Bruce Banner is not answering his phone. He hasn't been, of course. Not since Ultron, but Tony is getting to the end of his chances. Dr. Helen Cho is on a plane to New York with a hand-picked colleague with experience in medicating enhanced individuals, but the leading expert in that field is currently who-knows-where doing who-knows-what instead of answering Tony's tenth call in as many minutes.

As much as he understands the urge to run and hide, he can't help being pissed that Bruce would ignore him like this. F.R.I.D.A.Y. is directing the setup of a small medical lab in Brooklyn to transfer Peter, May is guiding him into the hospital bed, the nurses have managed to get his fever down to 106, and Tony feels helpless. And, of course, Pepper is running the board meeting he left.

Realistically, he can't do anything. He's not a doctor, and he's not some medical expert. All he can do is watch as Peter babbles to May in frantic whispers, his breaths wet and ragged. Most of it, Tony can't really pick up, but he hears one sentence cut through the rest.

"I want to go home," Peter says. His forehead rests on May's shoulder, and his eyes are closed.

"I know, honey," she whispers, rubbing his back soothingly with one hand and his hair with the other. "Lay down for me?" Peter obeys, but as soon as he's down on the bed, he grabs her hand. Her other hand keeps smoothing his hair out of his face. It would be a sweet picture, Tony thinks, if the kid didn't so clearly have one foot in the grave.

"F.R.I.D.A.Y.," he says under his breath, "get Happy out here as soon as possible."

"You have an incoming call from Pepper Potts, sir," she says in his ear.

"Ignore."


Happy is losing his mind, he thinks. Being stuck between Pepper and Tony was bad enough, but now he's got a whole other obligation to a kid who probably—no, definitely—has a death wish. All things considered, though, Peter isn't as bad a charge as Tony. When he doesn't stop talking, it's usually earnest, curious questions instead of condescending quips. Sometimes he feels bad about putting Happy through something particularly rough. Pepper's better than both of them by a mile, though. Pepper doesn't seek out fights with the grim fucking reaper.

But having a bodyguard, an asset manager, or whatever it is Happy is these days doesn't stop pneumonia. It doesn't stop how small Peter looks in a hospital bed with an oxygen mask on—"He was turning blue," Tony had said. And yeah, Happy gets that. He understands that he's not gonna be able to protect this weird kid from everything, especially all the things the kid protects others from. He gets it, but that doesn't make it any easier. If anyone asks, he'll deny it, but Peter's grown on him since the plane incident with the Vulture.

Happy sits in a chair outside Peter's room, pretending to read a magazine. It's got the kid's face on the cover and a two-page spread about Richard, Mary, and Ben Parker. Instead, Happy flips to Who Wore It Best and settles in. The ambulance had been called approximately two hours ago, and Dr. Cho and her colleague had gotten on a jet at an executive airport in Sacramento about one hour after that. The plane would take approximately 4 hours to arrive at Rochester, where a helicopter would pick them up and drop them off directly at the medical lab in Brooklyn in approximately 15 minutes.

He's got it timed. Now he waits.


For Peter, waiting takes a lifetime. He shivers uncontrollably under the thin white blankets, and his forehead shines with sweat. The oxygen mask the nurse had fitted over his face pumped a steady flow of cool, clean air at him. May's hand is in his hair as his eyelids fight to close. She's resting her chin on the bed, and he can tell by the way her eyes close halfway that she's tired too. He takes the hand in his hair and holds it against his cheek, letting his eyes close.

May takes it as permission. Her eyes close as well.