spiderson & irondad oneshots

The Obligatory Peter Parker Field Trip, with a Twist (PrinterInkk)

Peter groaned. It was an abhorrent noise, loud and raspy and cracking against the back of his throat in a way that got him spluttering to sit up.

The blankets that swaddled him wrapped too tightly yet too loose at the same time.

He stumbled on his first step across the floor. Not particularly his usual level of grace and elegance, but who was he kidding, that had been low, to begin with. He did not need to be swimming around his room half-conscious to know that.

"Mr Parker, may I suggest you return to your bed? Your temperature is running high. I have informed the relevant supervision."

Peter paused.

That was a bad idea. Nausea hit him the moment he stopped. It sent him half stumbling around, in what felt like every direction but the bed or the toilet, until his knees hit what could have been tile, and his cheek followed.

Was he going to be sick? Likely.

Was he going to do anything about it? Unlikely.

"Peter?" The voice came as an echo in his ear. It was familiar, distinctly feminine.

On any other morning, Peter would have been glad for the intrusion. He might even have rushed to the door, completely unaware his hair was sticking up every which way and his pyjamas had The Avengers on them, thrown it open and launched himself into an exciting conversation.

This morning?

What came from his throat was another half-drowned groan.

"Peter! Gods above, come here."

Blood rushed back into his legs as heat crept up his cheeks, a second wave of nausea turning his stomach in somersaults. He felt his body being tipped up, head lolling back against something hard. Not a body, there was no scratch of tell-tale fabric against his head. It was smooth, decisively still, and perfectly cold. The wall.

He sighed out, letting his shoulders roll down, the blanket half dropping off his side.

"You're boiling up, I'm going to call Bruce."

At last feeling relaxed enough to open his eyes, confident he would not immediately stumble and retch on the shoes of his saviour, Peter was assaulted by light. Glaring, blinding, fiery light that imprinted tiny clusters of even tinier glowing polka dots on the back of his eyelids.

Blinking them away, taking his time, Peter was greeted by the sheen of clear tights, and the type of shoes his aunt would have smirked at, impressed, and called 'sensible heels'.

Pepper.

"G' morning..." Peter slurred, letting his eyes droop back closed. Pepper was smart. Pepper would take care of him. She had promised to call Bruce, too.