I Bleed Red So Valentino

God only knows what time it is or why his shoes are still on. He toes them off, hearing them land unceremoniously on the floor. He sits there for some time, trying desperately to remember anything about what happened before he’d woken up here. Nothing much surfaces.

He calls out for May, and is met with complete silence. That never happens unless she’s taken third shift. Maybe she had to pick up more hours?

Finally, he remembers that he’s at the tower, and he instantly feels worse. Being sick at the tower means he’s either going to suffer alone or bear the colossal embarrassment of having to ask for help from an Avenger. He groans, letting his head fall into his hands.

His headache is still pressing tight against his skull, and he feels like his brain and bones have turned to liquid. His stomach churns. With another groan, he lets himself lie back down against his sweat-cooled pillows.

Though he remains motionless in the dark room, his nausea only grows. He was hoping that it would fade as the nightmares did, but he isn’t so lucky. It feels like he’s swallowed an entire lake.

The internal battle has begun. He imagines how awful it would be for everyone to know. If he started hurling, it wouldn’t be long at all before everyone in the building caught wind of what was going on. FRIDAY isn’t great at keeping secrets.

He’s Spider-Man. He’s supposed to be a hero, not some kid that wakes up in the middle of the night with a tummy ache. The mere idea is mortifying.

Unfortunately, there’s nothing he can do about the circumstances that have been dealt to him, and if he tries to ignore them any longer, things are only going to get worse. So, he forces himself to his feet, feeling weak and full of dread.

The tower is silent as he makes his way to the kitchen, the floor seemingly tilting under his feet. He has to keep a hand on the wall beside him to avoid falling over. The journey feels ten times longer than it usually does.

He’s exhausted when he finally reaches the kitchen, heading straight for the fridge. He fills up a glass of water and sips at it gingerly. It feels nice going down his throat, but not very nice at all sitting on top of the dinner in his stomach. He groans, leaning over the countertop. He burps quietly, nauseated almost beyond what he can handle.

Miserable, he lazily drags his gaze toward the cabinet where Tony keeps all the medicine. Pepto is Peter’s absolute last resort. It almost never works, and it tastes so bad that he’s vomited from the taste alone on many occasions.

Unfortunately, he’s feeling like he might have to try. If he doesn’t, that means he’s accepted the inevitable fate of emptying his stomach in a building full of Avengers. With a dramatic groan, he moves over to the cabinet, grabbing the bottle of neon pink liquid.

He stares at it with distaste, nearly shuddering at just the thought of it. If he’s going to do this it has to be quick, like a shot of tequila. He pours some onto a spoon and stares again.

Finally, he takes it, chasing it immediately with water. He swallows convulsively, begging his stomach to grant him some sort of mercy. He feels a surge of violent nausea and presses a palm over his mouth.

He shuts his eyes, swallows again, and takes several deep breaths through his nose. The wave of nausea passes slowly, painfully. His stomach makes a noise that probably means fuck you.

Fuck you too, he thinks hazily. When he feels like he might be in the clear, he pours out the rest of his water and sets the glass in the sink. His stomach turns over as he begins his walk toward the stairs. Why he picked the stairs over the elevator, he has no idea.

He’s only halfway up when he suddenly feels the worst swell of nausea yet, stopping him right in his tracks. His stomach churns hard, bringing with it a hot, rising feeling in his throat. He cages his mouth again as it rapidly fills with watery spit.

He can feel the color completely drain from his face as he stands frozen on the staircase. His heart is hammering in his chest as he silently begs God, the universe, someone to keep him from puking right now. Unsurprisingly, his prayers go unanswered.

That awful feeling of dread doubles, pouring over him like hot tar. He feels an intense urge to gag, and he’s entirely unable to stop himself from submitting to it. He pitches forward suddenly, spewing a huge gush of pink vomit all over the stairs in front of him.

Again, he vomits, splattering his hours-old dinner all over the hardwood and his socks. Immediately, he throws up again for four straight seconds. He gasps for air afterward, dizzy from the effort of being so sick.

In the eye of the hurricane, he somehow convinces himself that now is his only chance to get to a bathroom. His whole body is shaking as he climbs the rest of the stairs. By the time he reaches the hallway that connects to the one where is room is, he’s sweating bullets and so overwhelmed with nausea that he has to stop again.

He takes one more uncomfortable breath and folds, throwing up all over the floor. With his stomach all but exploding out of him, he can hardly believe that no one has peeked their head out of their room to see what the noise is. At the same time, he’s so incredibly grateful for that.

