Peter was glad it was lunchtime. He was glad for the break it gave him from the monotony of going to class, and he was hungry.

But he had to brace himself internally to enter the lunchroom.

After a day like he'd had yesterday (God, it was just yesterday), Peter knew he was tempting fate, exposing himself to so much…stimulus. He was headed straight for a sensory overload and he knew it. And on top of everything he already had put on hold to talk with May about…this would be just one more reason for her to be concerned.

And he didn't want her to be concerned. The both of them were just…predisposed toward being a bundle of nerves, all the time. Constant worriers. That was why when she freaked out, it made him freak out, and it wasn't fair, really, to dump that kind of responsibility on her—to make her have to set her own stuff aside in deference to him having a panic attack.

If that wasn't the most unfair thing Peter had ever heard.

But she just smiled sadly, when he mentioned this. 'Them's the breaks, kiddo. I'm the adult. And you're right. It's not fair. But being responsible and having to keep a lid on my own shit so I can take care of you? That's just part of being a grown-up."

But the alternative to the over-stimulating lunchroom was skipping lunch. And potentially not seeing Ned.

Not a good trade. At all.

Back in January, after Peter had finally been allowed to transfer in, mid-year, when a spot opened up, he'd…not had the best first impression on a few people. (He had the worst luck. Aunt May said Parker Luck should be a bad trademark, alongside Murphy's Law.)

He'd inadvertently made enemies with Flash Thompson when he'd been first to finish and turn in a Geography quiz—turning in work first was Flash's thing—and gotten a perfect score. And so, Flash had gone out of his way to harass Peter every passing period. Just. Stupid stuff. Peter had always been 'Pukey Parker' when he was younger, because of how easy it had been for him to get nauseous, or else 'Puny Parker' because of how scrawny he was. Well, now his nickname had changed with the times, and Flash had christened him 'Penis Parker.' Who knew why?

It was…well, it wasn't better, now, Flash could still be a dick, but Peter had been handling it better of late than he had back then. (The bar was pretty low, anyway. Handling it better than the kid he'd been in January, fresh grief from his uncle's death, powers he was still terrified of, so much so that his practices in restraint involved him learning to juggle with eggs, and still figuring out just how much he needed to eat, all the time.)

So, sitting by himself at a lunch table, trying to open his milk with fingers that were starting to go shaky from a mixture of nerves and hunger, Peter had met Ned.

There had been no preamble; just Ned, sitting down next to Peter, offering him his dessert in exchange for Peter's banana, saying something about coconut shavings always getting stuck in his teeth whenever he tried German chocolate.

Peter had wordlessly made the trade, Ned had smiled at him, and that had been that. Friends. At least, according to Ned, who had taken the action as permission to release the floodgates of questions that he always had about everything, and further, an open invitation to sit next to Peter every day at lunch.

The lunchroom was where they'd met. Where they'd become friends. And despite any of his feelings of being wrong-footed, today, despite any misgivings about wanting to avoid stressing himself out, when Peter saw Ned ambling over to the table he was already sitting at, the smile he felt on his face was genuine, and he felt relief seep through him, like a wave.

Ned just…had that effect. On Peter.

(It was the first time (since Skip) Peter had associated feelings of happiness, and home and safety with someone other than Uncle Ben or Aunt May.)

Ned set down his tray, and held out a hand, eyebrows raised in a question, and Peter grinned as they performed the well-known mechanics of their handshake.

And immediately, the lunchroom noise seemed to dull to a buzz as Peter focused on updating Ned on everything. And the act of updating Ned served as a reminder to himself on his accomplishments of his weekend, and of today, at least homework-wise; it allowed him to feel calmer, because he had done that stuff. He'd had a chance to talk to most of his teachers, to hand in his assignments, and check in on the online components to some of the classes, and even if he wasn't able to turn in his Math or his English, he still wouldn't be in danger of losing his scholarship, which required him to maintain at least a B average.

(One thing at a time, Peter. No matter how small. And pay attention: do you feel better? Or worse?)

Peter found himself smiling, giving the non-Spider-Man version of his weekend events, managing to convey an adequate level of excitement about the Stark internship, and letting Ned's natural enthusiasm bolster his own.

