Parings → Peter Parker x Stark! Reader
Warnings → Sickness, fainting, medical setting, fever, comfort, fluff.
Summary → Peter and the Reader catch the flu, faint during training, quarantine together, and care for each other through sickness.
｡･:*:･ﾟ★｡･:*:･ﾟ☆ ｡･:*:･ﾟ★
Midterms were already hell. Catching the flu right before them? That was a special kind of torture. And yet, you and Peter—two absolute menaces—decided to power through training anyway because, in your own words:
“I’m a Stark.”
“I’m Spider-Man, I have enhanced immune system.”
Right. Sure.
By the time the Avengers sparring session rolled around, both of you were pale, glassy-eyed, and wobbling like baby deer on ice. Natasha squinted at you suspiciously.
“Are you two sick?”
You answered with, “Nope,” right as Peter’s voice cracked into a cough that sounded like he swallowed a fork.
Training lasted exactly three minutes.
You fainted first—straight down like a sad noodle. And because the universe enjoys comedy, Peter tried to rush to you, said, “I’m totally fine,” took two heroic steps, and fainted right next to you.
Tony just stood there, hands up, staring at your crumpled forms.
“…I hate both of you.”
---
Med Wing Lockdown: Day 1
When you woke up, the room was dim, warm, and annoyingly smell-like-eucalyptus. You were wrapped in three blankets, partly because you kept kicking them off, partly because Peter kept pulling them back over you in his half-conscious haze.
He was lying on the bed beside you, cheeks flushed, curls a messy halo against the pillow. Tissues decorating his bed because he kept sneezing.
You mumbled, voice raspy, “You look awful.”
He blinked slowly. “Thank you. I try.”
Despite everything—your pounding head, your sore throat—your hand slid over the tiny gap between the beds. Peter instantly intertwined your fingers like muscle memory.
“Hey,” he whispered.
“Hi,” you croaked.
You both fell asleep again holding hands.
---
Day 2: Soup Disaster Hour
F.R.I.D.A.Y. gave strict orders: “No getting out of bed.”
Naturally, you got out of bed.
You grabbed Peter’s soup to reheat it, but your arms were shaking so badly you spilled half of it down your own Stark Industries sweatshirt. Peter, who tried to sit up too fast, nearly fainted trying to help you.
It was tragic. It was idiotic.
It was kind of adorable.
“Baby, you’re burning up again,” he murmured, touching your forehead.
Your nose was completely stuffed but you still managed to mutter, “Bold of you to say that while looking like reheated death.”
He cracked a weak smile and kissed your nose—well, aimed for your nose but landed halfway on your cheek because his depth perception was on sick-mode.
You booped his nose back. “You missed.”
“Everything is spinning,” he admitted with a soft laugh.
You kissed him properly that time, both of you sniffling like broken humidifiers.
---
Day 3: Fever Dream Theater
Peter kept drifting in and out of fever dreams, mumbling nonsense like, “Don’t let Mr. Stark see me steal the Pop-Tarts,” and “Baby, I love you more than physics but don’t tell science.”
At one point, you felt him climb in your bed and wrap an arm clumsily around your waist—instinctual, needy, warm.
So you scooted closer, curling up beside him in your shared blanket nest. He tucked his face into your shoulder automatically.
“You’re really clingy when you’re sick,” you teased.
He made a tired noise. “You’re warm,” he murmured. “You’re my favorite space heater.”
You fell asleep to his uneven breaths against your neck.
---
Day 4: Finally Recovering
The team visited once you were no longer biohazards.
Natasha dropped a basket of fluids and snacks.
“Next time,” she warned, “tell us when you’re dying.”
Steve crossed his arms in Captain America Disappointment.
“You both scared everybody.”
Peter pointed at you. “She wanted to train.”
You glared at him, voice still hoarse. “Oh, throw me under the bus, Webhead.”
Tony walked in last, rubbing his temples. “Kids… if you’re sick, stay in bed. That’s all I ask. One request. One tiny request.”
Peter lifted your hand, lacing your fingers again—the same way he did when you’d both collapsed.
“Sorry, Mr. Stark.”
He sighed. “You’re forgiven. Mostly.”
---
When the room was finally quiet again, you leaned your head on Peter’s shoulder.
“You know we’re idiots, right?” You said softly.
“The dumbest,” he agreed.
“But at least,” you smiled, nudging him, “I’m sick with you.”
He pressed a gentle kiss to your temple.
“Always.”
Then he coughed directly into your hair.
“Peter!”
“I’m sorry—I tried to turn my head—”
“EW.”
He laughed, you laughed, and it echoed warmly through the med wing.
Sick. Tired. Fainting disasters.
But together.
Always together.
∗ ࣪ ˖༺ 𓆩☆𓆪 ༻˖ ࣪ ∗
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