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A gala. An actual gala, and Peter had been invited.
Okay, that's not entirely out of the realm of possibility now, with him having friend(s) in high places— the highest places—but it’s still not something he was expecting.
It’s echoey and bright in the main room; hundreds of voices talking at once, music playing underneath them, and lights posted on the walls or hanging from the ceiling. There’s a giant chandelier strung dead center that glitters so expensively that Peter wouldn’t be shocked if it were made completely of diamonds.
Peter fiddles with the cufflink on his suit. It fits him perfectly, with enough room for movement, and the thought of how it would probably cost him a literal arm and leg makes him more nervous than being in a room full of the world’s most prestigious figures.
Tony had presented it to him when he first invited him to the gala. Peter had almost declined, saying that he didn’t have anything to wear to an event like that, and Tony had simply said Good. This is for you, and handed him a ridiculously luxurious box with a fancy suit tailored specifically for him.
This whole thing was to establish the internship front further to the public— except it wasn’t really a front anymore. Peter came over one—sometimes two—times a week and spent most of the time actually getting work done. He bounced ideas back and forth with Tony, and the man had taught him things he couldn't learn on his own through research papers and vague, low-quality videos he found online. He’d also spent enough time down in the research and development labs with the other interns that he’d gotten on a first-name basis with them.
So there wasn’t much of a real reason to be here, outside of Tony showing him off and using him as free entertainment and an excuse to leave conversations. Still, Peter’s excited to be included anyway.
He recognizes a few faces in the crowd of people dressed to the nines— those influential in the STEM world and some too famous you’d have to live under a rock not to know their names, and a whole bunch of older people he didn’t know.
Peter was definitely the youngest one here, aside from maybe some of the staff and a couple of nepo babies who were still years above him. It seems everything about him is screaming that he doesn’t belong.
Tony guides Peter through the room with a hand securely on his back to keep him close. He introduces him to old friends of his and boasts to them about his genius intern, who toys with the high-priced cashmere of his sleeve. He just hopes he doesn’t tear a hole in it before the night is over.
Later, Peter is warmed up to the atmosphere. The noise became more background, the lights didn’t signal him out like a spotlight, and he had even made conversation with those people he had recognized earlier— asking questions and complimenting their latest work. They looked impressed with him, or at least found him somewhat charming, which is a point in his book.
Tony left him to talk to people he called the ‘human equivalent of Ambien.’ A mercy, he said, that he’s being totally selfless and not dragging Peter with him for this one. He pointed out the places Happy likes to observe the crowd in case Peter needed him, and told him that if he wasn’t back in twenty minutes, to send out a search party because he probably died of boredom.
Now, Peter is in the back of the room by the lines of banquet tables filled with more food than he’s ever seen in his life. He’s on his third plate of just appetizers, and that's not even counting the few he’d taken from servers' trays as they passed by, and he’s not planning on stopping anytime soon. Turns out having a super metabolism has its perks.
He’s tried just about everything on the tables before Tony comes back, the thinnest shred of formality stopping him from rolling his eyes so far back they stay that way. He’s got a glass of something in his hand that he hadn’t left with.
“I saved you,” He says when he reaches Peter, leftover annoyance bright in his eyes. “They kept asking about this intern of mine kept hearing about, and I told them you were lost in the crowd somewhere,” He steals a dessert from Peter’s plate despite the table being right behind him, then points it at him. “You owe me.”
“You didn’t have to go talk to them. You did that yourself,” Peter argues, turning and grabbing another one and eating it before Tony tries to take that one, too.
“Peps orders,” Tony refutes easily. “Usually she’s the one to do it— mainly because I hide until she does, but since she’s not here, I was creatively threatened into it. I shielded you.”
Peter dramatizes the sarcasm in his voice, keeping his face straight. “My hero.”
“Damn right, your hero,” His mentor grumbles, but he seems satisfied that his sacrifice is at least acknowledged. Then, he holds out the glass he’s carrying. “Here. Got you this.”
Peter squints at it. It’s unnaturally vibrant, standing out against the sea of mainly monochrome suits and dresses with its red-to-orange gradient. Pierced on the rim is a slice of orange, along with a cherry and a somehow lavish miniature umbrella. Something about it makes Peter feel uneasy.
Tony sees his scrutiny. “It’s fine,” He assures, “I had these all the time when I was your age.”
“That isn’t reassuring.”
