Petrichor | ✔

"And here he is," Tony Stark said, leading Colie into yet another room. "The man – no, idiot – of the hour. Colie Meyers, meet Peter Parker, also known as Spider-Man. Peter, meet Colie Meyers, your new babysitter."

In the bed was a boy with brown hair and what looked to be brown eyes. Beyond that, Colie couldn't have said with confidence what he looked like. His face was a mottled disaster of purple-yellow bruises, scabbed cuts, and swelling. The bruises continued down his neck beneath the collar of his hospital gown, and spread down his arms at least to his forearms, which were wrapped in gauze.

"Hi," he said weakly, offering what must have been a very painful attempt at a smile.

"You look awful," Colie blurted, and didn't really feel that bad about it.

"You should've seen him when it happened," Tony said. "Bleeding all over the place, coughing up a lung – you could barely tell it was him through all the swelling."

"I wasn't even bleeding that badly," Peter protested faintly. "The doctors said all the bleeding was internal, that's where my blood is supposed to be."

Colie coughed.

Tony looked like he was about to scream. "See what I mean?"

"Yeah." Colie adjusted the strap of her backpack. "Definitely in need of supervision. When do I start?"

"My God, now, please," Tony said.

"Hey!" Peter exclaimed.

"Kid, I'm getting real tired of having to reconfigure F.R.I.D.A.Y's firewall every time you want to do something you aren't supposed to." Tony pulled out his wallet and pulled out a few bills. "I'll even pay you up front, Colie, just get me a break. Please."

"That's not necessary, sir," Colie said. "You go take a nap."

"Peter knows where everything is," Tony said. He clapped her on the shoulder and looked her right in the eye, staring at her with enough intensity to make her uncomfortable. "You're a good kid."

She shrugged, scooting out of the way so he could get out. The door locked behind him with a definitive hiss-click, and she swung her backpack off her shoulders, sinking into one of the armchairs. "Do you mind if I do my homework?"

"No, go ahead." Wincing, he adjusted his position.

She pulled out her History textbook and was rummaging around for a pencil when he said, "How long are you here for?"

"I dunno," she said. "Until Tony tells me I can go, I guess."

"It's that open-ended?"

"Nobody's gonna miss me," she said. "My parents are on vacation, and if need be I can tell my school I have the flu." She clicked the pencil open, paused, noticing the way he was eyeing her school stuff. "Do you have homework?"

"Aunt May dropped it off just before you got here." Gingerly, he moved an arm to point at a Midtown Tech backpack by the bed. "I've tried it. The reading's fine, but it hurts to write." He laughed self-consciously, like Oh, silly me. She heard the stress beneath it, though. Midtown Tech? That was the school for smart science nerds, and it had a shit ton of homework. Getting behind was easy, and catching up was not.

She pushed her history book back into her backpack and pushed her chair over. It was on wheels, which was awesome. "Okay, I'll see what I can do."

"Wha – ?"

She unzipped the backpack and pulled out the sheet labeled ASSIGNMENTS in neat print. "Okay. Spanish, Chem, English, or Social Studies first? Oh – or Decathlon practice."