Archive of Our Own ^beta

The thing about Peter is that he’s got this freakish healing factor, which sounds great in theory—bounce back from injuries faster, shake off bruises like they’re nothing. The problem? His body goes into overdrive when he’s hurt, and that leaves him a lot more vulnerable than he lets on.

Take this latest mission, for example. We’re out dealing with a group of enhanced mercenaries, and Peter—being Peter—throws himself right into the thick of it. Kid’s swinging around, webbing bad guys, doing his thing, but then one of them catches him off guard. I’m too far away to do anything when it happens. Peter gets slammed into a wall so hard that the whole building shakes. By the time I get to him, he’s already dragging himself to his feet, insisting he’s fine. “Just a scratch, Mr. Stark. I’ll walk it off.”

I scan him anyway. Broken ribs, internal bleeding, a concussion. You know, just a scratch.

We get back to the compound, and Peter’s healing kicks in right away. Bruce checks him out, says his body is patching itself up faster than normal—which, for Peter, is really fast. But the kid’s worn out. His body’s burning through every bit of energy it has, and that kind of repair work leaves him wiped.

And more than a little vulnerable.

I tell him to take it easy, rest up, and he does. For once, Peter actually listens. He crashes in his room in the compound, sleeping off the worst of it while the rest of us debrief. I figure he’s good—he’ll bounce back like always. Kid’s tough.

But the next morning, things go sideways.

I’m sitting in the kitchen, nursing a cup of coffee, and the team’s starting to trickle in for breakfast. Peter shuffles in last, looking… off. His hair’s a mess, his eyes are bloodshot, and he’s pale—like, really pale. He mumbles a quick “Good morning” and slides into a chair, staring down at his plate of scrambled eggs like it’s some kind of puzzle he can’t figure out.

“Morning, Pete,” I say, glancing up from my tablet. “How’re you feeling?”

“Uh… good. I think,” he says, but his voice sounds a little hoarse.

I narrow my eyes at him. The kid looks like he hasn’t slept in days, but before I can call him out on it, he takes a forkful of eggs and—without warning—faceplants right into his plate.

There’s a second of dead silence as everyone processes what just happened. Peter’s head is literally resting in his scrambled eggs, completely limp.

“Peter?” Steve’s the first one to react, getting up from his chair and moving toward him.

I’m already out of my seat, crossing the kitchen in record time. “Kid, you with us?”

Peter doesn’t respond. He’s out cold.

“Damn it,” I mutter, crouching down beside him and pressing two fingers to his neck. His pulse is racing, but his skin’s burning hot. Too hot.

“Bruce!” I shout, but he’s already on his way, moving quickly across the room. Steve helps me lift Peter’s head off the table, and there’s scrambled egg stuck to his cheek. Not exactly the most dignified look for an avenger.

Bruce kneels next to us, pulling out his scanner. “What happened?”

“He just passed out,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady, but my mind’s already racing. “He said he was fine, but look at him.”

Bruce frowns as he reads the results. “104 degrees,” he says, his voice grim. “His body’s working overtime, and his immune system is compromised. He’s picked up some kind of infection.”

Of course he has. Kid’s got the healing factor of a comic book character, but that doesn’t mean he’s invincible. His body’s vulnerable right now—more than he probably realized.

“We need to get him cooled down, fast,” Bruce continues, already switching gears into full doctor mode. “His fever’s too high. I’ll grab the med kit.”

Steve helps me lift Peter from the chair, and I can feel the heat radiating off him like a furnace. He’s barely conscious, his head lolling forward, mumbling incoherently. Something about Aunt May, and not being late for school.

“No school buddy,” I mutter, trying to keep my voice light even though I’m anything but. “You’re not going anywhere except to the med bay, alright?”

Peter doesn’t respond, his eyes fluttering shut again as we carry him down the hall. By the time we get him onto a bed, Bruce is already there with cooling packs and meds, trying to bring his temperature down. Peter’s shivering now, despite the heat pouring off him, and I’ve got this knot in my chest that won’t go away.

“Why didn’t he say anything?” I mutter under my breath, pacing the room as Bruce works. “Not a single word when I asked him this morning.”

Natasha, who’s standing by the door with her arms crossed, raises an eyebrow. “He’s Peter. Probably thought–well I don’t know what he was thinking. But clearly he didn’t want anyone to know.”

I stop pacing long enough to shoot her a look. “Yeah, well, that was a dumb call.”

She just shrugs. “He’s like–what, 16?He’s got the powers of a spider but the common sense of a teenager.”

I can’t argue with that.

Bruce finishes applying the cooling packs and checks Peter’s vitals again. “His fever’s still high, but it should start coming down soon. He’ll need fluids and rest, but he’ll be alright. His body just needs time to fight off the infection.”

I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. “Okay. Good. Great.”

But when I look back at Peter, lying there looking pale and too small for the bed, the knot in my chest tightens again. He’s a superhero, yeah, but really it’s just so easy to forget he’s still just a kid. A kid way too eager to face things he shouldn’t have to face.

Bruce gives me a look. “He’ll be fine, Tony. His healing factor will take care of it. He just needs time.”

“Yeah, I know,” I say, running a hand through my hair. “I know.” I repeat myself, a little quieter this time. It’s more to myself than anything. I pause, glancing at Peter again. He stirs a little, mumbling something under his breath, but he’s still out of it.

Bruce packs up his med kit and heads out, leaving me alone with the kid. I sit down in the chair next to the bed, watching the steady rise and fall of Peter’s chest as he sleeps off the worst of it.

“Take it easy, kid,” I mutter, leaning back. “We’ve got you.”