He seems to understand what Peter’s hinting at, and he looks offended before thinking about it and relenting, “Yeah, you’re right.”
“It’s a mocktail,” He amends, “It’s just, like, way too much fruit juice and some club soda. Look, there’s even a little umbrella. I had to ask for that, you know. Apparently, everyone here is too cool for splinters in their drink, but I thought it might be something you’d like. Besides, I don’t need your teenage self going up to the bar and making me look bad.”
Something still feels wrong, but Tony has been holding the drink out for so long it’s starting to get awkward, and Peter is grateful for the gesture, so he takes it.
Holding it makes him feel more nervous. It’s cold in his hand, and the condensation builds up until it forms tiny rivulets that slide down to his fingers. He plucks the cherry from the top and pops it in his mouth.
Reaching inside his jacket, Tony pulls out a few notecards. “I got a speech in thirty,” he announces, face scrunching as he reads through them, not spending too much time on each one. Either he already has most of it memorized, or he’s just going to wing it. “Shouldn’t take too long— just thanks for being here, stuff about S.I.’s advancements in neural interfaces, something about the grant, yada yada yada. After that, I’m no longer obligated to be here, so we can ditch whenever you’re partied out.”
Peter nods, going to take a sip of his drink. His anxiety is worse, his heart thumping against his ribs, and his hair standing up against his neck. He isn’t sure why— it could be nerves spiking for no reason (he learned that the hard way), or it could be a real warning. His sense is weird like that, acting all will they, won’t they, but the question to be answered is if he will die.
Maybe it’s something to do with Tony’s speech, or something being off with his drink. The bartender could have put alcohol in it by mistake, or maybe Tony ordered the wrong thing. Or he could be acting incredibly stupid about this, and nothing will happen at all.
Whatever. He doubts a little bit of alcohol would kill him, anyway. If anything, it would probably help him relax.
He drinks. It’s bitter and sour, though he supposes that would be due to the multitude of citrus juices Tony had mentioned earlier. But he feels the sourness more than he tastes it and has to force himself to swallow the second and third mouthfuls and keep his face from wincing.
It doesn’t make him feel any better. In fact, he feels worse than he did earlier.
He takes the orange from the glass and chews on it instead, scanning the room for anything that might be strange or out of place. His sense feels like it's coming from inside him rather than something external, which adds a tally to the ‘probably just freaking out’ tab but doesn’t calm him down.
Tony’s still reading through the cards in his hands, unaware of his plus-one’s inner turmoil. He doesn’t seem bothered by anything, and there’s no one with a scope or sights on him as far as Peter can tell, so it’s not him.
With all the well-known people in this room, the entire building could be a huge target for an attack, even with all the security both inside and around the perimeter.
Peter finishes his orange and goes for another drink, if only to have something to do.
He drinks about half of it before his hands start shaking. His lungs struggle to take a deep breath.
“You’re sure there’s no alcohol in this?” He asks with faltering casualness, swallowing again to rid the burning sensation from his throat.
Tony perks up immediately at the tone of Peter’s voice, eyes scanning over him. “Yeah, why? Does it taste funny?”
“I don’t know,” Peter shrugs. He averts his gaze to the ground. All these people are starting to make the room feel smaller than it did earlier. “Tastes fine, I think. Just… my sense is going off. It’s probably not that— probably something else. I just feel kinda weird.”
Tony takes the glass from Peter, gently pulling him into a corner away from everyone else. “Weird how?”
“Nervous? And my chest feels weird, and I’m kinda dizzy. Maybe a headache?”
Watching the too-fast rise and fall of his chest with a pinched brow and wide eyes, Tony moves a hand up to rest on Peter’s forehead. “Can you breathe?”
Peter shakes his head quickly, his voice coming out weak and pathetic between pants. “Not really.”
Tony tears his attention away for a second to do something with his watch— probably sending an alert to Happy. It’s back promptly after, with two fingers pressed to Peter’s pulse point in stressed silence. A frown appears on his face, and it does nothing to placate the rapid beat he finds there as Peter’s panic worsens. Worried Tony is a bad Tony, because it means there’s something more urgent than keeping the peace or the image he’s made of himself, and he doesn’t know what to do about it. It’s out of his control.
“How long have you been feeling bad?” He asks, but he’s already back to scrolling through the vital logs to find out for himself.
“Since you… gave me the drink.”
He scarcely hears the uptick in Tony’s staggering heart.
