A/N: Here's part two! Enjoy

DISCLAIMER: I own nothing! I make no profit off of this. This is solely for my enjoyment and hopefully for the enjoyment of others! ;)

––––––––––

Trope: Fever

I Tried to Keep a Secret

––––––––––

Peter was not sick.

He'd told May so when he'd stumbled into the kitchen that morning with unbrushed hair and glassy eyes. She'd looked up from the book she was reading at the table, a mug of coffee clutched in her hands. An almost instantaneous look of worry had stolen over her face as she stood up from the table, setting her mug down beside the novel.

She'd placed a hand on his forehead, frowning at the abnormal temperature emanating from his skin. She insisted that he had a fever and needed to get right back in bed; no way was he going to school.

But Peter had brushed off her concern, as he was known to do, and claimed that he wasn't running a fever. He had shrugged off her concern and said that her hand was probably still warm from her coffee, not because he had a fever.

They argued about it, but eventually it was Peter who came out on top. May had agreed to let him go to school if he promised to call her if he started feeling bad.

But why would he feel bad? He wasn't sick.

"Here, man, I got you a sandwich and a fruit cup." Ned slid the tray onto the table in front of Peter before clambering over the bench to take a seat himself.

Peter lifted his head off his arms and blearily blinked at the unappetizing looking food. "Thang you very buch," he said, absentmindedly picking up his fork, but not actually making a move to eat from the cup of peaches.

He hadn't been hungry that morning when he'd left for school, though he chalked it up to the nerves he was feeling over all the midterms he had to take that day. He blamed the ache that seemed to have settled deep in his bones on patrol from the night before. No work out compared to a night of beating up the city's resident baddies.

Peter yanked the collar of his sweatshirt up over his mouth and nose as an almighty sneeze tore loose. He sneezed once, twice, thrice, four times total– each one stronger than the last, forcing his stomach to contract and very nearly bringing his head smacking down on the table.

He lifted his head out of his shirt, eyes half-lidded, and inhaled heavily through his mouth.

His hinged his head back on his neck with a groan, eyes slipping shut. With great effort, he peeled his eyes back open and stared blankly at the plate of food in front of him.

"You good?"

Peter slowly turned his head to look at his friend sitting next to him, a concerned look painted over Ned's round face. Peter did his best to offer a smile, but what actually appeared was more akin to Chandler Bing getting his photo taken.

He opened his mouth to reply, but what came out instead was a harsh, dry cough that scraped against his already sore throat. Ned patted him on the back consolingly as he hacked, offering Peter a bottle of water once the teen had finished.

Peter took a small sip of the liquid, appreciating its coolness as it slid down his throat.

" 'M fine," he said with a little nod of his head, grimacing when the slight movement aggravated the ache behind his eyes. Peter ascribed the headache to dehydration. He never had been really good about drinking plenty of water. That's all this was.

He wasn't sick.

Peter set the bottle down and speared a piece of cubed peach onto the end of his fork, putting the the square into his mouth and chewing slowly. He'd been expecting the sweet taste of the fruit to hit his tongue, but instead it only equated to a cold, squishy morsel that was in no way appetizing.

The teen swallowed thickly, a shiver racing up his spine that he wasn't totally convinced had anything to do with the disgusting food.

He'd been cold on and off throughout the morning. He's spent all of his physics lesson shivering in his seat, sweater sleeves drawn over his hands. Next period found him with his sleeves pushed up past his elbows, sweating way too much in the air conditioned classroom.

The cycle repeated over and over, increasing its repetition frequency till Peter was thoroughly confused about what his body wanted.

Peter jumped as a book-bag was suddenly, and loudly, dropped onto the table in front of him.

Wide eyes blinked up at Michelle Jones as she quirked an eyebrow at the two friends sitting across from her as she slid stepped over the bench to sit down. "What's up, dorks?"

"Hey, MJ," Ned piped as Peter mumbled the same phrase a split second behind.

MJ's eyebrows pinched together as she lifted her chin, peering down her nose with squinted eyes as the pale teen in front of her. "You look like hell. Are you sick?" She said bluntly.

Peter bit back a sigh as he placed his fork back on his tray. "Doh," he said unconvincingly. "I'm dot sig."

MJ crossed her arms on the table, leaning forward as she continued to stare at her friend. "Bullshit."

"Whad?" Peter said, sniffing slightly.

MJ leaned forward. "I said, bullshit."

