Peter missed Ned, at his locker, by virtue of the train being delayed, and was forced to rush into his History class, interrupting a movie, apologizing to Mr. Dell and making his way quickly to his seat. Mr. Dell was pretty chill. But he was a stickler about cell phones, so Peter didn't dare pull his out where the screen's glow would quickly give him away, in the darkness. But Mr. Dell had decided to spend the last few days of school watching a movie about the Salem Witch Trials. Could have been worse.
He had a harder time with Señora DeMarcus, in Spanish, because when you turned in extra-credit work or late work, you were supposed to explain and make a case about why it should be accepted. In Spanish. So he spent a chunk of his History class covertly crafting the explanation he'd use in his Spanish class, trying to use words he already knew, so he wouldn't have his phone confiscated for looking up the words. And hoping he remembered the stupid grammar correctly.
"Um, Hola, Señora DeMarcus," he muttered lamely, in practice, trying to memorize the statements he'd cobbled together. He only needed to look up a few words once the bell rang. Because reading things in Spanish, once you knew how the sounds went, was one thing. But remembering the grammar was different.
The bell rang sooner than he wanted it to, and he found himself standing in front of Señora DeMarcus' desk, his mind going utterly blank as his hands went trembly.
"Hola, Señora DeMarcus," his mouth mumbled, and she folded her hands together, looking at him expectantly. "M-Me había ido a trabajar. Una pasantía."
"¿Quiere decir 'por trabajo,' Peter?" came the (first) gentle correction, and Peter reddened, nodding hurriedly. "Ah. Si. M-me da pena," he muttered. He at least knew the right way to apologize for making a mistake.
Señora DeMarcus smiled encouragingly. "¿Dónde está tu pasantía?"
Pasantía. Internship. He'd just looked it up. Dónde was 'where.' "Oh," he said in realization, before he could stop himself. "Um. S-Stark Industries?"
Señora DeMarcus raised an eyebrow. "¿Estás seguro?"
Peter almost laughed in relief. This was something he'd been chastised for before. Giving an answer that sounded like a question always made Señora DeMarcus ask if you were sure.
"Si. Es-Estoy seguro," he stammered. "L-lo es…reciente? Um. N-Nuevo." He changed his tone hurriedly at the end, when he wasn't sure about the word 'recent,' switching it for a word he knew cold: 'new.'
"Enhorabuena," Señora DeMarcus said after a pause, holding out her hand for Peter's work, and he grinned.
"Gracias, Señora DeMarcus."
He gave her his small stack of extra credit work and conjugated words and phrases, and she placed it in her basket to be graded, pointing to the whiteboard, indicating what the class was supposed to be doing, right now.
Peter gratefully released himself to the tedium of a wordsearch about irregular verbs, picking a soft white noise station on his phone (He picked rain, rain was relaxing), popped his ear buds in, and set to work.
"Peter. Hey! Parker," hissed a voice behind him, a few rows back. Peter turned, seeing Josh Scarino, who played trumpet in the band with him. Josh had just been nominated section leader, which put him in charge of making sure music was practiced and memorized.
Josh held up a folded paper—a note—and tossed it to him.
Peter caught it deftly and nodded, turning back in his seat, facing front. He unfolded the paper, more curious than anything.
It was a phone number, and the words 'txt me.'
Peter glanced back toward Josh, who made eye contact, pointed to his phone, and nodded.
Now he was apprehensive.
Peter nevertheless put the number in his phone, sending a simple 'Hey.'
The reply came almost immediately. 'Hey, wanted 2 ask if u could change ur mind + play in the parade? Suze is out with tonsilitis.'
Peter frowned. What parade?
Another message came before Peter could reply. 'I know u said u couldn't. Just thoght u could mb do a few hours. Sry, Drozdo's making me find Suze's rplcemnt.'
Peter's heart jolted when he realized what Josh meant.
The 4th of July parade, brainless.
Peter didn't do 4th of July. He had explained just that thing to Mrs. Drozdo. He had been responsible and informed Josh of his intention to miss the parade. He had turned in his trumpet.
(He had done everything he was supposed to do, he had followed the rules, he said 'resting time.' It was resting time.)
