stomach pumps. He’s just so exhausted.

Afterwards, he lays beside the toilet and cries for a while. He must have cried himself to sleep, because he finds himself being woken up gently. He pries his eyes open to see Tony’s hazy figure above him, his face concerned.

“Hey, Pete. I’m really sorry I’m home so late. I didn’t see your call. You okay?”

Peter groans, too tired and nauseous to really speak yet.

“Did you throw up?”

Peter nods.

“Oh, kid, I’m sorry.”

Peter still can’t say anything. He lets out a muffled sob. Tony rubs his back.

“This can’t be comfortable, kiddo. How about we get you to the couch?”

Peter hums, letting Tony help him up and get situated on the couch. By the time they’ve sat there for a couple minutes, Peter feels okay enough to speak.

“M’really sorry, Tony. I puked all over the floor in the library…and in the sink,” he softy admits, cheeks flaming.

“Oh…it’s okay, Peter. I know you didn’t mean to. Are you okay now?” He asks, hand drawing across Peter’s back.

Peter thinks for a minute, feeling his stomach churn lethargically. He still feels way better than before. It’s complicated.

“Dunno…like, half the school has a stomach bug right now, so…probably have that.”

“Sounds like it. I’m sorry, kid, that really sucks.”

“Yeah…”

“You feel up to some water? Maybe a popsicle?”

“Mm…popsicle.”

Tony smiles a little, says okay, and gets up from the couch. Peter tucks himself into the corner beside the armrest and tries to stop shaking.

Tony ends up bringing back a glass of water and a blue popsicle—Peter’s favorite. He thanks him and Tony sits down, grabbing the remote.

“Wanna watch some Star Wars?”

Peter nods, opening up the plastic packaging. The popsicle tastes so good, erasing the taste of vomit from his mouth. Return of the Sith starts to play, and Peter feels comfortable for the first time in hours.

He ends up having a second popsicle, and he’s nearly falling asleep on the couch. He’s in and out of it, missing little sections of the movie here and there. He’s hardly aware of anything at all until suddenly he gets a familiar feeling in the pit of his stomach.

His mouth floods with spit, and nausea rises hot in his throat. He pauses the tv. His breathing gets short.

“You okay?” Tony asks, sounding a little nervous.

Peter shakes his head. “I think I’m gonna throw up.”

Tony’s up in a split second, rushing toward the kitchen and coming back with a trash can just as Peter feels a heave coming on. He gags dryly over the bag, his stomach churning wildly.

He gags again, nauseous as hell. Not even thirty seconds later, he’s retching a stream of blue vomit all over the bag. Tony tells him it’s okay, he’s okay. He throws up again, bright blue.

Eventually, he’s throwing up his breakfast, hot and acidic. It’s disgusting. He’s shaking all over again.

It takes him ten minutes to stop barfing, and another three to stop dry heaving. Finally, he pushes the bin away. Tony keeps rubbing his back and offers him some water.

He thanks him quietly and takes a small sip, grateful for getting the taste out of his mouth. A chill runs over him. He groans softly.

“I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to apologize, kid. Guess you weren’t quite ready for all that sugar.”

Peter shakes his head and takes another sip. His stomach starts to settle. He’s spent.

“M’really tired, Tony,” he murmurs, eyes falling shut. He curls as close as he can to the arm of the couch and feels Tony draw the blanket further up his shoulder.

“That’s okay, kid. Go ahead and get some rest. Feel better.”

Peter hums, darkness closing in around the edges of his vision. He falls asleep in under a minute, Star Wars playing softly around him.

—————

A/N: Here’s a soft one. Hope you’re having a good day/night!

#peter parker sickfic #marvel sickfic #sickfic #tony stark #peter parker #cw vomit #iron dad #iron dad sickfic

[irondadidontfeelsogood]

cw: vomit

All The Poison in Your Veins

—————

Peter follows Tony around the convocation center for a while, but that gets boring fast. He spends some time around the catering table and people watches. It’d be a lot more interesting if everyone here wasn’t trying to act the same.

Eventually, he tires of that too, and he goes back into the crowd to try and find Tony. Someone bumps in to him, and for some reason, he apologizes. They don’t.

He brushes it off and keeps walking. A server approaches him with a platter of drinks and doesn’t ID him. He figures, what the hell, he’s trapped here for another two hours, what’s one drink going to hurt?

He takes it with a quiet thanks and starts sipping, continuing on with his mission. The liquid burns his throat quite a lot, but that’s to be expected with alcohol, so he tries not to mind it. It’s flat and doesn’t taste very good. Even so, he finishes it and tosses the plastic into the trash.

