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“I really am grateful, Mr. Stark, but you don’t have to—”
“I’m going to,” Tony interrupts. He waves his hand in Peter’s direction. “You’re still shivering.”
They pull up to the drive-through speaker and Peter falls silent, rubbing his hands along his thighs and arms in a vain attempt to warm up. He lets out a breath through pursed lips; even the air in his lungs is chilly.
“Turn the—turn the thing on,” Tony says, gesturing towards the car's vents. He turns back to the drive-through speaker as the employee talks. “Uh, yes that’s all.”
Peter puts the heat on full blast, holding his hands up to the flow. He can almost imagine, if he closes his eyes, that he’s tucked away somewhere warm and dry, belly full, not shivering from cold and hunger while dripping rain water all over Mr. Stark’s upholstery.
“Hey, hey.” Tony snaps his fingers in front of Peter’s face. Peter blinks open, brief disorientation clouding his mind as he sees that they’ve pulled up to the window.
“Eyes open. I don’t need you dying—this is a new car. The seats are already messed up enough. If you feel like you’re about to pass out, speak up.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Stark,” Peter blurts out. “I’m really sorry, I didn’t mean to get water everywhere and I was just trying to help people—”
“No, none of that—Yes, thank you—” Tony hands Peter two bags of food and places their drinks in the cupholders. “No apologies, kid. I’m the one who made you get into the car.”
They pull smoothly away from the drive-through and out onto the road, rain pattering against the windshield again without the protection from the building’s awnings. Peter picks through the bags carefully, the warmth of the hot food sitting on his thighs settling the buzzing cold in his bones.
“I got a whole bunch, wasn’t sure what you were in the mood for,” Tony says. He keeps his eyes firmly focused on the slick street ahead of them, not so much as glancing over at Peter. “Should be some soup in there. Bread, mac and cheese.”
“Okay,” Peter mutters. He pulls out a hunk of bread and tears through the paper wrapping to sink his teeth into the warm grains. It’s dry, and his throat will need soothed from the rough pull, but the ache in his teeth fades away. Peter gulps the rest of the piece down and digs through the bags until he finds soup—chicken and noodle—and slurps down hot mouthfuls that trace a burning line to his gut.
Peter falls back against the seat with a relaxed sigh, hands cupped around the warm container. His suit is still wet and uncomfortably stuck to his skin, but the cold has abated enough for him to feel calm.
“Better?” Tony questions with a raised eyebrow. His fingers tap along the wheel, the slightest bit of nervousness that makes Peter grin. Mr. Stark isn’t good at showing how much he cares, but he’s also not the best at hiding his anxieties when he does.
“Yeah, thanks, Mr. Stark. I guess I didn’t realize how much I needed that,” Peter responds with a soft smile.
“Hm. We’ll get you to the penthouse and dried off. Might be best if you spend the night, Bruce can monitor you that way.” Tony squints in the way he does when he’s thinking, like he’s calculating the next step in an equation. He flicks the turn signal on and turns onto the next street.
“Mr. Stark, it was just a little rain—” Peter protests weakly. He kind of wants Tony to rail back against him; he isn’t quite ready to go and hole-up alone in him and May’s apartment for hours until she gets back from the night shift.
“For three hours. In the cold. Without food,” Tony says pointedly. “Penthouse, you. Dry. Monitored.”
Peter smiles sheepishly and Tony rolls his eyes, but his shoulders drop. With a pleased hum, Peter continues to sip on his soup as they go, draining the cup just before they pull up to the building.
“Out, out.” Tony shoos Peter out of the car and grabs the food bags.
The elevator ride up to Tony’s penthouse is quiet. Peter remarks about his “depressed and dead-looking” face when he sees himself in the reflective walls of the elevator, cheeks sallow and eye bags heavy.
“Yeah, exactly, kid. This is why we don’t go out and patrol in the rain,” Tony mutters.
“I’m fine,” Peter murmurs. “Can I have another soup?”
“Once we get into the apartment.”
One outfit change and fireplace lighting later, Peter is curled up on the couch with a new bowl of soup—broccoli cheddar, this time—and a fluffy blanket. And a sneezing problem.
“I knew this would happen,” Tony mutters. “I’m getting you medicine.”
“I don’t need—”
“Shh.”
“Mr. Stark, can we just watch a movie?” Peter interrupts. Tony stops digging through a cabinet and smiles, just slightly.
“Sure, kid. We can watch a movie.”
“And no fussing.”
“You were turning blue—”
“I was not!”
They watch Star Wars, by Peter’s choice, the familiar drone of A New Hope draining away the bit of anxiety Peter has about being here, in Tony’s penthouse as Peter Parker, rather than Spider-Man. He snuggles further into his blanket, taking another sip of his soup.
“Bruce will be here within the hour to check up on you,” Tony says. “Here, you’ve got—”
He tosses Peter a napkin and piles more bits of bread and a cup of mac and cheese onto his lap. Peter huffs a laugh at the action.
“Mr. Stark, I don’t think I need all this food.”
“Nonsense, Pete,” Tony replies with a wave of his hand. “You’re a growing boy with a super-human metabolism. You need all the food you can get. You know, that’s another problem, you’re still eating the portions you did before the bite—”
“I’m fine,” Peter interrupts. He grins at Tony. “Promise, Mr. Stark. I’m good. I’m eating enough, sleeping…somewhat enough and I’m doing well in school. Everything’s good.”
Tony relents then, and Peter eats everything he’s given, including another soup and more pieces of bread that Tony adds. Peter sneezes at least twenty times and he already knows his soreness is going to be insane tomorrow, but sitting here with Tony is nice, and he’s warm and full and comfortable.