He takes two more steps and pukes again, even more than he thought possible. He coughs, spewing out mouthfuls of vomit between each one. It’s nearly a full three minutes before he can get himself to stop retching.

He pants for a few more minutes, desperate for air. His vision is blurred with tears of exertion, and even if he weren’t crying, he’d barely be able to see anyway. His head is reeling.

It’s in that moment that he realizes he’s too sick to be alone. The terrible truth sends his heart down to his stomach, and his tears become real. He only allows himself a few minutes to cry in private before he begins to consider his options.

There’s Tony, of course, but he thinks he’d rather die than have Tony see him puke his guts out. There’s Nat, but she might remind him too much of May, and he’s not emotionally stable enough for that right now. He continues to go down the list, and by the end of it, he finds himself settling on Clint.

He has kids, so maybe he’d be a little less traumatized by the whole thing. He’s also generally calmer than most of them, so hopefully he won’t yell or treat him like a burden. Clint it is.

His room is a floor up, so Peter opts for the elevator this time. He wipes the tears from his face and tries his best to regain composure. Unfortunately, he’s still feeling like a giant pile of shit, so it’s easier said than done.

When he reaches Clint’s room, he pauses in front of the door. This is it. Either he leaves the mess and tries to stay conscious long enough to get back to his room, or he tells Clint the truth. As if on cue, he suddenly almost feels more ill than he has all night, apart from right before he’d been sick.

Before he can convince himself otherwise, he knocks on the door. When a minute of silence goes by, he knocks again, a bit louder this time. After a few seconds, he hears shuffling on the other side of the door. He steps back a little, and it slowly swings open to reveal Clint, still half asleep.

“Peter? It’s nearly four in the morning, what are you doing up?”

“Um,” Peter so eloquently breathes out, suddenly unable to get ahold of himself. Fresh tears well up without his permission. “I…I’m…”

Clint’s expression changes from one of confusion to one of parental concern. He steps a little closer.

“Hey, what’s wrong?”

A couple tears spill over, and he wipes them away before they reach his chin. He tries again to explain, but he can’t seem to form the words in the right order. This fever must be really cooking his brain.

“Do you wanna come in and talk?” he softly offers.

Peter shakes his head a little. His head spins. “I’m…I need help.”

“What’s going on? Are you hurt?”

Peter shakes his head again. If his stomach wasn’t still sitting high in his throat, this would be much easier. He doesn’t have that luxury, but he tries again.

“I…I just thr—,” is all he manages before his stomach decides to make another appearance. He has all of half a second to aim somewhere else besides Clint’s feet. He turns to the side, vomiting through his fingers, down the front of his shirt, and onto the floor.

“Oh—oh, wow. Okay,” Clint blurts, probably wide awake now. Peter chokes up another round of sick onto his socks. “Alright, hey, come here.”

He takes Peter’s arm and begins leading him into the room. Peter does everything humanly possible to keep from throwing up on Clint’s floor, and when he finally drops to his knees in front of the toilet, he vomits so violently that he sees stars. Clint curses under his breath, a hand resting on Peter’s back as it heaves.

For the next several minutes, Peter is barely lucid. With what little consciousness he has, he tries hard to aim toward the water and nowhere else. He’s made enough of a mess as it is.

“It’s okay, buddy. Breathe,” Clint urges. Peter’s trying.

He’s sure he’s throwing up his actual organs after a few minutes. The only thing he can do is drape over the bowl and try not to pass out. He nearly fails.

Mercifully, he stops throwing up before the lack of oxygen gets to his head. He takes several more minutes to recover. The whole time, Clint is telling him it’s alright, that he’s going to be okay. Peter’s not so sure.

He’s really glad he’s not alone, especially now that he’s gone severely downhill. He can’t imagine being holed up in his room. He’d probably still be decorating the carpet with his stomach contents if he hadn’t come here.

The calm lasts all of eight minutes, and then Peter is suddenly launched into a fit of dry heaving. Despite his stomach being totally empty, the nausea is still rampant. He has no idea what he did to deserve this. Poor Clint doesn’t deserve this either. When he breaks his silence, it’s clear he’s reaching his limit.

“Alright, Pete…try and take it easy, kid. You’re really sick, and I’m…I think I’m gonna have to get Tony.”

That same dread pours over him. That’s the last thing he wanted. Even just the thought makes his face heat up fast. He can’t exactly express his disapproval when he’s actively still gagging. It’s too late, anyway.

