#summerofwhump7

“It’s stopping bleeding,” he told Gwaine reassuringly, but Gwaine just grumbled, dragging his hand through his own hair and biting his lip.

A few heavy raindrops fell from the branches overhead. Lancelot had dragged Gwaine under a large tree when the rain had become too heavy, trying to get the tiniest bit of shelter to stop Gwaine getting cold once Lancelot had removed his chainmail and gambeson to see the wound. He looked up at the darkening sky, the thunder still rolling in the air. The storm was definitely moving this direction. Lancelot just prayed that it wouldn’t come right across on top of them before he had finished treating Gwaine.

Taking one hand off the makeshift bandage, he caught Gwaine’s hand as it flexed in and out of a white-knuckled fist as he tried to breathe through the pain. He soothed his thumb over the back of Gwaine’s knuckles, just enough that Gwaine managed a slightly grimaced smile.

“Thanks, Lance,” he said, his voice gruff and strained.

Lancelot gave him a smile and squeezed his hand before letting go and pressing down hard on the wound again.

“Or not,” Gwaine gritted out, throwing his head back and kicking his feet again.

Rain lashed beyond the confines of their tree shelter. Suddenly the air around them lit up with the flash of lightning arcing across the sky, a tremendous crack of thunder making the whole ground seem to vibrate. Lancelot swore loudly, snapping Gwaine to attention, causing him to push up onto his elbows with a look of panic obscuring the pain on his face.

The storm had moved faster than Lancelot thought it would. If there was anywhere Lancelot really did not want to be in the middle of a storm, it was out in the open, under a tall tree and wearing a suit of metal.

“We have to move!” He pulled the wadded cloak away from Gwaine’s wound, straightening it out into a long strip which he wrapped around him and tied as tightly as he could manage.

Standing hurriedly, he fought against the buckle of his belt, ripping it from his waist and dropping it to the ground, then yanked his chainmail up over his head. He flung it away, kicking Gwaine’s already discarded mail further from them as well. He refastened his sword belt, jamming Gwaine’s sword into his belt beside his own.

“Lance!” Gwaine was struggling to pull himself up to his knees, putting a hand on the tree to balance.

Lancelot snatched Gwaine’s hand off of the bark, hoisting his arm over his shoulder and tugging him to his feet. Gwaine let out a yelp but gripped tightly to Lancelot’s gambeson, holding himself upright as best as he could.

“Come on!”

Pulling Gwaine away from the tree, Lancelot started moving, crouching as much as he could while supporting Gwaine’s weight. They staggered out from under the tree’s branches into the rain.

“Where… can we go?” Gwaine gasped, his wet hair whipping against his face and sticking to his cheek as he looked around. He lifted a hand to push it away, smearing blood across his forehead as he did so. Lancelot wanted to reach over and wipe it off but they didn’t have time for such triviality right now.

“There’s a little valley along this way,” he said over the roaring sound of the rain, pointing to the south. “Can you manage?”

Gwaine’s face was already screwed up in agony, his hands grabbing at Lancelot so tight his fingers were digging in through Lancelot’s gambeson. With the colour of the cloak tied around his middle it was hard to tell if the wound was bleeding again, but from the way he was sagging, Lancelot suspected it was.

“I’m fine,” Gwaine insisted, earning a scoff from Lancelot. “Let’s go.”

It was slow moving and Lancelot’s heart was in his mouth, racing and thudding in his ears. Gwaine stumbled at his side, his teeth gritted as he tried not to whimper. The air was a constant rumble of thunder, unrelenting and deep.

Tufts of thick grass and rocks tripped them as they moved across the open hill. Lancelot hoped he was doing the right thing; his instincts were screaming that getting to low ground was their best chance of surviving the storm. But having to be so exposed as they made their way there worried him.

He felt the prickling, tingling feeling under his hair, the static in the air fizzing around them. Get low, his mind was repeating to him, as low as possible and hope that the lightning reached for the trees and not them. He pulled Gwaine down, squatting and wrapping his arms around his head, cradling Gwaine against his chest, his head under his chin.

The paleness of Gwaine’s face was lit up by a flash a moment later, the dark bloody smudge in stark contrast to the ashen colour of his cheeks. His eyes were half lidded, looking slightly glazed.

A second lightning bolt followed immediately after, this time striking the tree they had been sheltering beneath just mere minutes before. The bark splintered, flames licking over the smaller branches, and Lancelot saw a fork of lightning streak from the branches to his abandoned chainmail on the ground.

Immeasurably thankful that they’d moved when they had, he wasted no time hauling Gwaine up again, apologising profusely when he cried out in pain.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, but we have to keep moving, we have to get to the valley,” he panted, his voice sounding shrill even to his own ears.

“I’m slowing you down,” Gwaine mumbled.

Lancelot cut him off before Gwaine could even think about suggesting he leave him behind.

“I’m not leaving you. We’re almost there.”

In truth they were still a fair way from the valley, but Lancelot was determined they would get there. He rolled his shoulders, trying to shift the uncomfortable pressure that was building all down his spine. He readjusted his arm around Gwaine, pulling him closer against his side and got him stumbling forwards again.

“Nearly there, nearly there,” he heard Gwaine muttering under his breath, his voice laced with agony and fear.

Lancelot repeated the mantra to himself as they struggled on, Gwaine’s feet getting clumsier and tripping often. His hands were heavily shaking, his grip wavering on Lancelot, but Lancelot just tightened his own grip and towed him along. He could see the dip of the valley up ahead them now, the gentle curve of the earth as it wound towards the brook at the valley bottom.