"So, wait, you got an internship at Stark Industries?" Ned said, obviously very impressed. "Wow. That's awesome. And you actually met Tony Stark?"

"Yeah," Peter said, feeling a kind of gentle warmth at Ned's approval. "I got to go on the company retreat and meet some cool people Mr. Stark works with."

Ned was practically star-struck. "No way! Like who? Have they found Dr. Banner?"

Peter laughed. "I asked that first, too! No, he's still missing. There were some cool people, though. Um. A King? Of Wakanda? King…T'Challa? I think that's his name. And, um, I got some emails and paperwork from, like, Pepper Potts."

At the last second, Peter realized that maybe he shouldn't mention meeting other Avengers, seeing as how the Avengers hadn't been at Peter's SI retreat, they had an alibi of being in Germany. With Spider-Man. Who Peter wasn't. Nope. Not the same guy at all.

"Oh, wow!" Ned said, offering his apple to Peter, who traded his own orange.

"I was never as good at world geography," Ned was saying, now, peeling the orange as Peter devoured the heaping of buttery broccoli that accompanied the slightly sad-looking turkey sandwich that was usually the choice for lunch this close to the last day of school. "Wakanda is in Africa, I know—is it, like, its own city? Like the Vatican? Or was it an island?"

"The Kingdom of Wakanda sits directly between Uganda and Kenya. It's landlocked, on the same side of Africa as the Indian Ocean."

Ned and Peter, as one, turned in surprise to see Michelle Jones at the end of their table.

How did she do that?

"How…do you know that?" Ned asked, and Michelle quirked an eyebrow, unimpressed. She was reading a thick paperback—a Hannibal Lecter, Peter thought—and occasionally bringing an apple to her mouth to take bites of.

"I like to know the answers to past Jeopardy questions," she answered in her monotonous way, eyes already seeking her page again, like the conversation bored her.

The rest of lunch was uneventful; Ned mentioned wistfully that he wanted to meet Tony Stark, but eventually started talking about something that had happened in his math class, and Peter brought up the movie from History class, which led the conversation on a tangent about Wynona Rider, and an upcoming Netflix show she was gonna be in, with Michelle sitting there, offering no input to the conversation, and yet Peter didn't doubt that she was still tracking it.

As the conversation shifted from plans for the next day's classes, to rehashings of epic pranks Seniors pulled, to how it was going to be, doing decathlon practices over the summer, which had never been a requirement under Bart Cranz, the atmosphere in the lunchroom made the usual shift from 'socializing' to 'expectant' like it always did right before the bell rang, and Ned and Peter stood, Peter still in the middle of his point that Liz Toomes doing things differently was going to be really helpful.

(Michelle was gone, like a ninja, and Peter didn't know when she'd left. She was. She was really good at that. Like. Seriously.)

Ned smiled at him and they did their handshake again in parting; he said something about texting Peter to see what his plans were for later in the week, and Peter grinned. Lunch was done—arguably the most stressful part of his day—and he just had one more class to go, and then he could do some patrolling with his new suit.

And if May worked early, it meant she'd be home for dinner, so maybe Peter could get started on it. He could make her a Parker Special, and maybe eat a few of those energy bars—the Parker Special reached its peak of goodness as leftovers, of which there would be none, if Peter was hungry enough. And he always was, since the bite.

Maybe he could even keep her from wanting to talk about his incidents yesterday. Resting Time could extend to tomorrow, or even the whole weekend, if Peter was attentive enough to his ability to keep her distracted.

Best. Day. Ever.

-o-

Tony stepped out of his car upon returning from his stupid errand (His R8 V10 was a sleek, ostentatious indulgence in a vibrant orange that Pepper refused to ride in, claiming she didn't want to "fill a stereotype," whatever that meant) and FRIDAY informed him that the override had been implemented, and asked whether a timer should be set to monitor the countdown for the 3 hours Pepper had allotted.

Tony took the glasses off in annoyance, partly because of the comment, partly because it was already 11 and he hadn't even started trying to do any sort of calibration with the prototype leg braces he'd put together for Rhodey, and partly, honestly, because of the big Avenger's 'A' symbol glaring at him because he hadn't entered by way of the parking garage, this time.

Tony, though, allowed his mind to compartmentalize. Efficiency was key. He was okay with using limited time efficiently. He didn't have to be a baby about it.