“You knew there was something wrong? Wha— Peter, why would you drink it?”
Peter shakes his head dismissively, shutting his eyes from the vertigo. “I don’t know.” Then, a bit uselessly, only really to get Tony back on track, “I can’t breathe,”
And, God, he really can’t. A chill stays present at his spine, a sensation of pricking needles.
“I know,” Tony’s quick to console, losing his exasperation at the drop of a hat, but his voice is too tense for it to work the way it should. His hand goes to Peter’s back. “Let’s go outside, alright? Come on.”
And he leads him in a mirror of the way he had before, only this time with urgency. Peter divides his attention between not tripping on his own feet, breathing, and trying not to throw up on the fancy wooden floors, which is becoming increasingly harder.
He’s stumbling pretty soon after, and Tony pulls his arm over his shoulder to support him. Voices murmur worriedly around them, people parting the way as they come through. Peter’s not hearing words; more jumbled sounds. He hardly recognizes Tony’s through the chaos of it all, feeling the rumble of his words from the shoulder he’s heavily leaning on.
“It’s okay. You’re okay, Pete. You got this. Stay with me, buddy.”
Then, they’re outside. Peter feels a wave of fresh air wash over him, making his sweaty skin feel chilled.
But he still can’t breathe.
He knows he’s bringing in air— he can feel it moving past his throat, where he wheezes open-mouthed, but his body isn’t doing anything with the oxygen like it should be.
Tony’s practically dragging him now, one arm around Peter’s back, the other holding Peter’s arm over his shoulder. Peter’s dress shoes scrape against the concrete of the giant platform-like steps leading up to the gala, legs weak with tremors.
Peter barely manages to turn his head to the side before he pukes. And then his legs give out completely.
The only thing that keeps him from cracking his skull open is Tony, who lets out a worried noise Peter doesn’t hear and calls his name, then louder for someone else’s.
Tony maneuvers him gently onto his side, hand resting on his bicep.
“Peter,” he calls. The only response is a slight furrow of the kid's brow. His eyes are half-lidded and slipping closed.
His body is pliant and limp under Tony’s hands. He jostles Peter roughly, “Come on, kid. Up and at ‘em. You gotta get up.” Peter’s head lolls against the concrete. The stone tears little holes in his suit. “Peter.”
Peter's eyes roll back into his head just before they fall closed, muscles oddly stiff in anticipation.
And then he starts seizing.
Tony’s grip instinctively tightens before he pries himself away. His hands hover, desperate to do something as he stares at Peter’s convulsing form.
“Fuck,” He mumbles breathily, putting more space between him and the kid even when it feels wrong to do so. “Friday, time it.”
There’s an affirmative noise from the A.I. that goes right over his head as he is forced to sit and watch. He counts the seconds, too, but doesn’t trust it to be entirely accurate with everything else overloading his brain— the increasingly worsening list of symptoms, every person whom he or Peter had so much as looked at during the night, how the hell he didn’t notice something being slipped into the drink or Peter’s suddenly nervous behavior.
It feels like an eternity that Peter seizes, though Tony had repeated second twenty-two about three times, then got stuck at forty, skipped forty-eight, and had given up entirely by sixty. He fills the rest of the time by going over his lists of possible suspects, hoping that Peter doesn’t bash his head open on top of all this, and decidedly not thinking about the mortality rate of a poison that acts this quickly. A siren wails in the distance, and he calculates how long it will take to arrive.
Suddenly, Peter goes limp.
Tony's at his side so fast he’s surprised he doesn’t pull something. Hands push Peter back into the recovery position, then find their place at his pulse point, where a thready but consistent beat resides.
“Five minutes, fifty-four seconds,” F.R.I.D.A.Y. announces. There’s not much Tony can do about that, so he catalogs it and says nothing.
There’s pink-tinged foam around Peter's mouth that Tony wipes away with his sleeve. He checks that it’s just a bitten tongue— moderately bloody and pretty gruesome looking, but a very low-level concern.
Peter’s breath is wheezy, even while unconscious, clearly struggling to take in enough air. There’s nothing for Tony to do save for ensure his airway isn’t blocked and keep wiping the blood that seeps past his lips.
“You’re okay,” He says, running a hand through the boy's hair, pushing it away from his warm and clammy forehead. Frowning, he then shifts him to remove his suit jacket, folds it, and places it under his head. “You’ll be okay.”