He wipes his mouth and spots Tony about thirty feet away. He grabs another brownie from the table as he approaches him. It’s another eye-roll inducing conversation, so he’s mostly tuned out. He’s just watching Tony try to hold back his cringing.

He stands there for a while, finishing his brownie and then just people watching from within the crowd this time. A few minutes go by, and then something strange happens. Peter is hit with a sudden intense wave of vertigo, followed up by blooming nausea. Weird.

He swallows back the spit that’s formed in his mouth and tries to recenter himself. He realizes the burning in his chest and throat is still there. It’s actually getting worse. His stomach starts really turning, and suddenly, he’s feeling very ill. Like, hospital level ill.

He feels the color drain from his face as his stomach cramps and churns, forcing him to sit at a nearby table. Waves of nausea roll over him, each one worse than the last. He’s started to sweat all over, and he can’t keep himself from shaking.

He swallows repeatedly, trying to keep his dinner at bay. It doesn’t feel like it’s working. He’s really dizzy as he stands up and approaches Tony. The pain is getting worse.

“Tony,” he manages, barely holding back a gag. “Tony.”

Tony turns around, with an absent, “What is it?” When he sees Peter, his face falls. Immediately, he’s trying to get Peter’s gaze to meet his. It’s really hard when everything is spinning so much and beginning to turn hazy.

“Tony, I don’t feel good,” he slurs, mouth fuzzy and ears ringing. “I think I’m gonna be sick.”

“Come here,” Tony replies, leading him away. Peter can barely keep from tripping over his own feet.

By some miracle, they make it to the bathroom, and he collapses in front of the toilet. His stomach is churning violently, the room spinning tauntingly around him. His head is pounding, and his whole body hurts.

Almost immediately, he spews up a giant wave of vomit, splattering the seat and the back of the toilet. He tries to aim better, throwing up on the back of the bowl next. Tony’s rubbing his back, so he knows he’s right there, but his voice sounds so far away.

He’s burping and choking up so much food that he’s sure he’s throwing up his breakfast by now. The thing is, it’s not making him feel any better. If anything, the burning is just getting worse.

He retches again, violent and loud, getting even more lightheaded from the effort. He’s shaking all over. Just when he’s beginning to think that he’s done, the nausea starts anew, and he’s hurling like there’s no tomorrow. He can hardly catch his breath.

It’s about three minutes later when he starts to taste blood. He’s in so much pain. Tony sounds like he’s five rooms over.

When the heaving starts to subside, he feels his nose running and wipes it. His hand comes back bloody. His heart starts racing, and tears spill over onto his cheeks.

“Tony, wha’shappening?”

“I—I don’t know, kid, I’m calling Cho, okay? Are you done throwing up?” He nods weakly. “Can you stand?”

“I don’ know,” he weeps, still unable to stop shaking.

He wipes at his nose again, and there’s so much blood that he nearly vomits again. Tony hauls him up to his feet, and he hands him a wad of toilet paper. Peter holds it to his nose, and they leave the bathroom.

Peter can hardly see at all now, it’s all just blurred colors and shapes. His head is reeling. The toilet paper is almost already soaked.

He can feel his heart start to beat out of rhythm, and that’s when he gets really terrified. Is he dying? What is this?

Tony gets him to the car somehow, and Peter is in shambles. He’s sobbing and bleeding, and two minutes into their drive, he throws up all over himself. There’s blood there, too.

Tony has never driven faster. It does nothing to help Peter’s stomach, but he guesses there probably isn’t anything that would help right now. He can’t stop puking to literally save his life.

When Peter sees the compound in the distance, he feels himself start to go. He holds on for as long as he can, but he’s unconscious before they reach the driveway. Everything goes black. The searing pain is gone.

The next thing he’s aware of is hands on him. He thinks maybe he’s just gotten sick again. He can’t open his eyes, no matter how hard Tony is begging him to. He’s out again.

Some time later, he cracks his eyes open just barely, and the lights are way too bright. He feels a little better, but not well enough to stay conscious for more than a minute. More darkness.

The next time he wakes is more peaceful. He actually feels fine, and the room is dimmed. Maybe the sun just went down. He knows he’s in the med bay, but he can’t remember why. He’s connected to an IV and a heart monitor. With no one around, he stays awake for twenty more minutes, and then goes to sleep voluntarily this time.

