Peter's stomach heaves with the need for air.

His muscles are no steadier than jelly, hair-line tacky with dirt and sweat that trickles down his brow. There's a persistent tickle at the back of his throat, like a car exhaust belching into his mouth. Peter's coughing and spluttering, and he can't—he can't breathe.

Fear swirls in his chest, but he's determined.

Goddamn it, he has to try.

Gnashing his teeth together and propelling harsh puffs of breath from his chest, he tries with every shred of fortitude he's got buried within him…Drawing on the last of his strength, he attempts to stand. Knees locked, toes straining, palms slick and pierced by something jagged, Peter releases a desperate, gravelly roar. And just—lifts.

He's not strong enough. The realisation slams into him immediately.

He needs to be strong, to be fearless. But quite honestly—he's exhausted.

Peter's mind flashes back to the incident in D.C. He wasn't strong enough then, and he isn't strong enough now. Peter's thighs begin to tremble and he wants to sob. His mouth warbles as the little lost boy inside him—so many so young gone—weeps.

Where's Tony? He just wants Tony.

Rubble shifts.

Dust rains down upon his face and there's the groan of metal…a long, drawn-out creak.

The ground shakes beneath him as though the building were collapsing all over again.

He cries out, once:

"Dad!"

And bolts up straight.

Oh.

Just a nightmare, phew. Tension bleeds from his shoulders and Peter collapses in relief. It wasn't real.

Notrealnotrealnotrealnotreal.

Chanting the words under his breath, Peter drags both hands through his sweat-soaked hair and squeezes his eyes shut. Clammy sheets bunch up around his ankles and he kicks them back, focused on slowing the rapid puffs of his elevated breathing. His mind thrums, body trilling with adrenaline and nerves. He still feels the phantom weight of a building upon him…crushing him.

Peter's throat sticks as he swallows.

Heart thundering like a jack rabbit against his ribs, his mind throws up a fresh memory of the tormented plea that had wrenched him from his disturbed slumber, and his thoughts grind to a sudden halt.

Dad?

What?

Had he seriously—at his most unfiltered—really, truly cried out for his unequivocal not-father, Mr. Stark?

Sweet mother of God, he prays Aunt May didn't hear him. God that would be even more embarrassing than the time she caught him impersonating Tony while watching a live interview broadcasted on the six o'clock news. Of course…her mind shouldn't automatically jump to Tony. But, c'mon. Who is he trying to kid? Of course it would.

It so obviously, clearly, would.

Peter glances over at the digital clock on his nightstand and sighs.

Four a.m.

May sleeps like the dead. He's in the clear. But there's no way he's going to be able to go back to sleep now. And dammit—he needs it. Tony would legit kill him if he found out. But Peter's kinda, sorta maayyybe pulled several all-nighters in a row this week already.

Sure, for all extents and purposes, Karen acts like his personal baby-monitor. But even she has her blind spots.

And while Peter wouldn't dare disable her features outright, he is somewhat selective in what he allows her software to detect. A lot of that comes down to timing. A little fiddling. Maybe letting Ned have a turn wearing the mask and pulling an artful switcheroo with the data collected.

It's honestly not as fraudulent as it sounds.

It's just—he's been busting his ass lately trying to combat crime and complete his homework on time; he doesn't need a robot tattling on him!

So far, he's managed to play it cool around Tony; though he's sure the man has his suspicions. (Then again, the guy gets paranoid about the craziest things. He's always stressing about something.) Peter hates lying to him. He does! The deception scrapes at Peter's insides. But when he imagines the alternative—coming clean; Tony overreacting, as per usual—Peter can't help but feel he dodged a bullet.

The only problem with that is that he hasn't.

Not really. In ducking one projectile…he ran full-speed into a warzone.

It began with stiff, achy muscles Peter put down to a minor hiccup he had preventing a rear-end collision earlier in the day. Then came the lightheaded spells and solidifying spatter of sludge in his chest; followed by harsh rattling coughs that leave him panting for breath. He hasn't had much of an appetite, either. He couldn't even stop by Delmar's for his usual smooshed sandwich without his gag-reflex going haywire. Very not good, in his opinion.

Peter suspects the nightmare was brought on by the gripping tightness in his chest. It'd make sense. He hasn't dreamt of that night in months, and suddenly he's gasping awake with a certain off-limits title on his lips? No. That is not okay.

Not cool, man. Not cool.

