Chapter Text
This story is set in an Alternative Universe where Peter lives with the rest of the Avengers, and has been resident there since the events of TAS, on Fury's orders. The SHIELD director wasn't about to let a 17-year-old superhero fly solo, not when there was a ready-made superhero babysitting service available to keep the teenager out of trouble (and out of Fury's completely-metaphorical hair).
Our story begins about eight months down the line, on an average mid-summer night, where the city is quiet (for once) and nothing at all seems amiss...
He wasn't sure, at first, what had woken him. The room was still dim, the only source of light coming from the alarm clock on the bedside table, the red digits glaring at him angrily in the darkness. And no wonder; it was still stupid o'clock in the morning, there was absolutely no need for him to be awake, not for another five or six hours at least.
It wasn't until he rolled over and tried to heave a sigh, only to discover that he couldn't, that the reason for his sudden return to consciousness became apparent.
Shit.
He pushed himself upright on instinct, trying to lever the weight off his chest, only to find that the tightness was not due to something being on him, but rather something within him that seemed determined to restrict his lung capacity. He coughed, hoping that it was a physical blockage - mucus, saliva, dust – something that his body could clear by itself. But suddenly he couldn't stop coughing. And God, it hurt.
The force of it had him doubling over, one arm wrapped around his abdomen, the other yanking back the bedclothes so that he could stagger towards the en-suite bathroom, squinting against the sudden glare of the sensor-triggered spotlights in the ceiling as his fingers gripped the cool porcelain of the sink, shoulders hunched and chest heaving as he tried to suck in enough air to satisfy his starved lungs.
“Master Parker,” JARVIS spoke, the soft English vowels echoing in the spacious tiled bathroom. “You appear to be experiencing respiratory distress. Do you require assistance?”
Peter shook his head frantically, even though the AI wouldn’t be able to see him (the bathrooms in the main suites were perhaps the only place Jarvis didn’t have eyes), hunching over a little more to try and take the weight off his chest, sucking in each breath desperately.
“I’m…I’m fine,” he managed between gulps of air, trying to ignore the alarm bells going off in his head; a shrill, frantic voice that cried ‘asthma attack, asthma attack, asthma attack!’ in a continuous mantra.
It couldn’t be an asthma attack. That was impossible. He’d only needed to use his inhalers a handful of times since he’d hit puberty (he’d kept them around the house, just in case, and Aunt May had insisted on him taking two puffs of his steroid inhaler morning and night whenever he came down with a cold). He’d been the type of kid to catch every flu bug and chest infection and head-cold that passed his way, and he’d certainly been no stranger to viral-induced wheezes (he and the Memorial Hospital emergency department had become well acquainted every winter season), but that had all been Before. Before the bite, before his body chemistry had re-written itself and given him a fucking amazing immune system. In the eleven months that had passed since then, he hadn’t suffered so much as a sniffle.
Which was why this couldn’t be an asthma attack. It couldn’t.
“My scans indicate that both your heart and respiratory rate have greatly exceeded medically satisfactory parameters,” Jarvis informed him, and Peter had to applaud Tony for incorporating such a broad vocal spectrum into the AI’s design. Jarvis sounded downright worried.
“Don’t…don’t sweat it, J,” Peter croaked, squeezing his eyes shut against a sudden wave of dizziness (‘oxygen deficiency,’ that frantic voice in his head insisted). “M’okay. Honest.”
“I’m afraid my programming dictates that I contact another member of the team regarding your current physical well-being,” Jarvis spoke, sounding completely unapologetic.
Peter’s head shot up at that, eyes wide. “No! M’fine. Jus’…just gimme a sec, okay?”
“Please try to remain calm,” the AI continued, clearly having chosen to override Peter’s request (seriously, the computer was such a tattle-tale). “Help will be with you shortly.”