The fourth time he wakes, Tony is by his bed. Instantly, he’s at his side. His hand brushes over Peter’s hair.

“Hey, kiddo,” he greets. “How do you feel?”

“Mm…fine, I think. Why am I here?”

Tony sighs and scoots a chair over to sit by him. He looks down at the bed for a minute. He pales a little. Now Peter is nervous.

“What’s the last thing you remember?”

Peter has to think about it for a minute. “Um…people watching at the gala. I went to the catering table…someone offered me a drink.”

“Please never take drinks from anyone again,” Tony breathes out. “Ever.”

“Okay. But, um…what happened?”

Tony sighs again. “Peter…I don’t know why, and we already caught who did it, but someone poisoned your drink.”

“Poisoned??”

“Yes. The guy’s a total stranger, probably just some freak that didn’t think you’d be right next to me when it started to take effect. But it did a number on you. I don’t think you remember, but you were vomiting nonstop for probably half an hour. You were bleeding from nearly every hole in your head.”

Peter pales. His stomach doesn’t feel very good all of a sudden.

“You passed out, and thank God Cho was able to identify the toxin in your bloodstream and figure out a way to flush it out.”

Peter’s heart is pounding. Who would want to poison him? What did he do to deserve that? Will someone else try the same thing?

Peter feels sick. He’s totally going to puke. Tony must recognize the look on his face, because he hands him an emesis bag from the cart beside them. Peter takes it with shaking hands.

Tony rubs his back while he vomits pure stomach acid into the bag. It’s not too much, but it’s enough to make Tony worried again.

“FRIDAY, call Cho back in here, tell her Peter’s throwing up.”

“I think I’m fine I just—,” he throws up. “I’m just scared.”

Tony rubs his back some more. “I understand that, kiddo, I’m sorry. I should’ve given you some more time before I laid it all out. But the guy is in prison and not getting out anytime soon, so you’re okay.”

That’s a little relieving, but he has no idea how it happened so fast. He suddenly realizes he has no idea how long it’s been. He finishes vomiting and pushes the bag away.

“How long have I been in here?”

“A little over two days.”

“Two days?”

“Yeah, kid. It took a while to draw the poison out of your system and get you hydrated again. You were exhausted, understandably.”

“Oh…okay.”

“You’re alright.”

Cho walks in, smiling when she sees Peter awake.

“Hey, sweetheart. Are you feeling okay?”

“Yeah, um. I only threw up because I was scared about what happened.”

“I know it’s a lot to take in, Peter. What matters now is that you’re safe and getting the rest you need. Is there anything I can get for you?”

“Maybe some water?”

“Sure, Peter. Anything for you?” she asks Tony.

“Coffee if you have it?”

“Of course. I’ll be right back.”

“Thank you,” Peter says as she turns to leave. His gaze settles back on Tony. He looks like he’s aged a lot in these past two days. “I’m sorry I scared you. I didn’t know something like that could happen at a private event.”

“Me either, but some people are sick. Beyond help, probably. And don’t apologize, we just have to be really careful going forward, okay?”

Peter nods, still cloaked in shame. How could he have been so stupid? His guard was completely down.

He tries to remind himself that there’s no way he could’ve known. He also reminds himself that the guy is locked up, no where near able to do something like that again. He feels himself settle a bit.

“When can I leave here?”

Tony leans forward in his seat. “Cho still has to run a few tests to make sure the toxin isn’t in your system anymore. We need to see how your vitals are for a little bit longer, but then you should be good to go.”

“Okay,” Peter breathes out. He can handle that.

“For now, just try to get as much rest as you can, okay? I’ll stay close.”

Peter nods, realizing just how exhausted their rather short exchange has made him. He relaxes against his pillow and lets his eyes shut, glad he has Tony there. He doesn’t want to think about what would’ve happened if he didn’t.

With the hope of things returning to normal, he lets himself relax. Sleep takes him slowly into another dreamless sleep before Cho can return. He’s safe.

————

A/N: Anotha one. Thanks for reading! Prepare for more :)

#iron dad #iron man #marvel sickfic #sickfic #cw vomit #poisoning #vomit #peter parker sickfic #peter parker #hurt/comfort

[irondadidontfeelsogood]

cw: this is a long and self-indulgent sickfic, so if that’s not your jam, scroll on and have a good day! if it is, boy do i have a treat for you—enjoy

——————

No More Flights—Ever.