Peter scowled and pulled his sleeves over his hands, rubbing the knuckles of his fists together. "S'not bullshid," he muttered. "I'm dot sig. It's dust allergies."

The girl rolled her eyes and sat back, reaching into her backpack to produce her lunch. "Dust allergies, huh?" She opened her lunch box and took out the tupperware of salad inside.

Peter shook his head, wincing as the pain flared again. "Doh, I said dust–dust–just allergies," he forced out with difficulty. MJ snorted as she pried the lid off her container, dumping salad dressing over the greens.

"I'm with MJ on this one," Ned spoke up, setting his own food back down on his plate. "You really don't look good, Peter."

Peter could practically feel the consternation rolling off of Ned in waves. Peter sighed and swept a sweater-covered hand over his face. "I bromise I'm fine, guys. It's dust allergies," he repeated, but neither Ned nor MJ looked satisfied with his response.

They shared a knowing look across the table, eyebrows raised and lips slightly pursed.

"Stop it, gu–" Peter's protest was cut short as he broke into another bout of sharp coughs that aggravated the ache in his throat. Ned proffered the bottle of water once more as the cough subsided. "Thanks," Peter said, slightly out of breath as he accepted the bottle.

Once he'd set the bottle back on the table, he reached a hand out to MJ. "Can I hab your dapkin?"

MJ quirked an eyebrow at the request, fork poised over her container of salad. "Why?"

"By dose is runnig."

"Because of the dust allergies, right?"

"…I'm dot sig."

––––––––––

By the time fifth period rolled around, Peter was no longer believing his own lie.

He was sick.

He was so sick. He felt like complete and utter crap, shivers and chills ravaging his body, dry cough tearing at his inflamed throat. He felt an unmitigated sense of exhaustion weighing him down, causing him to drag his feet when he walked and making it extremely difficult to pay attention to what his teachers were lecturing on.

Peter was pretty sure he had failed the two midterms he had taken that afternoon, glazed eyes reading the questions, but the information not quite processing in his brain.

His head was past the point of aching and was now in full-blown strobe mode. It pounded in unison with the abnormally fast beat of his heart. His voice sounded like he'd been standing on his head for too long, sinuses packed with mucus that seemed to be in a rush to escape through his nostrils and down the back of his throat.

During gym period, Peter swore he was going to pass out or throw up– whichever came first. Coach Wilson had them running laps around the gymnasium which normally wouldn't have bothered Peter in the slightest. But today he had absolutely no energy with which to lug his body around the track at a decent speed.

Ned jogged beside him, eyes burning a hole into the right side of Peter's face.

"Dude, you really don't look good," he said, eyebrows furrowing as his friend continued to puff and pant from the exertion.

"It's okay, I'm okay," Peter gasped out, trying to keep his mind focused on putting one foot in front of the other.

"Peter, I'm serious. You should go to the nurse."

Peter shook his head, sweat beads rolling down his forehead. "School's albost over, Ded. I mean Ded. I mean Ned." Peter swallowed heavily, the thickening of saliva in his mouth forewarning him that the cyclone in his stomach was about to become something much worse.

"I thought you couldn't even get sick?" Ned wondered aloud, eyes squinting disconcertedly. "You know, because of… you know."

Keeping his lips sealed, Peter breathed raggedly through his one clear nostril, afraid that if he opened his mouth he'd have a fit of emesis. No one needed to hear, see, or clean up that.

"What if someone infected you?" Ned gasped. "Like, not the normal "I sneezed on, you get my germs" kind of infecting. I mean like someone literally bioengineered a virus that works on you?"

"Ded," Peter whispered. The nausea's threat of expelling the paltry contents of his stomach was becoming stronger.

"Cause if they did," Ned continued, not hearing Peter's mumbled attempt at getting his friend's attention, "that would A. be totally badass, and B. totally uncool because who the hell gets their jollies off of giving Spider-Man a cold?"

"Ded–"

Ned inhaled sharply. "Ooh! Or maybe this is all part of some big scheme to stop you from interfering with whatever the bad guys are planning! Maybe they want–"

Whatever it was that Ned thought the bad guys wanted would have to wait as Peter lost the battle against his stomach. He dropped to all fours in the middle of the track, heaving copious amounts of bile and the few peach cubes he'd crammed down for lunch.