Peter doesn't do 'sick.'

And—ever since the spider bite—luckily he hasn't had to. Immunity, that's what he assumed. But, he supposes, like most things in life, there's a punishing, mottled tier of illnesses out there that vary radically in intensity. And although his healing factor takes care of most problems, there are things that can push even him to his limit. Things like not eating right. Or getting a decent night's sleep.

But he was doing those things!

…Sort of.

But also sort of not.

Definitely not.

Oh, God. Tony's gonna be so pissed. Worse, he'll be disappointed. He'll tilt his head, purse his lips, and give Peter this look like, 'You're smarter than this, kiddo.' And that…that'll be rough.

Peter stares up at the hairline cracks in his ceiling and licks his cracked lips as a sudden vice clamps around his racing heart.

It's indeterminate how long he lies there. Eventually light peeps through the crack in his curtains and he shoves his toes into the covers to protect against the pre-dawn cool. Peter unclogs the grit from his eyes and listens to Aunt May bustling about as she gets ready for work.

"Peter! I'm off!" she calls over the hard beat of a coat thrown over crinkly scrubs and jangling keys lifted from the countertop. He swears she was just brewing coffee a second ago. "It's time for school!"

"M'up! I'm up!" he rasps back, grimacing at the sound. Very, very not good.

He recognizes the scratchy quality of his voice. Thankfully, Aunt May is in a rush or she would have recognised it, too.

"Okay, I'll see you later. Don't forget Tony volunteered to take you shopping for new school shoes! Try to rein him in, will you? You don't need two pairs in every colour. Anyway, gotta go. Love you! Bye!"

The door slams shut before he can formulate a reply, which is probably just as well, because chances are it would have been an unmitigated disaster, taking full advantage of his epic repertoire of swearwords. His throat still throbs from before.

However, the pain's easily swept aside in favour of the massive bombshell that's been dropped in his lap.

Truth is, he had forgotten.

Peter is utterly thrown for a loop, his plans of evading Tony in tatters. He's totally screwed.

For weeks the teen's been forced to listen to Mr. Stark rant on and on about his toes busting out of his ratty sneakers. Peter mostly tuned him out. Shabby doesn't even begin to describe the state of his Nikes; soles ravaged beyond repair by youthful energy and an ever-demanding double-life as opposed to the typical culprits—age or lack of care. But, hey. They're intact, aren't they?

And contrary to popular belief his toes are not, in fact, plotting a revolt.

So yeah, forgive him if he didn't take Tony's ramblings seriously. The man has a jam-packed schedule. Peter takes up enough of his precious time already without factoring in something as lame as shoe-shopping. Only middle-aged Moms and marathon-runners relish shoe-shopping.

And, yes, Tony's threats of a spending spree have been more detailed and less wistful of late, but Peter didn't think he'd actually go through with it! Or, more to the point, he was counting on Aunt May vetoing it.

…They have a history of trying to keep Mr. Stark's charitable nature contained.

See, Tony's V.I.P treatment looks a little…different than everyone else's. He tends to go overboard with presents. Anyone who has ever spent ten minutes with the man knows that he takes great delight in showering those in his inner circle with fistfuls of cash and individually-selected gifts.

He developed a million-dollar suit for Peter before he'd even met him. That alone should say something.

Peter won't be like the former freeloaders—ahem, Avengers. He never wants Tony to think he only likes him as much as whatever the billionaire can give him, or what he can do for him. It's why they never go to snooty high-brow restaurants and limit day-trips out to museums or the zoo to once a month. Twice, if it's a special occasion.

At its height, Tony periodically surprised Peter with something new weekly as if to keep him interested. This included a personalised laptop not yet made available to the public, one he doubts ever will be; two stark pads, one for him and one for May; a 3D printer, and other mind-blowing tech.

Tony literally created a virtual puppy for him on a whim, using the latest brain mapping software and reality-based simulations.

"I never had a pet growing up," he shrugged in explanation, unfazed by Peter's starry-eyed speechlessness. "Now you do."

Needless to say, Mr. Stark is generous to a fault.

May had to have a word with him about the possibility of toning it down, but she didn't have the heart to demand that Peter return the gifts. He'd gotten attached to Blip—that's what he named him, the puppy, Blip. May said that so long as it's not a distraction (prompting Peter to remind her he's a 'he,' not an it), and he doesn't get in the way of school, Peter can keep him.