Peter’s putting on his best act to seem unfazed by being on the jet, but Tony knows him well enough to know he’s hardly hanging on. It’s barely perceptible, but he’s shaking all over, and he’s white as snow. He’s sweating through his t-shirt, and if the kid so much as blinks once, tears are going to start streaming down his face.

They’d had a conversation a few months earlier about how his parents had passed, and Peter assured him that he’d be fine on a plane, that he was so young when it happened that it wouldn’t affect him. Tony wishes he’d called his bluff. That would be infinitely better than watching the kid suffer on what’s sure to be over a seven hour flight, not to mention the matching trip back home.

Tony keeps a close eye on him, especially when they start to hit mild turbulence. Peter had fallen asleep for all of four minutes before they hit the first patch, and he woke so abruptly that he had to catch his breath. Tony was by his side in an instant.

“Everything’s fine, kiddo, it’s just some turbulence. We’re gonna be okay.” Peter nods, swallowing. “You want some water?” Another nod.

Tony gets up and retrieves a bottle of water, bringing it back to the poor kid. He sits with him as he drinks a little over half of it and then screws the cap back on. Tony doesn’t miss the way his hands shake.

After that, Peter has a much harder time of going back to sleep, but he eventually manages it. Tony relaxes just a little. Hopefully the kid will sleep through the majority of the flight. Tony wishes he’d brought some Xanax or something. Oh well, next time.

A little over two hours goes by peacefully, but then Tony is woken from his own slumber from a particularly violent patch of turbulence. Peter is already awake beside him, grey in the face and breathing erratically. He looks like he’s going to pass out.

“Hey—hey, kid, it’s okay. It’s totally okay. We’re fine. Breathe,” he urges, a hand on Peter’s chest.

The tears in Peter’s eyes spill over fast, streaming down his face in twos and threes. He’s breathing so hard that he’s wheezing, and his eyes are wild and grieving. His face somehow actually goes green.

The plane jolts again, even worse. Peter breathes out a sob, clutching his seat with all he has. Tony tries to redirect his attention.

“Kid, I need you to look at me, can you do that?”

Peter briefly glances at him, but then his eyes shut tight, and he weeps. The minor shaking from before has become full-body tremors, and he can barely wipe his own tears. The cries coming from him don’t sound like the kid he knows at all. They’re pained and terrified, everything Tony has never wanted to hear from him. The worst part is that he can’t do anything about it.

“Peter, everything is okay, remember the jell-o thing? We’re not going anywhere, kid. I’m right here, you’re okay.”

“Tony, I—I don’t want to die,” he sobs, having a full-on panic attack now. “Please, I don’t want to die, I’m not even seventeen, I’m not ready.”

Tony’s heart breaks. “You’re not gonna die, Peter, no one’s going to die, okay? I promise. Please take a deep breath. Drink some more water.”

Peter does neither of those things, completely disoriented from sheer panic. He’s pouring sweat and tears, heaving sobs and coughing from crying so hard. Tony’s worried he’s not getting enough oxygen.

He’s just about to pull Peter’s oxygen mask down when the kid presses both of his hands to his mouth and retches. Tony can’t even think about grabbing an airsickness bag before Peter gags again, spewing vomit from between his fingers. He moves his hands, choking just before he throws up a massive gush of puke all over himself and the floor.

“Oh, kid…it’s okay. You’re gonna be okay,” he attempts to soothe, but the kid has gone off the deep end and is barely treading water.

He pitches forward again and blows chunks all over the seat in front of him. If he was pale before, it was nothing compared to now. He throws up again.

For some reason, it clicks in that moment to grab a barf bag, and once it’s open, he holds it over Peter’s mouth. He can feel the weight of Peter’s stomach contents pouring into the bag. It turns his own stomach, but he has to keep it together for the kid.

He curses Peter’s enhanced metabolism for causing him to stuff his face before they boarded, because the amount that the kid is puking can’t be scientifically possible. By the time it’s all over, Peter has filled two and a half bags, plus whatever he lost to the floor and his lap. Tony can’t believe what a colossal trauma he’s put this innocent kid through.

He’s panting and shaking, seemingly paralyzed otherwise. He’s probably in shock. The plane has stopped jolting, but Peter isn’t recovering visibly by any means.

“You’re okay. You’re doing good, Peter. It’s over now.”

It takes a few more minutes for the kid to even blink, sending more tears rolling down his cheeks. When Tony offers him napkins, he doesn’t respond. Like the dad he’s slowly becoming, he wipes the puke from Peter’s face and hands.

He goes over to Peter’s luggage and digs out some clean clothes, bringing them back to him. He looks awful. Tony worries he might be sick again.