But then stupid Suzan Yang had to get tonsilitis.
(You don't have to tell everyone. And you don't have to tell everything. But Peter, telling people is helpful.)
Peter shut that thought right the hell down.
He had told Mrs. Drozdo in an appropriate, private setting. He had been assured of the confidentiality of their conversation, and he had brought Aunt May with him.
(He had fucking practiced what he would say.)
Stupid Josh Scarino who had never even given Peter the time of day outside of Marching Band, who Peter hadn't even realized was in Spanish with him until literally the day before school ended for the year didn't make the short list of people Peter was maybe okay telling. Or people Peter was okay with even knowing about it secondhand. (Stupid Josh Scarino didn't even make the fucking long list that included maybe someday people like Ned, who had become a very good friend, maybe the first 'best' friend he'd had (since Skip), or his friend Harry from middle school.
Peter took a breath, holding it, before releasing it slowly. Then he took another. He fiddled with his white noise app, turning up the rain sounds, and then he took three more deep breaths.
He breathed until he didn't feel as angry, anymore, and then looked at the text again.
Josh was trying to do what he thought he was supposed to, as the section leader.
Mrs. Drozdo hadn't broken Peter's confidence, which was why Josh was asking in the first place.
Peter didn't necessarily owe Josh the whole explanation. But he did have to tell him something. And Peter would feel better if it was…mostly true. Josh was, he reminded himself, a generally good guy who Peter didn't happen to know very well.
It wasn't Josh's fault if Peter was feeling defensive. Josh didn't know.
'Sorry, can't. I turned in my trumpet already. :)' he sent first, hoping the emoji made clear he meant it as a kind of joke. When you must disappoint someone, make them smile first. 'Also, though, my Aunt always makes a big deal about 4th of July plans. Have you tried Sue Lorman? She was in jazz band.'
Satisfied that his text was factually accurate, and also that he hadn't let slip any of his initial anger, Peter sent it, still a little apprehensively.
Aunt May did make a big deal about making plans on the 4th of July: Because she knew how triggering it got for Peter, otherwise.
And Sue Lorman had been in jazz band; Peter also knew that she had prioritized photography club the second half of the year. But she played the trumpet in the Christmas concert. She might come to the parade if they asked her to.
And the reply came quickly again. 'ya, no prob. Have fun w/ur Aunt—c u at Band Camp!'
Peter smiled.
Okay. Okay. He just had to make it through the rest of the morning, and recharge at lunch with Ned.
But this was still looking like it was a pretty good day.
Tony looked at the list Happy had made, after Tony's throwaway comment, earlier, that Happy didn't have any assets to manage, and wanted to groan. He settled for discarding the list on a countertop next to him (man couldn't even send the list in an e-mail, he had a paper list) as Helen Cho growled at him to hold still—her forte was in tissue regeneration, but she was pretty mad about what was apparently "definitely a skull fracture" above his nose. She had her own tech goodies, which included some kind of real-time x-ray overlays, which she currently wore in a set of surgical loupes, similar to how Tony wore FRIDAY in his sunglasses.
"You're lucky the fracture didn't include the lacrimal bone, or you'd be clearing your schedule for a surgery," she murmured. She was standing in front of him—hunched over him, in fact, as he was sitting—examining him through her tech, maybe a foot away from him. "Doing a fracture surgery to repair a bone that small—"
"How small?" Tony asked, partially because he was trying to find a joke about compensation in there, and partially because he was…morbidly curious about the havoc that had apparently been wreaked on his face by virtue of some…Avengers-sized disagreements.
"Lacrimal bones are…the size of a fingernail," Helen said amiably, holding up a pinky for a visual, used to being interrupted and not taking it personally.
Helen was a peach.
"Oh. Wow. That's. Tiny. It's that important?" Tony winced as Helen's gloved hand put pressure on his forehead, just above his nose, right at the edge of the hurt owie pain.
"Only if you like having a system in place for quickly evacuating irritants."
"Sounds important."
"'Lacrima' is latin. For 'tear.' The Lacrimal bone is essential in tear production and draining, and also supports the orbital cavity. If it's broken, it's very important," Helen murmured.