Karen takes care of Blip when Peter's at school or out patrolling, and the arrangement seems to work just fine. Even Karen seems fond of the emulated canine.

How much trouble can an A.I. puppy get into, anyway? He's pretty low-maintenance all things considered.

Peter tries teaching him all sorts of tricks, and feeds him deleted files because they're his favourite. Tony assured him he can tweak Blip's appearance however he likes—"You want a terrier? Retriever? One of those labradoodles? Go nuts, kiddo. Spots...Stripes...Blue Merle. The only limit's your imagination."—but Peter's happy with the original.

He looks like the common mutt; like someone Peter would pick out at the pound. In other words...perfect. He's absolutely perfect.

But regardless of how amazing those gifts unquestionably were no-one can blame Peter for having certain…reservations. He doesn't want to have to explain to his aunt why he's got a diamond-encrusted Iron Man helmet in his bag; does she think it would look good on his nightstand?

This is a catastrophe. He can't believe she said yes.

And why, why is this the first time he's hearing about this?

It doesn't sound as though this is the first time it's been mentioned. Given how distracted Peter's been recently, maybe he missed the memo?

It's…possible.

Nonetheless, there's nothing to be done about it now.

Cancelling is always an option. But first he needs to get his hands on a plausible excuse. The rest can be dealt with later. It's time to get this shit-show on the road.

Peeling himself away from sweat-sodden sheets, Peter gasps and doubles over from the excruciating pains that stab his stomach. Hissing and hunching his shoulders, drawing them in tight against his body, he tries to breathe through the worst of it.

Man, oh, man. He feels like shit.

And it's only going to get worse.

His head spins as he hurls his limbs into motion and sways on his feet. Peter staggers towards the bathroom where he casts aside his boxers and stands under the shower nozzle, leaning heavily on the handlebar for support. For the next fifteen minutes, he blasts himself with hot water as though it were possible to wash away all trace of illness. The steam helps to clear his sinuses and soothe any aches and pains. More than once, his knees buckle. But what's important is that he recovers well.

Peter steps out feeling at once both refreshed and feeble. Wrapping a towel around his waist, he clears the condensation from the fogged-up mirror and startles at his reflection. Clear fluid dribbles from his nose. Yuck.

But that's nothing compared to his goose-fleshed skin and sallow, lifeless complexion. Hollow eyes stand out starkly against papery flushed cheeks. He looks like a pale imitation of himself.

He looks like a walking corpse.

All he can do is hope and pray his healing factor kicks in soon.

Peter doesn't bother with breakfast. His stomach flinches just opening the refrigerator. Man, this day is shaping up to be such an utter crap-fest.

And it's only seven-thirty.

School is terrible.

He's late to first period because the stupid subway is struck down by a horde of delays. (Bonus: by the time they finally got it up and running, his carriage was so overcrowded that he was forced to stand, which wouldn't be so bad if he weren't jostled about so much he narrowly avoided passing out from the thumping pain in his head.) Ned and MJ are off on some geography fieldtrip. That was always going to suck. Plus, he topped Flash's score in Chemistry yet again—kinda had to; with all Tony's drilling—so he has an even bigger target than usual on his back.

And, well. Peter likes to think he can stick out a lot.

He considers himself something of an expert when it comes to surviving sticky situations. (Heh. Pun. Ned would appreciate that one.)

He can deal with Flash calling him juvenile nicknames and hurling verbal abuse at him in the corridor. He's no stranger to having spit balls catapulted at the back of his head through Trig, or getting walloped by basketballs in gym. Hell, give him a nasty note slipped in his locker; knock the books clean outta his arms, that won't faze him. Peter can handle Flash's taunts; pick himself up off the floor when an unexpected foot intercepts his path, while Flash and his buddies point and laugh and call him a clumsy dork.

A couple of bruises, a busted lip—no biggie. It's fine. He can deal.

But when he's already feeling like death incarnated, it becomes a whole lot harder for him to square his shoulders, swallow his pride, and walk it off like Captain I-can-do-this-all-day America.

Not to mention…he's about 99.9% certain his wrist is broken.

Peter should have expected that Flash would try to trip him up outside their English classroom. He should have known his efforts would escalate without Ned there to act as his loyal blabbermouth.