Tony gives him all the time and patience he can. It’s over thirty minutes before Peter’s eyes seem to tune back into his surroundings. He blinks a few times and looks down, groaning lowly when he sees the mess.

“Fuck…,” he finally breathes out. Tony has never heard him curse before. “I’m…I am so sorry.”

“No need to apologize, kid. It’s okay that you threw up, I understand.”

“I’m so sorry,” he repeats again, more tears spilling over.

Tony doesn’t care if he gets puke on his shirt, he leans over and wraps the kid up in his arms tightly. Peter holds him back tighter. He sobs and sobs, his body still shaking.

Tony rubs his back and repeatedly tells him everything’s alright, but he’s not sure how much of a help he’s being. Eventually, he pulls back, heart aching as he sees Peter’s face again. He looks awful, like he’s actually sick.

“I got you some clean clothes, okay? Right there,” he says, pointing at the pile on the aisle across from them.

“Thank you,” Peter breathes out, standing weakly.

Tony looks away while the kid gets changed, and then they switch seats to another row. While Peter tries to fall asleep again, Tony gets up to clean as much of the mess as he can. It’s a lot.

When he returns, Peter is still awake, pale as ever with dark, sunken circles under his eyes. Tony rubs his back some more, wishing there were something substantial he could do for him. He wishes they had never left New York.

They hit the smallest patch of turbulence yet, and Peter blanches. He grips his seat again and looks at Tony desperately.

“Please let me off this thing,” he begs, voice broken.

“Trust me, kid, I really wish I could.”

Another jolt.

“I’m gonna be sick,” he chokes out, and Tony has never moved faster in his life.

He opens a new bag and gives it to Peter. He takes it with shaking hands, and Tony loses all hope of a false alarm when he sees watery spit dripping from Peter’s mouth. Not even five seconds goes by after that before he hurls into the bag. Tony rubs his back again.

He coughs, and burps, and gags, and every time he does, a little more comes up. It sounds awful. The poor kid must feel like shit.

When it finally seems to be over, Peter gently pushes the bag away, swallowing thickly. Tony rubs his back a little more. Peter apologizes softly. Tony tells him it’s okay.

He winds down again after about thirty minutes, and Tony disposes of the bags. He can’t seem to relax anymore, sure that Peter could wake up sick again at any moment. He alternates between looking at his phone and the kid, thankful for each moment of peace that they manage to have.

There’s about two and a half hours left on the flight, so Tony prays that Peter stays asleep. His heart drops when they hit another wave of turbulence, but Peter is so deep in sleep that he doesn’t wake. Thank God. Being sick must have made him exhausted.

Another half hour goes by without incident, and Tony feels himself starting to drift off. After jolting awake a few times, he’s out. He dreams of nothing in particular.

He wakes to a hand on his shoulder, and when he blinks his eyes open to see Peter standing beside him, he’s suddenly much more awake. He sits up straighter and clears his throat. When he gets a good look at the kid, he’s worried again. Peter looks sick to say the least.

“Hey, Pete, I’m sorry I fell asleep. Are you okay?”

“Um…we—there was some turbulence,” he manages, his voice nearly gone.

“I’m really sorry, kiddo. I didn’t know it would be so stormy today. Try not to worry about the turbulence, though, we’ve made it through the worst of it, and we’re okay.”

Peter nods, but he looks far from okay. He sits down beside Tony.

“How much longer?”

“Uh…,” he breathes out, looking at his phone. “Just about an hour. Not so bad.”

“Okay,” he says, voice small.

“Wanna try watching some TV or going back to sleep?”

“Can’t sleep.”

“Alright, let’s see what we’ve got here,” Tony says, pulling up the menu. There’s a few cooking shows, but he doubts Peter’s stomach is ready for that. There’s also wipeout and Judge Judy, and that’s what Peter ends up choosing. It makes Tony laugh a little, but then they’re both invested.

Tony still keeps a close eye on him, and he can tell Peter isn’t comfortable. He must not be feeling all that well. Hopefully they’ll avoid another round of vomiting.

And that they do. The landing is a little rough, and Peter goes pale again. Tony’s ready to grab the puke bags in an instant, but he doesn’t seem to be in vomit territory, at least not yet.

He’s never been happier to get off a jet in his life. He’s sure Peter is feeling the same way. He’s still shaking as they gather their luggage and head for the taxi.

He’s silent the whole ride to the hotel, and silent as they check into their room. He grabs a water out of the mini fridge and sips at it before crawling into bed. He looks so small.