The sirens are close now, piercing and so high-pitched they’re nearly lost under Tony's tinnitus. Guests linger in the entrance of the venue, poking their heads around each other to get a glance at what’s going on. Hushed gossip spreads between them— mostly good-mannered, some more grim. Funny, you’d think people with that much notoriety would know what it’s like to have people prying and leave it well enough alone.
A look over shows Happy directing other security staff to keep the patrons at bay, barking orders and allowing no room for debate. If Tony could see past the wall of the rich and famous, he’s sure he’d find a team investigating the incident, searching for the bartender he sent Happy a brief description of. He couldn’t have gotten far.
Eventually, Happy is next to them, crouched with a hand on Tony’s shoulder to get his attention.
“You alright?” He asks over the wailing of the ambulances, and Tony feels a flare of misplaced anger rise within him, but quickly suppresses it. Making sure he’s safe is Happy’s job, and as much as the guy likes to feign indifference or distaste for Peter, Tony knows he really cares for him and is no doubt worried himself. Besides, it feels nice to have someone looking out for him, too.
Tony shakes his head to dismiss the question and his clouded thoughts. “I’m alright.”
Emergency services finally arrive, and the personnel are swift to push past Tony and Happy, who tell them everything they know, and get to hooking up Peter to all kinds of different tubes and wires. Buttons are cut off his dress shirt to place electrodes on his chest, and then they’re lifting him and loading him in the back of the ambulance. Tony follows suit. The staff isn’t thrilled with the new addition, but they seem to think that he won’t be too much of a hindrance because they don’t try to kick him out.
“Hey,” Happy calls, where he still stands behind the car, flashing lights lambent against his face. “We’ll get the guy.”
Because that’s all the comfort he can give. Because whatever happens to Peter is out of their hands, but finding who’s responsible isn’t.
Happy looks at Peter one more time as they strap an oxygen mask to his face, paramedics tossing vitals and commands back and forth, and then the doors shut.
The ride to the nearest hospital is four minutes long but feels infinitely longer. An update from F.R.I.D.A.Y. tells Tony their personal team of doctors has already arrived and set up shop, at a cost to him he couldn’t give a damn about.
There’s nothing to do for Peter but try to keep him stabilized— with oxygen and heavily saturated lorazepam when he seizes for another forty seconds. Tony leads them through alterations of the medications they have on hand to fit Peter’s genetic mutations, a janky do-it-yourself version of the ones they have in the towers medbay that he’s glad he familiarized himself with. NDAs can be signed later.
Vials of blood are taken for a quick handoff when they get to the emergency room. Vitals are kept under constant surveillance with consistent checks of consciousness that all come back negative; pupils too large, unresponsive to light. No response to sound, pressure, or pain. No movement aside from the seizures.
The oxygen mask can hardly keep up with the steadily depleting saturation levels. Peter’s skin is pale, blue-tinged, and damp with sweat, the blood smeared across his lips purple with translucency. Nothing like himself, warm and bright with excitement he can’t contain.
They manage to get to the hospital on time, despite the New York traffic, by some kind of divine luck. Peter is pulled from the back of the ambulance, transferred from the EMS team to the tower's emergency one, and carted off down a sterile, luminous hallway.
Tony jogs to match their pace, gripping the railing of the stretcher that’s wheel squeaks with every rotation. He’s stopped just as they reach a set of swinging doors by a member of his staff whose hands linger placatingly in the air in front of her.
“Sorry, Mr. Stark,” She says quickly, voice sincere. “But you can’t come into the OR. We need space to work.”
He has to bite his tongue to stop himself from arguing. This isn’t his area of expertise, and any distraction or mistake made on his part could be fatal. He nods in acknowledgment, peering around her to watch Peter disappear into a swarm of doctors.
Her stance relaxes a fraction, relief and gratitude evident in her eyes. “We’ll keep you updated.” And then she spins on her heel and leaves.
Tony’s got some calls to make.
When Peter wakes up, it’s slowly and to the smell of cold air and antiseptic. He keeps his eyes shut, face scrunching in discomfort as he goes to roll over to ease his stiff, heavy limbs. Stopped by a sharp tugging in the crook of his arm, he huffs. Everything is one big annoyance. All he wants to do is go back to sleep.
“Of course you would wake up the second your aunt leaves me in charge.”
He squints an eye open (the one not smushed into the scratchy pillow) and finds who the voice belongs to.