Any other day his Spidey senses totally would have foiled the attempt, but Peter was incapacitated by temporary blindness—blame his delicate eyeballs for reeling at the glaring fluorescent lightbulbs—and his head was pounding so hard he was fighting the urge to barf all over the newly-waxed floor. And let me tell you: that would have been a disaster, since Peter's sure there's nothing left for his system to flush out. He already puked acid twice.

Peter had thrown out his right arm to brace his fall.

And heard rather than felt the sickening crunch. Lucky for him, no-one else did.

It's been over an hour and the injury shows no signs of healing.

Peter gives the distended area an inquisitive poke and flinches at the flames of pain it stokes. Yup, limp and floppy—just as predicted. He hopes it mends itself soon. People are gonna start asking questions. Namely: why his wrist is so puffy and deformed-looking.

Between classes Peter makes a pit-stop at his locker to dry-swallow two Tylenol, but ordinary painkillers do little to blunt the pain. His body burns through them too quickly. He's so weak he can barely push the pills out of their casing. Peter's tempted to give in right then, but the warning bell rings and he stumbles onto class in a reflexive daze.

Sometime around noon his fever spikes.

He is barely keeping his shit together.

Peter shakes hard—wants to shake himself harder. Snap out of it, you big wuss, he chastises himself. This is nothing.

It'd be different if he were beaten to a bloody pulp. But it's not that kind of fight. And although this is not the worst ass kicking he's ever received, by God, does it feel damn close. Peter loses himself in a fit of spluttering. Afterwards, he glances down at his hand and half-expects to find it dotted with blood.

As his temperature climbs ever higher, Peter starts to lose his tenuous grip on reality.

Cotton wool plugs his ears.

His thoughts feel slippery, like he can't get a solid grasp on anything. When lunch-time rolls around his stomach is gurgling like crazy, but he's too nauseated to do anything more than pick apart his burger. The days of under-fuelling, or eating just about enough to maintain his weight and no more, are catching up to him. His energy stores are uncooperatively low.

The waves of dizziness crest and he's in History.

He has no idea how he got there.

Mr. Thompson is clicking through a PowerPoint on the Black Death. The slides are gruesome and he's hit by a sudden chill. Peter pushes his hands into his stomach, hoping to quell the ruthless churning.

Surely by now his skin will have adopted a sickly green tint? He's sweating buckets; his head feels muffled and swollen. Damn, he's queasy. He can't think straight.

"Mr. Parker? Mr. Parker! Is there a reason you haven't taken down a single note since the beginning of the lesson?"

Mr. Thompson is a bit of a hard-ass, but he doesn't often raise his voice. Peter has an inkling he might be in trouble. Christ is it hot in here.

"Um…" His mind blanks. He's distracted by the offensiveness of his shirt sticking to the back of his neck. "Kind of?"

As an afterthought, Peter stuffs his hand under the desk and hopes no-one notices how it's ballooned to twice the usual size.

"Kind of?" the teacher parrots, brows shooting up in disbelief. "Care to elaborate?"

"My, uh, wrist hurts."

"Your wrist hurts."

"I'm sorry."

"You're—" Mr Thompson cuts himself off, shaking his head briefly. "Come here, please."

"But—"

"Now, Mr. Parker. I don't have all day."

Peter stands, and forgets his runny nose and twisting stomach cramps and looming shopping-trip. The breath twirls in his chest, lights dancing into oblivion as he unceremoniously crumples to the floor.

This time, he doesn't try to brace the fall.

"Got him lying in a cot 'till someone comes to pick 'em up. Gave him some cough drops to suck on and an ice-pack for the swelling. Should be fine."

"The only number listed is his aunt and—what the f-rick…? This has to be some kind of typo."

"What? Scooch over. Lemme see."

The school-nurse leans over the secretary's shoulder and gasps at the screen.

"No way…" she utters.

"Absolutely not, right?" the other chimes, sounding shell-shocked. "Under father? Gotta be a joke, right? There's no way…"

"Not a chance."

"Well?" The nurse knocks her shoulder. "What are you waiting for? Call it."

Giddy fingers punch in the number.

They wait with bated breath as it starts to ring. Seconds stretch into a gulf of loaded silence wherein the two women exchange nervous glances. A terse voice picks up.

"Hi. You do realise this is Tony Stark you dialled, right? I'm gonna go ahead and give you the benefit of the doubt. There's only one place in Queens that has access to this incredibly private number, so it doesn't take a genius – i.e. me – to work out that this is someone from Peter's school calling. So—tell me. What the hell is wrong with my kid?"

Well, shit.