Spider-Son & Iron Dad two shots

Wishful Thinking

Spooktober 21: Pins

a/n: as somebody extremely immuno-compromised. dont do this. if ur sick then stay tf home 😭you are literally saving lives, dont be proud about it

A loud sneeze shot through the lab like a gun.

"Holy hell," Harley spun around in his chair, holding a wrench in his hand. He pointed at the door with it, threateningly. "I've officially had it up to here with you. Go on. Git."

Peter groaned, dumping his head on the desk, his curls splaying out in a haphazard mess. "I don't need to go home, I'm not sick."

"Bullshit!"

Tony stopped welding, sparks and electrical whirring going quiet. He flipped his helmet up and used his forearm to wipe sweat from his eyes. "Sick?" He called distractedly. "Who's sick?"

Harley stared pointedly at him. "Mister Junior Intern Peter Benjamin Parker."

"Don't legal-name me," Peter said miserably, his voice all nasally. His eyes felt like they were full of pins. His throat hurt from sneezing. "I'm not sick. I have allergies."

"Bless your heart," Harley drawled. He tossed the wrench on the desk. "I didn't even know you could get sick with your mutant-nonsense."

"I can get sick. But I'm not sick right now." Peter pulled himself up from the desk. "And yeah, I have a mutation, but I'm still human."

"Highly debated on many fronts and in several academic circles."

"Ha!" Harley grinned. "Hear that? Tony agrees with me."

"Maybe I will go home," Peter said. "Maybe I'll go home and be with people that don't bully me."

As he said this, he trailed over to the mini-fridge that was fully stocked of cherry Capri-Suns, the best flavour, one he will defend until his untimely demise— even if it was Tony's least favourite and he gagged anytime he tried one.

("Jesus, drink whatever you legally can want, just keep that away from me," Tony held up his hand, his face pinched. "Tastes like cough syrup. How can you drink that crap?"

"Mmm, yummy," Peter made an obnoxious slurping noise with his straw. "Cough syrup.")

Dum-E trailed after him, whirring quietly. It offered him a ratchet, held carefully in its hydraulic claw, and chirped.

"Thank you," Peter said solemnly. He took the ratchet and patted the robot's approximate head. "At least Dum-E cares."

"He just knows you'll drink his oil smoothies," Tony called out. "He's using you."

Harley scoffed. "Your damned iron stomach can handle a Dum-E smoothie and yet you're sick from a cold?"

"I am not sick!" Peter said again, only to finish the sentence with a sneeze crescendo. His head spun, and he caught himself on the edge of the counter.

Harley had practically leaped out of his seat. "Y'okay?" He demanded, his eyes wide. "You idiot, y'look like you're about to blow over. Si'down."

"Did you know your accent gets thicker when you're worried?" Peter joked weakly. (Obediently though, he did sit down in the nearest chair— which happened to be at Tony's desk. Nice.)

Harley rolled his eyes and sat back down, turning around in his seat. He threw up a middle finger. "Shuddup. Not worried about you. I hate your guts."

"Highly debated on many fronts and in several academic circles," Peter mocked. He blew out a tired breath and started fidgeting with the stuff on Tony's desk. Paperclips. Loose blueprints. Capacitators. Bits of frayed wire and peeled copper. He's poking around at a lone plastic pen cap when Tony snapped his fingers at him.

"Hey, you. Sickie. Stop spreading germs on all my shit," Tony said distractedly, his head turned in the complete other direction.

Peter tossed his hands up in the air. "I'm not sick!" 

Three sneezes. Directly in a row. 

Tony slowly turned around. He raised an eyebrow. Harley echoed the expression, although his raised eyebrow felt a lot meaner. 

"Okay," Tony tried, "so--"

Harley interrupted him. "What gives? Is this like some pride thing? 'Cuz you look weaker when you're over here spewing snot all over the lab and fallin' over like an anaemic Victorian peasant."

Peter ducked his head down in defeat. "Ugh."

"What gives?" He demanded.

Peter mumbled something into his arms. 

Tony leaned forward. "What was that, Pete?"

"I didn't wanna miss lab day," he said again, louder. His face red with embarrassment, but his body freezing cold, and he was even wearing his newer coat, the one he just bought from Goodwill last week. (Under that, a jacket. Then a sweater. Then a shirt.) 

Truly, he's starting to regret his choice. He could be back in bed now, bundled under all the blankets stocked in the hallway closet and a heating pack and drinking warmed-up split-pea soup from a can. 

"Aww, well ain't that sweet," Harley crossed his arms, grinning with all his teeth. "Did'ya miss me, Parker?"

"Hardly, Keener," Peter shivered, his teeth clacking against each other. "I just didn't want you to screw up the math on the synthetic design again."

"Okay, that was one time, first of all. Second of all--"

"Second of all," Tony held up a hand. "While your concern for truancy is admirable, kid, I'm pretty sure I speak for both of us when I say it's more important for you to be resting. Shut your mouth, Harls, don't make me point to the sign."

(On the wall, a sign with Tony's face on it. In big bold letters, written in the Stark Industries font: DO AS I SAY, NOT AS I DO.)

"I know," Peter huffed. "I thought I would be fine. I only felt a little under the weather this morning, but I hadn't slept, so it wasn't weird to me."

Tony paused, narrowing his eyes. (Shitttt.) Harley whistled. 

"What do you mean you haven't slept?" Tony asked politely. 

Meanwhile, Harley was beaming, leaning back in his chair and propping his leg up on the desk. "He sent me an invite to play 8-Ball at like, four in the morning."

Peter sneezed. "Snitch."

"Yeah, alright." Tony clapped his hands. "I'm calling it. Executive decision from the adult in the room. Peter, pack your things, I'm taking you home. Harley, you wanna come with while I drop him off, or you staying here?"

Harley brushed his hands off on his jeans and stood up. "Ain't got shit else to do. C'mon, Parker, I'll get your dumbass bag."

Peter sighed, and with the energy of Sisyphus, stood.

(The next day, Peter was happily skipping down the steps of his apartment, his backpack slung over his shoulder, and he was making pretty good time. This was why he picked up the phone easily when it rang.

A southern twang started off like a firecracker in his ears.

"You son of a bitch, your damn germs spread and now I'm coughin' like a-- ACHOO! Oh for-- ACHOO-- I'm gonna-- ACHOO-- I'm gonna beat your-- ACHOO--")