Besides. Keeping busy was a great helper in his sobriety.

(And if he really, really wanted a fucking drink, he needed any help he could get, he was in this weird place, between sponsors, not wanting to bug Happy, so just. You know. Buck up, Buttercup.)

Rhodey was, indeed, up—had been for hours, he said—and even felt relatively normal.

Except that he was still laying prone on a hospital bed when he said it.

The prognosis was extreme laceration of the spinal cord—The L4-S1 section of the spine had all but shattered. Tony had kept himself up most of yesterday in intensive research into what this entailed, and had successfully managed to send himself into a tailspin.

This kind of damage meant paralysis. Loss of bladder and bowel control. Constant nerve pain. Christ, the sciatic nerves were all bundled up in there. These were the worries. And the regular procedure in the field of medicine was to dope him up to mask the pain. Maybe some PT to help stabilize the back and keep the muscles and joints well-conditioned. And a recommendation to avoid things like bending the spine, jumping, or heavy exercise.

Well, that obviously wouldn't work. So fuck that.

Past that, there were surgeries that could help; things to help nerves from being compressed, or to remove different parts of the bones to force them into a new structure.

A fusion that looked promising involved taking bone from the hip and using it to help stabilize the affected area. And all but guaranteeing permanent problems with both areas; it would always hurt, or be numb. Always. It also increased the chances of osteoarthritis in the affected joints.

At what point was that...acceptable? What kind of Frankenstein bullshit was this? We'll give you back your legs and make it so that you don't need a colostomy bag, but it will cost you a half-foot of nerves and probably make it kind of uncomfortable for the rest of your life.

King T'Challa had offered Wakanda's help and services, but FRIDAY had mentioned his official coronation this week, or something. So Tony didn't want to hold his breath, waiting for someone to reach out.

Tony didn't do waiting well.

And as excited as Tony was about the potential of helping heal Rhodey using whatever technology had enabled that really cool nanotech vibranium armor of their new ally, he was also hopeful that there were options a little closer to home.

Namely, he had Helen Cho on his payroll, in addition to a shiny Regeneration Cradle that had been installed in the lab when she'd started work at the Compound: a copy or upgrade in every way of the tech she'd already developed at U-GIN, in Seoul.

Once she was in the loop, looking at Rhodey's charts, forwarded to her from Germany, and then the updated ones from Columbia, Helen was generally optimistic that, given enough time, she'd be able to graft synthetic bone into Rhodey's spine instead of pulling from his hip. She'd only just been able to look at him in person, to do a physical exam of her own, which Tony had been present for, and had seemed confident in her proposed course of action.

"Bone is simply body tissue with a unique internal structure which gives it rigidity," she said, her fingers tracing the bone fragments visible in Rhodey's x-ray. "The principal components of different kinds of bones distinguish them from other hard tissues, like shell or enamel, like what is found in your teeth. We know the ratio of specific components like collagen and calcium phosphate in the rest of Colonel Rhode's spine, and so the Regeneration Cradle knows what simulacrum to graft."

"Your. Your tech can make bones? The…the internal structure isn't too…complex?" Rhodey asked, and Tony couldn't help but note how his eyes kept tracking back to the fragments of bone that used to constitute the base of his spine.

"My cradle could even bond vibranium to your skeleton to make your skeletal structure stronger as a whole, if we should give it that directive. We have the capability," Helen smiled. "Not that I would suggest it; that would be a much longer, drawn-out process, and likely such a procedure would kill anyone who tried to do it," she hastened to add. "We haven't conducted enough tests with the vibranium atoms and organic tissue in a living person."

"So…that's the kind of work you're doing here?" Rhodey smiled. "Good thing for us, I guess. And, like, the greater scientific community."

Helen seemed at ease, discussing her work, and Tony was…gratified. That he'd been able to help her achieve something she was obviously so passionate about.

"Vision has kindly allowed us access to his unique physiology in the form of regular testing," Helen continued, still mainly addressing Rhodey, since he seemed so interested. "We hope to be able to replicate the process that created him, but in hopes of integrating perfected, synthetic tissue and even entire organs into humans in need of transplants. It's very exciting." She glanced at Tony, then. "Perhaps a little slow for Dr. Selvig, who is more comfortable with Einstein-Rosen Bridges than other branches of theoretical science-made-real," she said, and her intent seemed to be to invite him to comment – bring him back into the conversation.