The runners coming up behind him and Ned scattered off to the side, shouts and screams of "Ew!" "What the hell!" and "Coach Wilson!" reverberated around the gym. The noise was lost on Peter's ears as he screwed his eyes shut tight and renewed his attempt to control his irregular breathing, only to be interrupted by a fresh surge of unproductive heaves.

He distantly registered a hand rubbing small circles just between his shoulder blades. Once his heaves had lessened, a rough cloth was pressed against his mouth.

Peter blearily opened his eyes as the cloth swept across his lips and down his chin. He pushed back until he was sat on his heels. He slowly turned his head to look at the figure kneeling on his left.

MJ smirked wryly. "Let me guess: dust allergies?"

Peter huffed a semblance of a laugh and hung his head. "Actually, I thing I bight be sig."

––––––––––

Bzz, bzz.

Blindly, Peter reached into his jacket pocket and fished out his phone. He cracked open one eye to squint at the bright screen displaying a text message from If You're HAPPY and You Know It :D.

Peter inhaled sharply and sat up straight, lifting his head off the wall of the subway train where it had been resting uncomfortably for five minutes.

If You're HAPPY and You Know It :D: En route. Stuck in traffic. Going to be late.

En route? Peter frowned as he continued to stare at the screen. Why would Happy be–

"Shit," Peter mumbled, swiping open his phone and quickly typing out a message.

Peter Parker: Happy, I'm so sorry! I completely forgot you were picking me up. I'm on the subway home. Pick me up from the apartment?

How the heck had he forgotten that today was his internship?

Peter ran a hand through his hair, one leg beginning to bounce nervously. He couldn't go to Mr. Stark's while he was like this. Mr. Stark would freak out and go all Florence Nightingale on him.

If You're HAPPY and You Know It :D: Sure. ETA: 45 minutes.

Peter Parker: Thank you, Happy!

Peter blew out his breath through pursed lips, leg bouncing up and down at a neurotic pace. "I can fix this, I can do this. It's going to be fine," he whispered to himself.

Peter hopped off the subway one stop early and hurried into the convenience store on the street corner. He offered a quick half smile to the sleepy attendant behind the counter as he beelined for the small section of medications.

He stared blankly at the three shelves boasting multiple different types of brightly colored boxes of medications. He blinked lethargically as he mentally wracked his brain for the type of medicine May usually bought.

'Did it have a pink box? No, I think it was blue and green. Or maybe it was blue, green, and pink?'

Peter shook his head and decided to grab a few of each. He didn't have time to waste. Happy would be at his apartment soon and Peter needed to beat the man there.

He bounced lightly on the balls of his feet as the cashier languidly scanned each of the boxes.

"Do you want these in a bag?" The man said slowly, lower lip hanging heavily against his chin.

Peter handed his money across the counter and picked up his items. "That's okay. Keep the change!" He stuffed the boxes into his backpack as he stepped back out into the late afternoon sun.

Knowing his window of beating Happy home was a small one, Peter dredged up the energy to move his torpid feet at a brisk walk.

Along the five minute walk home, Peter dug out the packages of medicine. He took two of the pink pills, four of the unnaturally large orange gel ones, and hearty swig of something purple and gritty. That last one almost came back up as quickly as it went down.

Peter shuddered at the lingering taste. His phone buzzed just as he turned the corner onto his block. He pulled out the device and saw a new message from Happy.

If You're HAPPY and You Know It :D: Here.

The teen looked up and saw that, sure enough, there was Happy's black Audi parked in front of his and May's apartment building. Peter didn't bother replying to the text as he drew closer to the vehicle.

He took a deep breath to steel himself and did his best to paste on a happy face. He waved at Happy through the windshield before popping open the door to the backseat.

"Hey, Happy!" Peter forced out in his peppiest tone, though internally he was anything but peppy. "Sorry about the mix up. I was so focused on finals that I completely forgot what today was."

Happy studied the teen in the backseat through the rearview mirror, eyebrows pinching together slightly.

Peter pulled his seatbelt across his chest, clicking it in to place before resting back agains the headrest. He watched people pass by car window for a few moments before he registered how unusually quiet it was in the vehicle.

He turned his head to look up at the driver and found Happy craning around the seat staring at the teen. Peter gave the man what he hoped was a smile. It felt more like a grimace, but at least he tried.

When Happy's only response was to squint his eyes suspiciously, Peter finally asked. "Is everything okay?"

"I should be asking you that," Happy retorted, not unkindly. "What's going on with you? You sick or something?"