The teenager swore under his breath, pushing himself away from the sink and stumbling back into the main bedroom, making a beeline for his dresser. If he was about to get bombarded by half of the team, he wasn’t going to sit there in nothing but his boxers. Not that he was self-conscious or anything. Another bonus of the whole spider-bite gig was that he had a fucking amazing metabolism that seemed to burn through all the crap that he ate and turn it into lean muscle. But it just seemed like common courtesy to make an effort to clothe himself. It might also win him some brownie points in convincing the others that he was fine, because bare-chested he could see the extent of the recession in his chest and abdomen where the muscles strained to aid his diaphram and yeah, no, that wasn't normal.
However, even the act of pulling a t-shirt over his head and threading his arms through the sleeves left him breathless, panting; staggering back to sit on the edge of the mattress with his elbows braced on his knees, head hanging low and shoulders heaving as he tried to ease the tightness in his chest.
Jesus Christ. For what clearly wasn’t an asthma attack, it sure as hell felt like one.
OoOoO
“Cute. Real cute. You gonna give it back now?”
Steve passed the screwdriver to his other hand so that it was further out of reach. “I will,” he promised, hooking his foot around the lower bar of Tony’s rolling stool to pull him away from the workbench. “Tomorrow. Come on, Tony, it’s nearly 2am. Time to call it a day.”
Tony rolled his eyes, but obligingly tossed his pen back onto the workbench. “You’re lucky I like you, Capsicle. It’s not everyone who gets away with nickin’ my stuff without legal ramifications.”
Steve hummed agreeably, lips twitching up in a quiet smile as he tugged Tony away from the workbench and gave him a friendly shove towards the exit. “Bed, Tony.”
“Oh, Captain!” The mechanic spun around to walk backwards, waggling his eyebrows at the soldier and clutching a hand to his chest in faux-surprise. “This is all so sudden. You haven’t even bought me a drink yet.”
Steve felt his cheeks heat up, even as he gave Tony another shove. “You’re incorrigible.”
Tony grinned, leaning his hip against the door of the workshop. “Why, thank you. It’s taken a few years, but I really think I’ve perfected my-”
“Pardon the interruption, Sir,” Jarvis spoke, the volume pitched just a little shy of too loud so that the engineer couldn’t possibly ignore him. “But I believe a situation may have arisen that falls under the category of a ‘P.S.M.I’.”
Tony straightened immediately from his casual slouch, glancing over towards one of the many hidden cameras that served as the computer programme’s eyes.
“Are you sure?”
Taking notice of the billionaire’s abrupt change in mood, Steve felt the first twinge of dread uncurl in the pit of his stomach.
“What’s a P.S.M.I?”
“A Potentially Serious Medical Issue,” the A.I informed him calmly, then hastened to add, “The acronym was not of my choosing.”
“A medical issue?” Steve could feel the dread twisting up into a sharp, cold fear. “What’s wrong, is someone hurt?”
“Master Parker appears to be suffering from acute respiratory distress, the cause of which is unclear.”
“Peter?” Tony was already moving towards the elevator, Steve less than half a step behind him. “Jarvis, get us up there. Double-time.”
The elevator whirred to life and began ascending rapidly. Steve braced a hand against the wall to steady himself until his stomach caught up with the rest of him, his brow creased in worry as he watched the blue numbers move from single to double digits on the small screen above the elevator doors.
“Should I notify Dr Banner, Sir?” Jarvis queried.
Tony was silent for a moment, then shook his head once. “No, not yet. We’ll assess the situation first; it might be something we can fix.”
