The kid’s been looking terrible since breakfast, but isn’t until he pukes all over the table in the conference room that Tony puts his foot down.
“Ok, Pete,” he says, grabbing the kid’s shoulders and pushing him toward the trash can in the corner of the room while the rest of the Avengers scramble to get their gear off the table. Sam shoots Nat a disgusted look, but she just shrugs in response. It takes way more than that to ruffle her feathers. She feels for the kid, too. He looks like he has a headache, and Tony’s talking loudly at him.
“You’re benched. You should probably lie down, right? In your room. At least until we get back. Or until your aunt can come pick you up.”
“Ugh. Ok,” Peter coughs into the trash can.
“Sorry I can’t stay,” Tony says, pulling the strings on his jacket and sending his armor flowing over his body. “Pepper will be here with you.”
“Sir, Miss Potts is still en route from Japan,” FRIDAY interrupts. “Her flight is scheduled to arrive at five this evening.”
“Shit,” Tony mutters. “Will you be ok on your own for a few hours?” He looks from Peter to the holographic maps hovering above pool of sick on the table. “Yeah, we need to leave now. We can’t let the targets get any further away.”
“Yeah, of-of course,” Peter chokes, but he retches again and has to catch himself on the wall as his knees buckle.
“Ok, I’m gonna override that and say no, you won’t be ok on your own,” Tony says. “I…god, I never thought I’d be in a bind like this.”
Nat makes a snap decision and stands up. “You know, I’ll stay here with him.”
“What?” Tony’s jaw about hits the tabletop. “Don’t tell me you’re going maternal.”
“No!” Nat protests. “But I could make the same assumption about you.”
“Alright, touché.” Tony’s helmet materializes over his face. “We really do need to get going.” He turns his mask toward Nat. “But call me if he gets worse.”
“Sure thing, mama bear,” she says.
Everybody leaves the room, and Nat eases up behind Peter. She pats him on the back, but when it becomes clear how hard he’s bracing against the wall, she brings her arm around his waist.
“Oh my god. Thank you,” Peter coughs. He gags up another weak stream of bile, then spits to clear his mouth.
“Sure. You want to lie down? The couch is closer. I won’t tell Stark you’re spreading germs in the living room.” There’s a quiet whirring from the doorway, and Nat turns her head to see a couple of Tony’s bots roll in to start cleaning up the mess.
“I, um, actually…” the kid swallows thickly. “I don’t think I’m done…”
“No problem. Bathroom it is.” Nat waits for him to finish the current round of heaves, then supports Peter down the hall. She keeps him from bruising his kneecaps as he collapses in front of the toilet, then leans against the wall to give him a little space.
“D’you want me to go?” she asks, not wanting to smother him.
“I, um—” His spine arches as he throws up again, and he winces. “I don’t wanna be by myself…” The hoarse whisper echoes out of the toilet bowl, but Nat hears him perfectly.
“Ok.” Nat takes a washcloth from a neat stack beside the sink and runs it under cold water. She wrings it out and folds it in thirds, then drapes it over the back of Peter’s neck.
He shivers and murmurs, “Thanks.”
“Yeah, of course.” Nat brushes her hand under the kid’s jaw to test for a fever. He’s definitely warm, but not boiling. She makes a mental note to keep tabs. “Let me know if you want a drink of water.”
“Ugh. Not yet.” The kid gags again.
“Yeah, I get it.” Nat smiles. “You know, there was a time when Clint had the stomach flu. We were on a mission, supposed to be undercover.” She chuckles at the memory. “It was the first time we had to pretend to be a couple. God, that must be, like 15 years ago by now…”
“What happened?” Peter asks with a groan.
“He camped out on a rooftop with his bow, two liters of ginger ale, and a plastic bag while I fought hand-to-hand. Then we went to our hotel and he, um,” Nat takes in Peter’s current position, “prayed to the porcelain god for a little under 24 hours before I took over and called for medevac.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. I wasn’t going to have my partner die of freaking dehydration.”
“Oh. That’s…nice of you.”
“I’m nice. Sometimes.” Nat grins at the kid, then flips the washcloth on the back of his neck so it’s cool-side down. “You feel any better? Getting it all up?”
“Maybe. A little bit.”
“That’s good,” Nat says. “Tell me if you want to move to bed. Or, you know, wherever.”
“Yeah, I will. Probably soon.” Peter wipes his mouth on the back of his hand. “Do you, uh, have any more stories?”
“What, like old missions?”
“Yeah,” the kid says. “I think it’s really cool.”
“Well,” Nat starts. “There was one time Clint got us so lost in the Italian countryside that we almost missed our rendezvous point…”