Damn, he was good.

Peter chuckled weakly. "Sick? No, Happy, come on. It's just seasonal allergies." Back to that lie again.

Happy didn't look convinced. "You sure?"

Peter pressed his lips together and nodded. "I'm fine."

"Then why do you sound so congested and look all white?"

"Oh my god, Karen, you can't just ask people why they're white." Peter's eyes slid shut in embarrassment as soon as the words left his mouth. "I'm sorry, I couldn't pass that up."

According to Happy, if Peter was joking and quoting films, he couldn't be feeling too poorly. "All right," Happy said, twisting back around in his seat and putting the car in drive. "But if you change your mind before we get to Tony's, let me know."

––––––––––

"Ha! See? What'd I tell ya?" Tony stood back from the whiteboard, proudly displaying the perfect circle he'd drawn.

Peter mustered up a semblance of a smile as he mindlessly scratched as his chest. His hand wandered over his shoulder and down his arm, itching at his skin though his sweater the whole way down.

The sweats and chills had returned from earlier and his stomach was slowly replenishing it's supply of bile for the next bought of vomiting. Peter felt as if someone had crammed tennis balls into each of his sinuses if the pressure was anything to go off of.

There was an incessant ringing in his right ear and his eyes felt like they were covered with wool.

Either the medicine he took hadn't worked, or he'd already burned through it and needed to take more. Probably a bigger dose this time.

"Wow," Peter said lamely as his mentor continued to stare at the teen perched on the stool. Peter decided to keep the talking to a minimum, knowing his choked and stuffy sounding words would be a dead give away for the illness plaguing his body.

"Careful there, you might fall off your stool if you don't contain that excitement," Tony snorted, snagging his mug of coffee off the desk before plopping down on the stool next to Peter.

"Das really abazing," Peter tried again, resisting the urge to sniffle.

Tony quirked an eyebrow over the rim of his mug. " "Abazing"?" He said, head cocking to the side slightly.

Peter smiled. Only it wasn't his normal smile, the one where his eyes squinted and his cheeks became downright pinch-able. It was the smile where his lower lip pulled down and only the bottom row of his teeth were visible and his eyes got all shifty and weird.

Mr. Stark set down his mug. "What's going on?" He squinted his eyes and tried to peer into the teen's flitting gaze. "You feeling okay?"

Peter nodded quickly, internally groaning as the motion didn't agree with the pressure packed behind his forehead. "I'm fine," Peter over-enunciated, one hand unknowingly scratching across his stomach.

Tony held his gaze for a moment longer before choosing to let it go. "Whatever you say. Hey," he stood up suddenly, "you hungry? It's getting pretty close to dinnertime."

Before Peter could respond, Mr. Stark was halfway across the room and heading for the stairs. This time, Peter did groan out loud.

"What was that?" Tony threw over his shoulder, as he set foot on the staircase.

"Combig," Peter called softly as he pushed himself off the stool. Food was the last thing he wanted at the moment, but something told him he didn't really have a choice. He began to drag his feet over to the staircase, one finger scratching right below his ear.

'Why am I so itchy?' Acknowledging the itch only seemed to make the sensation that much stronger. Suddenly his whole body was pinging with itchy hotspots; legs, arms, neck, face, feet, back– everywhere.

Peter curled his hands into fists and grit his teeth against the urge. Once he'd finally made it to the top of the staircase, he was sweating profusely, but he desperately wanted a blanket to curl up under. 'Does Mr. Stark always keep it so cold in here?'

He shuffled towards the kitchen where Tony was filling up a pot with water.

"How does spaghetti sound?" Tony asked, not looking up from his task. Peter folded his arms on the countertop and buried his head in the crook of his elbow.

"If you don't want spaghetti, I can always make sandwiches or another type of pasta. Or– ooh! I make a mean bowl of cereal." Tony chuckled to himself as he set the pot on the burner and set the heat. It was only then that he turned around and saw the teen hunched over the counter.

Uneasiness instantly settled in Tony's stomach. "Pete? You okay?" He stepped briskly around to island to place a hand on Peter's back.

He inhaled sharply at the heat he felt radiating through the teen's sweater. "Peter…" The rest of his sentence trailed off as his eyes caught sight of Peter's neck. There were three or four raised red bumps spotting the back of his neck.

"What the hell?" Tony whispered. "Hey, Pete. Buddy, can you look at me for a second?" He gently shook Peter's shoulder to arouse a response.