Tony is standing off to the side of the bed, which— as more of Peter’s awareness comes back to him— he realizes is, in fact, a hospital bed, though the room he doesn’t recognize.
Tony’s arms are crossed over his chest, fingers tapping restlessly at his biceps. Tension spreads across his shoulders regardless of his attempts to hide it. It’s a contrast to the gentleness in his voice. “Hey, Spider-Boy.”
Peter glares, shifting to move onto his back. He’s all too aware of the catheter in his vein. “Hey, Iron Guy.”
That gets a hint of a smile. A silence unnatural to them fills the room. Tony’s guilt comes off him in waves.
Peter swallows awkwardly under Tony’s gaze. “How long have I been out?”
“Couple hours.”
“Which is?”
“Fourteen.” Tony sees Peter's eyes widen, and ignores the definite that’s more than a couple of hours argument that was about to come, and adds. “Ted’s—”
“Ned.”
“—been texting you, and I think May by extension. She looped him in, and he must’ve let something slip to your girlfriend—”
“We’re not—”
“—because now she’s morbidly interested in what it was like to be poisoned. Strange, that one.”
Peter hides his reddened face under the guise of rubbing the sleep from his eyes. All is well because Tony averts his gaze anyway.
“It was cyanide, by the way.” He tells, picking something off the side table, only to set it right back down. “Three and a half times the lethal dosage.”
The monitor picks up on the slight rise of his heartbeat and displays it noisily to the room. “Did anyone else get hurt?”
“No,” Tony says simply, but the fact doesn’t seem to rid any of the stiffness from his posture. Actually, it worsens. Tony stuffs his hands in his pockets. “It was… targeted. To me.”
When Peter sits there stunned, he continues. “It was opportunistic. Guy at the bar had been working there a while, which is why he flew under the radar. He had a friend from Europe who had it out against me because of…” He bites his lip and shakes his head to end that line of thought. “He kept the stuff under the bar in the off chance that I came to get something, which, obviously,” He gestures to Peter. “I did.”
He straightens out his spine, leveling his shoulders to prepare for whatever reaction he thinks is coming. “I should’ve paid more attention. And I shouldn’t have given you that drink.”
“I’m glad it wasn’t you.”
Tony turns to him suddenly now, anger bright in his eyes. “Don't.”
Before Peter can interrupt, he cuts him off again, jabbing his finger at him. “You almost died. They didn’t know if you would make it.”
“And you would have,” Peter argues after a beat. Its weak with shock, the beeping monitor diminishing any confidence he tries to put out. “It would have killed you in seconds.”
“That’s not what this is about. I’m supposed to protect you, not the other way around.” His arms are across his chest again and Peter copies him despite the discomfort from his IV. It’s not as effective when you’re laying down. “You don’t get to take hits for me just because you think you can handle it, got it?”
“I—”
“Nope. Non negotiable. Do you understand me?”
Peter sighs deeply, distantly thankful for the oxygen he was lacking the last time he’d been conscious. Nothing to make you appreciate aerobic respiration like going through cellular hypoxia.
“Yes.” He says dryly without much commitment. The only reason he relents is because there is no winning when Tony pulls the I’m The Adult card, which he does almost every time they argue, no matter how small it is.
Tony doesn’t believe him. They both know that.
“Next time you feel like something’s wrong, you tell me.” He asks. “You have that sense for a reason. If it’s telling you hey there’s poison in here, don’t drink it for God’s sake. My heart can only take so much.”
Fiddling with the frayed ends of the thin blanket, Peter can’t withhold a grin. A blush warms his cheeks. It looks good on him. Better than blue. “Yeah, that was kinda stupid.”
It must be infectious, because Tony smiles, too, despite wanting to hang onto his anger. “That was very stupid.”
They’re not having a standoff anymore— not that Peter was winning, anyway. The tension in the air fades and Tony steps closer, laying a hand on the kids’ shoulder.
“It doesn’t matter if you think it’s not important, or if I’m busy, or if you don’t even know what’s wrong,” He clarifies. He knows Peter. Knows his thinking patterns (and his aversion to asking for help) because he sees them in himself. And he knows better than to leave any loopholes for him to find. “You tell me, we figure it out together. Okay?”
“Okay,” Peter agrees easily. Together doesn’t sound so bad. He chews at his lip, hands fidgeting with the small pile of thread he had gathered. Tony sees a hike in the frequency on the ECG strip next to the bed, but before he can ask, “You said MJ was texting?”
Oh boy.