Steve understood his reasoning. ‘Respiratory distress’ covered a wide spectrum of medical possibilities, but it wasn’t necessarily indicative of an emergency situation. Steve had suffered through enough panic attacks, post-traumatic distress and flashbacks to know that medicine wasn’t always the answer. Given what Peter had gone through this past year – gaining his abilities, losing his uncle, that whole mess with Dr Connors and the legal action taken against Spiderman by OSCORP, Captain Stacy's death, Gwen Stacy’s kidnapping, his aunt’s waning health – he was certainly entitled to a meltdown or two. Or six. The kid was made of strong stuff, that was for sure, but he was still just that: a kid. And although Steve and the rest of the team had tried to give him the support he needed, the reality of the situation was that the Avengers were the frontline defence for planet earth against the rest of the universe (most of which seemed out to get them), and that kind of sacrifice came with a heavy burden of responsibility. Their particular line of work tended to come with consequences, both physical and mental.
“He wasn’t injured, right?” Tony asked, although who he was actually directing the question towards - Steve, Jarvis or himself - was unclear. “In the confrontation yesterday? He would’ve said something. One of us would’ve noticed.”
Steve felt just about as convinced as Tony sounded. Admittedly, Peter had a rather poor history for accurately reporting injuries post-mission. He tended to either grossly understate the severity of his wounds or hide them from the team altogether. And while the teenager might have a super-human healing factor that surpassed even his own, Steve still made a point to enforce medical checks as often as possible. He’d lost enough good men during the war to understand the potentially fatal consequences of unreported injuries.
With that at the forefront of his mind, he slipped quickly through the still-parting doors of the elevator and made his way along the hallway at a sprint, skidding to a halt outside the master bedroom and rapping lightly on the door.
“Peter?” he called. “It’s Steve, champ. Can I come in?”
When no reply was immediately forthcoming, the cold ball of fear within him churned a little more. Acting on gut instinct alone (because something was wrong, something was very wrong, he just knew it), he turned the handle and pushed the door open, taking a step into the room.
Steve’s heart lurched in his chest at the sight that met him. Peter was sitting hunched over on the edge of the bed, elbows braced against his knees and shoulders heaving as he sucked in loud, wheezy breaths. Jarvis had turned the spotlights up a little brighter, and in the dim yellow glow of the room, Steve could see the alarming pallor of the teenager’s skin. In the half-second that it took him to absorb the situation, he stood frozen in the doorway, but he quickly shook himself from his stupor. Crossing the room in several long, rapid strides, he perched on the edge of the bed beside the younger man, one hand settling on his back as the other arm wrapped around the kid's chest to try and lever him upright a little.
“Peter?”
“M’okay,” the teenager wheezed, letting Steve prop him up against his shoulder.
“Jarvis,” Tony spoke from the doorway, in a tone that said ‘I’m panicking but I’m pretending not to’. “Call Bruce. Now.”
Shaking his head, Peter made an effort to protest, although the words were lost in a series of barking coughs that sounded painful enough to make Steve wince. They seemed to drain the kid of whatever energy he had left, because once the coughing had stopped he slumped like a puppet whose strings had been cut, breathing raggedly and with an audible high-pitched wheeze on both inhale and exhale that sounded all too familiar to Steve’s ears.
“Peter,” he hedged, concern lacing his tone as he ducked his head a little, trying to catch the teenager’s eye. “Peter, do you have asthma?”
The younger man shook his head again. “Not…not since…” He wriggled the fingers of one hand in a poor imitation of a spider crawling. “Before.”
“Is that what this is?” Tony asked, hovering half a pace away from them, his anxiety made apparent by the tense set of his shoulders, the way his gaze flickered rapidly back and forth between Peter and Steve. “An asthma attack?”
“Sure looks that way,” the soldier replied, even as Peter shook his head again.
“S’not asthma,” he insisted, his voice strained as he forced the words out between wheezing breaths. “I don’t…don’t get sick anymore.”
Steve knew that this, at least, was true. He’d made a point to learn as much about the team as he could (within reason – he hadn’t pried into Clint and Natasha’s past, he knew there were things that both agents would rather keep to themselves), and their SHIELD medical files had been one of the things that he had been made privy to. Again, it hadn’t been anything overly detailed, only a brief summary of the information Fury had thought it necessary for him to know; allergies, existing medical problems that might impede their ability to function in certain situations, immunity status, etc.