Taking way more energy than it should have, Peter dragged his head up from his arms and peered at his mentor through half-lidded eyes.

Tony's lips pulled back from his teeth with a wince as he took note of the bumps splashed over Peter's cheeks, forehead, and neck. They were very clearly hives, but where Peter got them from, Tony had no idea.

"Peter, did you eat something funny today? Anything you don't normally eat or maybe touched something funky in chemistry class?"

The lethargic teen gave a minute shake of his head. Tony frowned, pressing the inside of his wrist against the boy's forehead. He let out a low whistle. "Jesus Christ, Pete. That's quite the temp you're sporting there. FRIDAY?"

A small metal disk shot out from the underside of his watch and suctioned to Peter's forehead. After a second, FRIDAY's lilting Irish tone rang out. "Temperature: 106.5. Immediate medical treatment is advised."

"Shit." Tony slung Peter's arm over his should and all but dragged the kid over to the elevator.

"Mmph… where we going?" Peter mumbled. Tony shushed him gently as the doors to the elevator slid open.

"You're going to be fine. It's going to be okay. Just try not to fall asleep on me. FRIDAY, call May. Tell her to meet us at the hospital. And turn off the stove, will you?"

Peter let his head flop onto Tony's shoulder. "Why're we going to the hospital? I'm fine. Are you fine?"

Tony couldn't help the breathless chuckle that escaped. Of Peter was worrying about him right now.

"It's going to be okay, Pete," he repeated. "You're going to be fine."

––––––––––

"106 degrees?" May whisper shrieked. "Oh god, I knew letting him go to school was a bad idea."

Peter could hear his aunt's voice, but he couldn't see her. Everything was dark.

"Don't beat yourself up. You know how stubborn he can be once he's made up his mind." That was Mr. Stark's voice. "I had Happy bring his backpack over so once Peter's released he can take it home with him."

"Thank you. Not just for that, but for bringing him here and not letting him talk you out of it."

"To be honest, he didn't have much say in the matter. He was pretty out of it on the way over."

"What did the doctor say?"

There was the sound of metal scraping the floor before Tony responded. Peter guessed the sound to be someone sitting in a chair.

"Well you know about the fever, but in addition she said the only other main concern is that he's dehydrated. She's got him on a drip right now, but since Peter wasn't really lucid enough to tell us how he was feeling, we don't have much to go off of. She thinks it's just a bad bout of the flu.

"There's hives covering basically his entire body, but she's not sure what from. His bloodwork came back normal. But something tells me what I found in his backpack might be the culprit."

"Why? What'd you find?"

There was the distinct sound of a zipper being undone, a little rustling, and then a gasp. "What's all that?" May asked.

"Cold medicine, flu medicine, cough medicine. Doc thinks he took it all at once. The meds didn't mix well, hence the nasty hives."

"Oh Peter…"

There was the muted sound of footsteps approaching Peter's bed before a hand was placed on his head, fingers gently combing through this hair. Peter slowly cracked open his eyes, looking around the dark room.

"Peter, honey? Are you awake?" May leaned over the rail to better see her nephew's face. Peter reached a hand up to scratch at his cheek as his eyes slid shut of their own accord. Gently fingers wrapped around his own, preventing them from completing their mission.

"Don't do that, sweetheart. That'll only make it worse," May said softly. "Can you open your eyes for me?"

With a monumental effort, Peter peeled back his eyelids to gaze up at the slightly blurry image of his aunt.

"Hi," she whispered.

"Hi," he whispered back.

"Hello," came Tony's voice.

"Hey," Peter returned, turning his head to see the man standing on the other side of the bed.

"Gave me and aunt a scare there, hot stuff," Tony said, eyebrows raised and hands shoved into his pockets.

Peter licked his lips and blinked slowly. "Sorry."

"It's okay, sweetheart. We're just glad you're okay." May leaned forward and pressed a kiss to Peter's forehead.

"In the future, not that you're going to be making this a habit, try to refrain from making drug cocktails. Okay?"

Peter couldn't help the sheepish smile that slid onto his face. "I'll try my best."

"Nuh-uh," Tony tutted. "Do or do not. There is no try."

A surprised giggle burst from Peter's throat. "You've been spending too much time with me."

"You said it, kid. Not me."

––––––––––

Thanks for reading! Fav, follow, or review if you've got the time! Up next: Thermoregulation