They’d planned on exploring the city when they landed, but Tony expects that Peter’s not feeling up to it. Maybe tomorrow. As of now, he’s still looking decidedly green and withdrawn.

“Wanna keep watching?” Tony asks, turning on the TV. Peter gives a small nod and takes another sip.

They only manage to make it about five minutes into the episode before Peter speaks up.

“Tony…”

“Yeah?”

He says something, but it’s so quiet that Tony misses it. It’s a little dark, but he swears he sees tears on the kid’s face. His heart shatters.

“Sorry, kid, I couldn’t hear you. What was that?”

“Can you pause it?”

“Yeah, you okay?”

“Um…I don’t know. I think I might throw up.”

“Oh, kiddo…again?”

In lieu of an answer, he shucks off his blankets and gets up from the bed with a hand on his stomach. Tony gets up next, following him into the bathroom. Peter lowers to the floor in front of the toilet, and sure enough, watery spit is dripping from his mouth. Tony sits on the edge of the bathtub and lays a hand on his back.

Peter is visibly nauseous for the next five minutes, burping and swallowing repeatedly. He moans, draping himself over the toilet. Normally, Tony would find that gross, but he understands that the kid must be completely spent.

Just as Tony begins to wonder if it’s a false alarm, Peter’s back lurches under his hand, and he hears vomit hit the water. Tony’s heart clenches. He hates seeing him like this.

Peter throws up again, all water and bile. The shaking comes back. He’s not bringing up much apart from the first wave, but he’s retching pretty violently.

It takes a while for the gagging to turn to hiccuping and then slow to a stop. He wipes his mouth and flushes the toilet. When he turns to Tony, his eyes are flooded with tears.

“I’m so sorry, Peter. Do you think you’re actually sick?”

He shakes his head and crumbles, his head falling to his knees. His breath hitches with quiet sobs. Tony lays a hand on his shoulder.

“I…I’m sorry, I just—I keep thinking about my parents, and how I felt on the jet. I can’t imagine how scared they must have been when they realized what was going to happen,” he breathes out. “They were probably terrified, it makes me sick to think about it,” he all but weeps.

“I’ve heard people talk about their near death experiences and say they felt complete peace before they went. I’ll bet they were scared at first, but I think once they knew, it was suddenly okay.”

“I hope so,” he murmurs softly, wiping at his face. Then, “I miss my mom,” he sobs, breaking right in front of Tony’s eyes.

Tony gets down on the floor beside him and holds him silently while he cries. Several minutes go by, and then Peter suddenly tenses, and an awful noise comes from his mouth. He pulls away.

Tony watches helplessly as Peter throws up a mouthful of stringy vomit into his hand, lurching toward the toilet to let it spill out. He coughs a few times, emptying his stomach for the fourth time today. Tony’s so out of his depth here.

Still, he sits with Peter until he apologizes and says he’s done. Tony helps him to the sink to wash up and then get back to bed. Peter’s tremors are slowly dying down.

Tony puts a trash can next to his bed just in case, and encourages him to take a few more sips of water. The last thing they need is for him to get dehydrated. He already feels bad enough.

Peter obeys, and then they go back to watching Judge Judy. Peter is asleep in under two minutes. Tony can’t get to sleep for another four hours. What the kid said was so heartbreaking, and it won’t stop echoing in his mind.

By the morning, Tony considers it a miracle that he wasn’t woken by a sick Peter. In fact, he’s still sleeping peacefully. Tony thinks about waking him before breakfast ends downstairs, but he’s not sure how his stomach would feel, and he figures he needs all the sleep he can get for today.

That turns out to be about another hour. While he’s asleep, Tony watches some more Judge Judy, silently cursing the kid for actually getting him interested in this show. He can’t help but laugh at himself.

When Peter stirs in the bed beside his, he pauses the TV. He watches with a bit of anxiety as he rolls over with a low groan. Hopefully he doesn’t feel as bad as he sounds.

He blinks his eyes open and they settle on Tony. “Hey, kid. How are you feeling?” he asks, sitting on the edge of his bed.

“M’okay…but my mouth tastes like puke.”

“I’m sorry. You want some water?”

“Please.”

Tony gets up and retrieves a water from the mini fridge, bringing it to him. “Sit up a little.”

Peter obeys, taking the water and drinking just a few sips. Tony hopes that isn’t a sign that he’s feeling bad. Hopefully he would tell Tony the truth at this point.