"I meant about the irritants, it's good, I think, to quickly evacuate—" Tony quipped, and Helen stood up straight, removing the tech from her head, setting the loupes carefully on the counter beside them.
"But you didn't damage the lacrimal bone. Just the upper nasal bone. And the lower frontal bone. Treatment could include a splint, to be safe, which would—"Helen started to explain, spacing her gloved thumb and forefinger better than an inch apart, indicating the size of said splint, and holding it between her own eyebrows.
"Not gonna wear that, no way in Hell," Tony said decisively.
"—of course you won't. It can be left alone without added support, but I would highly recommend maybe wearing something while you sleep. It would speed up healing here, too," she let her fingers hover over the sizeable bruising under his right eye, and Tony blinked and reflexively moved his head away from them. "And I can prescribe painkillers," she added, and Tony shook his head.
"Nope. I've got that thing. With the—" Tony made a vague circular gesture with his hand, which explained nothing, "—and there are meds that screw it up. And the whole. You know."
Helen, curiously enough, seemed to follow Tony's train of thought. "You're allowed to have painkillers, Tony. I have Dr. Reynolds' treatment review diagnostic as a tab in my file for you; he only said that due to your past struggles with substance abuse, that any brain-chemistry-altering medications should be okayed with him first, and that he prefers to treat your PTSD without use of medication. What I'm referring to wouldn't be anywhere near morphine-level, but stronger than, say, Aspirin," she said certainly. "I'm cautious myself about prescribing anything potentially habit-forming."
Tony frowned. "Well. I dunno. In, uh, the spirit of full disclosure, Doc? I kinda…fell off the wagon. Yesterday. With. You know. Rhodey and all."
Helen nodded. "You used? Or you had a drink?"
Tony smiled at her, and there was no humor in it. "I'm. I'm an alcoholic, Helen. I don't just. I don't have one drink. I have ten drinks."
"Who is your sponsor?" Helen asked carefully, her facial expression calm and non-judgemental.
"Happy," Tony winced. "He, ah. He knows. We talked about it. I'm. Um. Gonna have him help me get a new sponsor, he's too close, we agreed. Even caught a meeting, at Columbia last night."
"It sounds like you have it handled," Helen said, nodding.
"Yeah, well. You know," Tony said dismissively. "The, uh. The kid. Y'know. Um. My…intern. Saw it. Me. Drunk. I, uh. I think I scared him. A little. So."
Helen let the silence drift—she knew Tony often had more to add—and then said, in the form of a question, "Your…intern? Have I met him?"
Tony shook his head. "Not yet. Ink's still wet, you know. Gonna bring him in soon, though—he's enhanced. He's. Well. He's, uh, Spider-Man, actually. You're, uh, officially his GP, since he's under payroll at SI, though, so keep it on the downlow."
Helen arched an eyebrow, but otherwise said nothing.
"Anyway. Happy's. Um. Gonna be working on his promotion, I guess. And I put him in charge of Peter—that's. That's my intern. Peter Parker—so. I was gonna pull out the, uh, braces. For. For Rhodey's, uh. For Rhodey. And I guess I need you to verify that I'm…listening to your treatment, or whatever, or else this, uh. This new Protocol won't let me into my lab."
Helen smiled. "Ah. Been awake a little too long?"
Tony's eyes narrowed. "Wait. Were you in on this?"
"My official treatment…includes a prescription for the bruising—if there's more pressure, in the form of bruising or swelling on the skin, it can risk making the fracture worse. And if you don't want to wear the splint, I'm afraid I'm going to have to insist on the painkillers," Helen said breezily, pulling up a screen to interface, and FRIDAY let her. And…it wasn't an answer to Tony's question, he noticed.
"Because of your hesitance and my own caution concerning your medical history, I'm prescribing regular Ibuprofen, which you could technically get over-the-counter anyway. It's an anti-inflammatory, which helps with bruising and swelling, for you to take every six hours as-needed. Please supplement it with ice, not heat, at the source," Helen finished signing the digital prescription and forwarded it to his pharmacy.
Tony nodded, and Helen offered him a guilty smile. "I can't lift the ban by myself, I'm afraid. You'll have to call Pepper for the override code."
Tony groaned. Today…he was really not having the best day.