When May hangs up, she braces herself with a deep, shuddering breath before she goes back into the room. Peter's still crying, begging the nurses to let him go. They've got him down to his underwear, and there are five of the biggest nurses May's ever seen pushing down on his shoulders, but his body is still hovering above the ice bath by a good three inches. She kneels beside him.

"Peter," she says. Her eyes fill with fresh tears when his wide, wild eyes meet them.

"May," he sobs. She puts her hands on either side of his face, and he squeezes his eyes shut.

"Peter, please, please get in the tub," she begs. "It won't hurt you, I promise. They only want to help."

Peter stops trying to push himself out, but he still doesn't let himself down. He opens his eyes again.

"May, help," he whispers, and his voice is rasping and filled with tears and horror.

"I know you're scared, Peter," she says, stroking his cheek with a thumb. The doctor told her to use his name repeatedly as a way to comfort and ground him. "I'm scared, too. But I need you to get in the ice for me, Peter."

Peter gives a heaving, racking sob, accompanied by another round of wet coughs, before he slowly lowers his body into the ice. May counts it as a start.


Tony counts it on the long list of things he never wanted to see. Or hear, for that matter. Of course, that meant he'd never forget it. He sees May beg Peter to get in, Peter crying and coughing, nurses trying ineffectually to force him into the tub. It isn't until Peter's actually in the tub for a few seconds, melting the ice like he's a human frying pan, that a nurse even notices Tony.

"Sir," he said, adjusting his scrubs after the struggle, "you can't be here." Tony can pinpoint the exact moment the nurse recognizes him by the sudden falter in his voice. May whips her head around, but Peter doesn't notice.

"No!" she all but shouts. She flinches at her own volume before she continues. "No, it's okay. I called him. He can stay."

"Give me his stats," Tony orders, and the nurses all trip over themselves to spit out the information. Tony scrubs a hand over his face. 116 is higher than he thought was possible, and he really wishes the kid would stop trying to outdo himself.

He fits an earpiece into his ear, tapping the button on the side to activate F.R.I.D.A.Y. in case he needs her. May is still comforting Peter, who's whimpering into her hands.

"Sir," the first nurse says, tripping over his words while the other nurses empty bags of ice into the tub. "Mr.—uh, Mr. Stark, sir, the medications aren't, uh, working, sir."

Tony scowls. "What do you mean they're not working?"

The nurse seems to find his confidence again, at least. "We pushed pulse antibiotics and we gave him Tylenol to try and reduce his fever, but he burned off the antibiotics and threw up the Tylenol. He's been doing that with everything we've given him. That plus the, uh, considerable strength." He seems reluctant to continue.

Tony's lips press into a hard line. "Well?" he prompts.

"He seems to be enhanced, sir."

Ton rolls his eyes. "Okay, duh. F.R.I.D.A.Y., draw me up a nondisclosure agreement."

"You've heard of HIPAA, right?"


Peter is surprised at how good it feels. He's never had the urge to dunk himself in a tub of ice, but it is way better than he ever thought it would be. May's hands are cool and soothing on his red, scorching face, so he leans into them and closes his eyes. He's vaguely aware of some discussion across the little room and some whimpering he thinks might be coming from him, but he times it out. Instead, he focuses on May's voice, reassuring and familiar and sweet.

"It's alright," she whispers. "It's okay, you're gonna be okay, we're gonna make you okay again." She rubs her thumbs back and forth on his cheeks. "I love you, you're gonna be okay."

He doesn't feel as hot, but his whole body still aches. His lungs still feel as though every millimeter of them is being branded.

He loses himself again, possibly dozing off.

When he opens his eyes, May and Mr. Stark—how long he's been here, Peter isn't sure—are talking fervently in the corner, and strong hands are lifting him out of the cool water that used to be ice. The hands hold him up, help him into a pair of gray sweatpants and a hospital gown.

A disembodied voice—maybe the hands can talk, Peter thinks—announces, "His fever's down to one-oh seven."

"We're transferring him," Mr. Stark says instead of responding.

"That is not advised at all, sir," another floating voice says. This one is a woman. "If you move him, he could die. No other hospital in New York is going to be better equipped. We're all on equal footing with this."

Mr. Stark sighs. It's a sound Peter's grown accustomed to. "I understand, Doctor. You've all done your best. Expect a donation, but we are moving him. Somewhere that's equipped to deal with him, specifically."

Peter's eyes close again.