“You excited for today?”

Peter nods, a smile spreading across his face. “Only waited a year for this.”

“I think it’ll be worth it.”

“Well, I don’t know about the flight over, but hopefully.”

“Again, I’m really sorry, kid. If we could swim back to America, I’d do it in a heartbeat.”

“Might consider it.”

He laughs, but Tony can sense the nervousness in it. He lays a hand on his shoulder and squeezes. Peter drinks a little more water.

“Alright, so we should probably head out in a few minutes. Think you can be ready?”

Peter nods, sitting all the way up and standing from bed. Tony heads to the bathroom to get ready while Peter gets ready in their room. He goes over what they’ll do, and tries to think about ways to make it even better for Peter after their rough day and night yesterday.

When they’re both ready, they head down to the lobby and out to the train station. He hopes sincerely that part of Peter’s problem isn’t motion sickness in general. That wouldn’t be a great start to the day.

Thankfully, they make it through the ride without incident, and by the time they arrive to the convention, Peter is alight with excitement. He’s looking around with bright eyes and a wide smile, yesterday all but forgotten about. Tony’s heart grows warm.

They head straight for Peter’s favorite scientist, Alain Aspect, a major leader of research in quantum entanglement. Peter’s whole face lights up, and Tony could swear he’s trembling. He goes straight up to Alain and shakes his hand, telling him how amazing it is to meet him, how he has so many questions.

Alain feeds off his energy and gives him a big smile. He entertains Peter’s every question, loving and complimenting Peter’s brilliant mind. He can’t believe he’s only sixteen.

They spend a good amount of time there, and Peter’s enthusiasm never wanes. Eventually, someone else walks up, and Peter gives them a chance. After that, they visit several other booths and meet more physicists, biologists, and astrophysicists. Tony loves watching the kid soak everything in. They don’t even stop for lunch.

He surprises Peter with an exclusive panel with the board of directors for NASA. The kid almost bursts, thanking Tony repeatedly and very nearly crying. He’s on the edge of his seat the entire time, even being selected to ask a question toward the end.

He’s still buzzing by the time it’s all over. He’s blabbering about all of it as they leave, going to explore the city as they planned to do yesterday. They stop at a nice restaurant for dinner, and the food is amazing. Peter is back to his old self, downing more food than Tony can ever imagine eating himself.

He doesn’t even stop talking for the whole ride back to the hotel and even as they enter their room. Tony is thoroughly enjoying all of it despite his usual tiring of Peter’s rants. It can be a little much sometimes. Tonight, he’s more relieved than anything.

They go to sleep easily with Judge Judy on softly in the background again. Sleep comes with no disturbances. The night is a good one.

When Tony wakes to his alarm, he groans, stretching. He cracks his eyes open and looks over at Peter. He’s already awake, sitting up in bed with his knees to his chest. He looks pretty terrible. Tony’s heart sinks. He was afraid of this.

Their flight back home is this morning, and neither of them are looking forward to it in the slightest. They’re silent for most of the morning. Peter gets ready sluggishly and refuses to eat breakfast.

“Kiddo, if airsickness has anything to do with it, that’s going to make it worse.”

Peter wilts. “I’m really not hungry.”

“Doesn’t have to be much, just something small. Okay?”

“…Okay.”

They had down to the dining area of the hotel and grab some food. Peter only puts a plain croissant and some fruit on his plate. Tony figures that’ll be okay.

They eat in silence. Tony wonders if there’s anything he can do for him, and then he remembers a medication Bruce used to have to take for long rides on the quinjet. It started with a D.

He pulls out his phone and starts to research. He finds it quickly—Dramamine. It’s sold at regular corner stores, so he plans to stop there before they leave.

When they head out to the train station, he drops by somewhere called Puls Apotek and buys some Dramamine. He hands one to Peter with a bottle of water and tells him it’ll help with his nausea, and then they board the train to the airport. Tony doesn’t miss the way Peter is restless, nervously fidgeting the whole way there.

When they arrive, Tony’s private jet is right there waiting for them. It’s had a good cleaning and been restocked with everything they need. Peter looks up at the jet with mild horror and lots of dread, as does Tony. He braces himself for the worst.

Hopefully the medicine has enough time to kick in before takeoff. Peter is already pale, sitting down beside Tony with his eyes shut. He swallows a few times in a row.

“Pete? You wanna try watching some Judge Judy to take your mind off of things?”

“…Okay,” he breathes out, voice weak.

