Outnumbered

Chapter 1

It's boiling outside.

Like, why am I wearing a navy tuxedo during May in hot, humid, Long Island weather, boiling.

Peter tugs at the collar of his shirt, feels sweat rolling down his back. May had promised everyone the wedding ceremony would only take fifteen minutes, tops, but he hadn't factored in walking her down the aisle, for the officiant to go so slowly and make so many jokes along the way. They're closing in on thirty minutes and he wonders, briefly, if his blood sugar is dropping, if the heat and the nerves and panic about not losing the damn rings are working against him.

He glances at his StarkWatch and sees that his Dexcom continuous glucose monitor is reading 142. He exhales slowly, confident that his blood sugar is not the issue.

It doesn't change the fact that it's boiling, though.

Or that he feels a little...swimmy.

Is that a word?

"Kid," Tony whispers from his place in the line of groomsmen, kicking his heel softly. "You okay?"

"Y-yeah," he whispers, not wanting to take the attention on the altar away from May.

May's always made everything about Peter. Always. And that fact only intensified after his type one diabetes diagnosis three months ago.

But today? Today is about May. About Happy. About the two of them choosing each other and being happy together, and Peter has done everything he can think of to keep his diabetes and his tendency to be an absolute klutz from interfering with that fact.

"I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss the bride," the officiant announces, the small crowd cheering as May and Happy kiss. Peter smiles and claps, feels his body sway a bit and blinks his eyes as he steadies himself.

He's fine.

Dexcom says he's fine.

He's fine.

The second the wedding party enters the coolness of the air-conditioned venue, Peter shimmies out of his suit jacket and tosses it on a chair in the cocktail hour room. He grabs a glass of water, but it shakes in his hand, splashes a bit on the floor.

For what isn't a blood sugar issue, this sure as hell feels like one.

"Test, kiddo. There's no way you're in the 140s," Tony says, a hand on his shoulder. Peter knows Tony has access to his Dexcom data, that he, along with Pepper, May, and Happy, can pull it up on his phone and watch. "You're sweating through your dress shirt," he whispers, grabbing Peter's jacket and leading him out of the cocktail hour and up the stairs toward the privacy of the bridal suite. He deposits him on the couch, which Peter is half grumpy about, half thankful for, because the room is starting to spin a little, and hands him his kit.

Peter's hands shake as he wipes with the alcohol swab, readies the strip, and pricks his finger.

The meter beeps.

52.

Too low.

"Fuck."

"Let's see what we've got in here," Tony says after seeing the number, opening the mini fridge beneath the wet bar. "Orange juice, Dr. Pepper, Coke, Stella Artois–"

"Stella."

"Funny, kid. You're not 21, and it'll make you drop more, even with the carbs."

"Dr. Pepper." He leans back on the couch, closes his eyes, and wills the spinning to stop.

Tony pops the tab on the soda and grabs a straw. "FRIDAY, calibrate Peter's Dexcom to 52 milligrams per deciliter."