What he had learnt was that Clint had a serious shellfish allergy (although the archer had informed him of the fact in person shortly afterwards), Natasha only had one functioning kidney, Bruce’s blood was toxic, Tony had once almost been poisoned by the very thing that was keeping him alive, and lastly that Peter Parker was resistant to almost every toxin, neuro-stimulant and infectious agent that SHIELD had on file.
But given that the kid fought extra-terrestrials for a living, there was a distinct possibility that he might have been exposed to something that SHIELD didn’t have on file.
“Don’t suppose you’ve still got your inhalers kicking about somewhere?” Tony asked, his attention focused on the teen as passed his cell phone from one hand to the other (a nervous habit that Steve had witnessed whenever the mechanic found himself in a situation wasn’t immediately fixable).
Peter shook his head a little, blue-tinged lips parted as he continued to suck in loud, wheezy breaths. For the first time since they had met almost eight months ago, Steve recognised a quiet fear beginning to dawn in the younger man’s eyes, and he slid his hand up to rest on Peter’s neck, squeezing reassuringly. He could remember all too well how it felt to have your airways slowly tightening within you; how a slow, cold dread would wash over you, a morbid certainty that this attack would be your last, that you wouldn’t make it to the doctor’s in time. Steve knew that medical treatment had improved significantly since then; attacks didn’t last for hours or days like they once had, and science had worked out methods of identifying potential triggers. Kids didn’t need to live in fear of suddenly suffering an attack and being helpless to stop it. But he doubted that made it any less terrifying.
“Peter.”
The soldier blinked, turning his head, and suddenly Bruce was there, crouching at the bedside. The scientist had clearly risen from his own bed only minutes beforehand; he was still dressed in pyjamas, bare-footed and rumpled-looking with his hair sticking up at odd angles and his glasses slightly askew. His expression, however, held no trace of fatigue as he studied Peter closely, one hand resting on the teenager’s chest and the other lightly gripping his wrist, the index and middle fingers feeling for a pulse.
“What happened?” the older man asked, his voice low and calm as he shot Steve a sideways glance.
“Jarvis called a P.S.M.I. alert,” Tony replied, hovering at Bruce’s shoulder. “This is how we found him. Kid says he used to have asthma, before the whole spidey-bite shindig.”
Bruce’s eyes flickered up to Peter’s face again, a crease forming between his brows. “You have asthma?”
Peter shook his head again, sucking in several ragged breaths before trying to answer. “S’not…I don’t…it can’t-”
“Don’t try to talk,” Bruce advised gently. “Just concentrate on breathing for me, alright? We’ll have you fixed up in no time.” He dropped his hand from the teenager’s chest and stood quickly, growing serious again as he glanced from Steve to Tony. “We need to get him to the infirmary. You got him, Steve?”
Nodding, Steve stood, leaning down to loop one arm around the teenager’s back and another beneath his knees, lifting him with ease. Even without super-human strength, he likely wouldn’t have struggled, given that the kid probably weighed less than Natasha.
Peter opened his mouth as though to protest this new development, but seemed to think better of it when he couldn’t find the breath to voice his thoughts. Steve adjusted his hold on him to make him more comfortable and tried to send the kid a reassuring smile, but even to him it felt forced. The rapid pounding of his heart and the surge of adrenaline in his veins had him on edge, fearful in a way that he hadn’t been in a very long time. He could keep a cool head out on the field, calming injured soldiers while they waited for medical assistance; but here, behind the walls of their own home, where the injured party was just a kid and there was nothing that Steve could physically do to help, he felt out of his depth.
And still that cold ball of dread remained, buried deep within him, churning in an almost nausea-inducing manner. Telling him that something was wrong, something was very, very wrong; something they had yet to pick up on.
Truth be told, it had him terrified.
.TBC.