About an episode in, Peter goes sharply downhill. Tony could swear he hears him whimper. When he looks at Peter, his face is grey with an awful yellow tinge, and sweat is beading across his forehead. He reaches in front of him to grab an airsickness bag.

“Oh, kid…it’ll be okay.”

Peter shakes his head just a little. He swallows with effort. Tony was really hoping they’d make it through this without Peter getting sick.

“I think…the medicine is making me really dizzy,” he breathes out.

“What? That makes no sense. Anti-nausea meds shouldn’t make you dizzy.”

“I don’t know…I didn’t feel like this before.”

Tony digs through his carry-on and finds the bottle. Sure enough, the warning label mentions drowsiness and dizziness as possible size effects. Tony inwardly smacks himself.

“I’m so sorry, Peter. I had no idea.”

“It’s okay. Like you said, that shouldn’t even happen. It’s not your fault,” he manages, but Tony can hear the nausea in his voice.

As if the universe is playing some sort of cruel joke on them, the cabin starts to jerk with turbulence. Peter lets out a string of curses under his breath. He goes completely pale, draping an arm across his stomach. The other is gripping the sick bag tight to his chest.

“Remember what I said, okay? We were fine before, and we’re going to be fine now. I promise, kiddo.”

The words seem to have no effect on Peter. For all intents and purposes, Peter is lost to the world. His breathing picks up. The jet jolts again.

Peter lets out a quiet sob. Tony starts to rub his back, repeating that it’s okay. It’s all he can do. He hates that.

The turbulence doesn’t stop, and a minute later, Peter pitches forward with a half-gag, swallowing down the impending vomit before it reaches his mouth. This happens a couple more times, like he’s fighting for his life.

“Don’t hurt yourself, kid. If you need to throw up, don’t try to fight it. It’s okay.”

“I don’t want to,” he chokes out.

It happens again. And then again. Peter’s stomach makes an awful noise each time its contents angrily return.

“Peter.”

“I’m—trying really hard not to puke, okay? Just give me…give me a second.”

His eyes shut, and he starts taking measured breaths. Tony’s never seen him look so sick before, not even on the flight over. He hates it.

Despite his best efforts, only about three more minutes go by before he’s unable to swallow back his stomach. He lurches forward, vomiting violently into the bag. Then, again.

“There you go, kid. You’re gonna be alright.”

Tony rubs his back as he loses his hard-fought breakfast into the plastic. The effort of holding everything down has made the release much more intense, and he’s filled the first bag in no time. Tony already has another one ready.

He’s completely doubled over in his seat, panting into the bag between heaves. He’s shaking like a leaf and sweating through his t-shirt. The retching doesn’t stop for several minutes.

When it seems to slow to a stop, he’s drained completely. He stays folded over himself. The only sign that he’s conscious is that his eyes are open, blinking tears of exertion and anxiety down his cheeks.

Just as Tony thinks it’s over, he hears what he can only imagine is the rest of Peter’s stomach contents retreating from their rightful place. Sure enough, not even a minute goes by before Peter starts throwing up last night’s dinner. Poor kid.

He vomits over and over, to the point where Tony fears he’s going to pass out from the effort of heaving. He loses everything he ate. It’s several minutes before he pushes away the third bag.

He looks traumatized to say the least. Tony is heartbroken. This was supposed to be a great weekend, and now the kid’s been properly wrung out four times.

“I’m really sorry, Peter. If I had half a brain, I would have reconsidered this whole thing.”

Peter shakes his head. “No…no, I had a really great time yesterday. You couldn’t have prevented this any more than I could’ve.” His voice is wrecked. “It’s okay.”

“I just hate seeing you sick. I hate it so much.”

“Being sick isn’t that great for me, either, but I’ll live. I’m sorry you had to see all of it.”

“You don’t owe me an apology, Pete. I just wish you felt better.”

“Me too.”

After that, Tony gets rid of the bags, and they return to watching TV. It’s a welcome distraction. Tony had forgotten about the drowsiness side effect, but not even five minutes later, Peter is knocked out beside him.

Tony drapes his jacket over Peter’s lap and watches him for a minute. He’s got some of the color back in his face, and Tony feels a little better at seeing that.

He watches Judge Judy until he drifts off himself, praying that the flight will be over by the time they wake.

—————

A/N: Thank you for reading! I have so many stories built up over the years, so if anyone is interested, let me know! Take care :)

#sickfic #sick #iron dad #peter parker #iron man #tony stark #spiderman #cw vomit #marvel sickfic #hurt/comfort