"Might be some movement on that front," Tony offered. "Sorry, the. The vibranium, not the. Not Selvig. Selvig's on. Ah. Extended leave. Or something. Probably. Not. But King T'Challa said something about using nanotech with vibranium. If his suit is anything to go by, the tech is way more advanced than we ever thought. One of FRIDAY's sub-protocols is trying to hack them. Just a side-hobby. Not trying too hard. She did a great job analyzing the components of his suit, though. And we should be hearing from them soon. Ish. Just. Y'know. To throw that out there."

Rhodey was looking at him, now, with the same expression on his face that Helen had. The same expression Happy had worn when he confronted Tony about his drinking. "Tony, when's the last time you slept?"

Tony groaned. "I'm. Well. Grounded. Or something. How much time I got, FRI?" he addressed this last to FRIDAY, who obligingly pulled up a timer on the sunglasses HUD he obligingly slipped back on.

"Two hours and change, Boss."

"Great. Pull up the specs, please? We still have Rhodey's measurements on file?"

"Of course, Boss," FRIDAY smoothly pulled up Tony's private file next to where Helen had already pulled up Rhodey's scans.

"This. Ah. This is what I was thinking, Doc. Offering. Uh. Support where it probably needs to be is gonna be something I'll need. Ah. Your expertise on. And you, Rhodes. I'm. I dunno. I can't. I can't fix it, buddy. But. Uh. This. This is me trying. So."

And Tony wordlessly blew the schematic up, so the blueprint took on a more three-dimensional profile, allowing it to rotate and be easier to understand and manipulate. Helen reached out, pointing to the lumbar supports already in place.

"I don't like the thought of where the pressure points of the tech would rest naturally on his spine. Maybe broaden this, add padding. Shock-absorption is key, here, while we wait on my grafts to take hold. Really, I don't see you testing this for at least another week. And that would only be if I used sedation with the bonding process, to make absolutely certain the muscles only expand and contract when directed by the Cradle's stimulation."

"Wait, you. Like, put me under?" Rhodey held up a hand, hiding a slight wince, but Tony saw it.

"Think of it like a surgery, Colonel Rhodes," Helen said easily. "I must insist, actually. It ensures the highest chance of a successful bond with a minimum risk to yourself. No risk of further injury, and much safer than keeping you awake."

As Helen continued to try and talk Rhodey into the surgery, Tony swiped a hand at the braces, making the projection spin around a few times. "We got a. I dunno. PT specialist clocked in? FRI?" Tony asked, and FRIDAY sent a list to his HUD.

"Sure, boss. Doctors Scully, Oyama and Zakarian are all available."

"Any of them familiar with combining new techniques?"

"Dr. Scully's history indicates familiarity with innovation."

Tony nodded, as FRIDAY helpfully pulled a file. "Sure. Bring him in. I want this to be prioritized, where possible. I mean. To. To an extent. It's. It's important to me, FRI."

"Of course, Boss."

Tony allowed himself a terse sigh. And then re-immersed himself in the conversation Rhody and Helen were still conducting. This was what he could do. He couldn't go back in time and fix it so that it had never happened. (Oh that he could. For any of the screw-ups he'd committed or discovered in the past week.)

He could get this fixed. He could give Rhodey back his fucking legs. Even if he had to hire out every orthopedic, neurology or general surgeon in New York.

(He…sort of had. He'd had FRIDAY put out feelers of where he could draft offers that would likely be accepted by select members of staff of certain hospitals throughout the city. From Clinica Sonando in Harlem to some Psych hospital in Hell's Kitchen. Just. As Needed stuff. Project-by-project basis. By the book and completely legal, none of this 'make 'em an offer they can't refuse' crap. Just. He had this shit-ton of money. Might as well use it for good.)

He focused on the hologram, zooming in on the parts Helen had asked to change, and pulling up the X-rays next to them, murmuring to FRIDAY to make a new overlay. FRIDAY obligingly blew up the x-ray, in essence "fitting" the schematic over the now three-dimensional picture of Rhodey's broken spine. And he got to work.