“FRIDAY, could you send Tony down here, please?”

“Right away, sir.”

“Thanks,” he murmurs, his hand now rubbing along Peter’s spine.

Only a couple minutes pass before Peter hears Tony’s voice call from inside the room. He groans, lurching forward with another gag. A small trickle of bile comes up this time.

“In here,” Clint calls back.

“What the hell happened out here, Clint? Are you—,” Tony asks, stopping short as he crosses the threshold of the bathroom. Peter can’t help himself. He retches again, another rush of acidic bile washing over the roof of his mouth and into the toilet.

He can only imagine Tony’s reaction to walking in on Peter curled around a toilet full of puke. He’s so mortified he could die. Why does this kind of shit have to happen to him?

“He’s been like this for probably over ten minutes,” Clint explains. “I didn’t really know how to help him or I wouldn’t have woken you up. You know him better than I do.”

“Oh, kid…are you sick or is this a head thing?” Tony asks, taking Clint’s place beside him.

“M’sick,” he manages, half-choked on another heave.

“I’m sorry, Pete. How long have you been feeling bad?”

Thankfully, the retches are tapering off, and he can finally breathe a little. He spits and swallows against the rawness in his throat.

“Only when I woke up a while ago,” he breathes out. Suddenly, he remembers his stunt on the stairs. He groans, letting his head drop to where his arms are folded across the toilet. “I…I threw up all over the stairs and the hall before I came here…m’really sorry, Tony.”

“It’s alright, kid, I know you couldn’t help it.”

“But…”

“It’s okay, really. Do you feel like you’re done?”

Peter hums lowly. He nods. It’s the truth. He’s sure there’s absolutely nothing left in him to throw up, and the nausea is finally waning.

“Alright, good. I’ve got him, Clint, you can go back to sleep.”

“Are you sure? I can start cleaning outside my room.”

Tony shakes his head. “No, it’s fine, I’ve got bots that can do most of it. I’ll handle the stairs. We’re good.”

“Okay, well come get me if you change your mind.”

“You’ve already done enough, thank you for taking him in.”

“It’s no problem.”

With that, Clint leaves, and Tony is alone with Peter in his misery and embarrassment. He offers Peter some toilet paper, and he thanks him, wiping his mouth. He closes the lid and flushes the toilet.

With Tony’s help, he gets up from the floor to wash his mouth out. It makes him feel marginally better. Tony leads him out of the room, and Peter does his best not to gag at seeing the result of his earlier performance in the hallway. Tony starts leading him to his room, and when they get in the elevator, he finally breaks the heavy silence.

“You know you can always come get me if you’re feeling bad, right?”

Peter wilts a little. “I know, thank you, it’s just…I thought I could take some medicine and just go back to sleep, but obviously that didn’t work out. And I really didn’t want to bother a literal Avenger just because I had a stomachache.”

“Well, last time I checked, we’re on a first name basis, so it shouldn’t be that intimidating, kiddo. If you’re feeling like you’re gonna puke, you should let me know. It’s okay.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. Just…future reference. I don’t know how much help I’ll be, but at least I won’t have to worry about you being passed out in your own sick somewhere.”

It’s nice to know that Tony isn’t pissed or grossed out, but Peter prays he’ll never have to put that earlier offer into practice. He’s had enough of everyone watching him hurl. The heat creeps back up onto his cheeks as they reach his room.

“Okay…m’still sorry I got sick on the floor.”

“It’s completely fine, kid. Don’t worry about it, shit happens. Are you feeling any better?”

Peter shrugs, sitting on the edge of his bed. Tony scoots the trash can over to sit beside his bed. He lets out a short sigh.

“Well, I have a feeling your immune system is going to knock this thing out pretty fast.” Peter hopes he’s right, for both their sakes. “Here, let me get you some clean clothes. Want anything specific?”

Peter shakes his head. Tony nods, turning to the dresser. He brings over a t-shirt, some sweatpants, and clean socks.

“You can just leave the dirty stuff on the floor.”

“M’kay. Thank you.”

“Sure thing, Pete. I’m gonna grab you some water. Hang tight. And remember, you can always call me if you need anything at all.”

“Thank you,” he repeats softly.

When Tony leaves and Peter is done changing out of his dirty clothes, he’s all alone with the memory of tonight. The mortification is stifling, but he pushes the thoughts away with all the mental strength he has left. Turns out it’s not much, and he’s out like a light before Tony even returns.

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