Their way was illuminated by many more flashes, the crash of the thunder beginning to hurt his ears. The tree behind them crackled with fire still, a beacon and a warning, the terrible groaning of the wood sinking fear into Lancelot’s stomach.

He was shivering, drenched with rain, but as they crested the ridge of the valley – finally – he felt small glimmer of hope sparking in his chest. Gwaine collapsed, stumbling over the uneven ground, and Lancelot caught him. Dragging him far enough down the slope of the valley that they were well below the level of the hill. He held him steady as he too sank to his knees.

Practically pulling Gwaine onto his lap, he let his hands roam down his chest to the edge of the blood soaked cloak and resumed pressing down on it to stanch the bleeding. It wasn’t quite as bad as he’d feared, the blood slowly oozing not gushing.

“I’ve got you, we’re alright,” he murmured and Gwaine managed a shaky grimace that Lancelot interpreted as a smile.

Neal continues walking through the heavy rain, wrapping his arms around his torso in a rather useless attempt to stay warm. Truthfully, he’s pretty sure he’d been shivering even before it started raining, but if he’d been shivering then, he’s positively trembling now. He doesn’t think he has ever been this cold in his entire life. It feels as though the cold rain has soaked right through his skin and into his bones, like it’s freezing him from the inside out. He tries to walk faster to escape it, but only trips over his own feet, scraping his palms red and raw against the sidewalk when he falls. 

Neal pushes himself back up, wavering on his feet as a sudden rush of dizziness overtakes him. It passes eventually, and he continues walking, determined that he must make it to the Burkes’ house. As soon as he gets there, he knows that everything is going to be okay. He just has to keep walking. 

So he does. He walks, and walks, and walks, and wonders whether the Burkes’ house has always been this far away. At some point, he’s stopped really registering the cold. He wonders whether that might not be such a good thing, but can’t bring himself to care. 

He’s still shaking, and his footsteps take him all over the sidewalk and occasionally cause him to step off of it and down onto the edge of the road. He trips and falls at least three more times, though he’s not really keeping count. He thinks maybe there are holes in the knees of his pants now, which is a shame, since he’d really liked this suit. His shoes, too, have got to be ruined. He’s stepped in several ankle-deep puddles and can feel the water sloshing around inside them, but doesn’t have the strength or dexterity to get them off and get the water out. 

After an eternity of walking and stumbling and freezing and still feeling bad underneath it all, finally Neal sees the Burkes’ house. The lights are on, glowing invitingly, and he hastens his pace, nearly plowing down an old woman who is stepping into a taxi.

“S-sorry,” he manages to stutter out through his chattering teeth, but the word is so quiet he doubts that the woman had heard it at all. 

Going up the steps is one of the hardest parts of his entire journey, which up until now has not taken him on any great changes of elevation. His legs are trembling beneath him, and with every step he takes, he manages to bang his shoes into the stairs. He almost falls more than once, but manages to save himself by gripping onto the railing for all he’s worth. 

He’s fairly exhausted by the time he reaches the top step, and for a second he simply leans on the door and tries to catch his breath. He’s here. And Peter is here, and so is El, and Satchmo, and maybe there’s a fire in the fireplace, or maybe they had something warm for dinner and there are leftovers, or - 

The door opens, and suddenly he’s falling over the threshold, and all he thinks is not again, but before he can hit the ground, someone’s arms are wrapped around him, pulling him back up. 

“Neal?”

“H...hey, Peter.”

---

When a shadow appears on the doorstep shortly after eight, Peter’s a little cautious. Who on Earth would be showing up to his house in the middle of a thunderstorm without advance notice?

He opens the door slowly, a look through the peephole not revealing much in the dark of the late evening, and promptly is reminded of the one person who is the most likely culprit to show up at his house in the middle of a thunderstorm without advance notice.

He catches Neal’s soaking, freezing, shaking form before he can fall to the floor, quickly pulling the door shut behind him. “Neal?”

“H...hey, Peter,” Neal whispers, and Peter can hear his teeth chattering. He has about a million questions running through his head, and no idea which one to ask first, so for the moment, he forgoes any kind of conversation at all and simply shuttles Neal to the bathroom. “You wait here,” he instructs, settling Neal down onto the lid of the toilet. Neal complies easily, looking slightly lost but mostly relieved. 

“What’s going on?” El asks, as soon as Peter steps out of the bathroom. She looks past him, and is then immediately stepping around him and into the bathroom. “Neal, sweetie, are you okay?”

Peter looks on as Neal nods. “Jus’...needed t-to get here,” he says. “Knew I’d be...be okay then.”

El turns to look at him then, a soft expression on her face. “Peter -”

“Towels,” Peter replies, and El nods. 

After a quick trip upstairs to their bedroom and the linen closet, Peter makes his way back to the bathroom with a stack of towels in his arms. Sitting atop them is one of his old Academy t-shirts and a pair of flannel pajama pants, both of which he is hoping will fit Neal well enough. 

Peter pauses in the bathroom doorway with the towels and clothes in his arms. El is in the middle of bandaging scrapes on Neal’s palms that Peter hadn’t even noticed. Neal seems to barely register anything, but he does smile at El gratefully when she finishes. Peter takes that as his cue to enter the bathroom, setting the stack down onto the counter and looking at Neal questioningly.

“I...I got it,” Neal says, sounding about as determined as he can given his current state. Peter elects to believe him, and he and El clear out of the bathroom to let Neal extricate himself from his soaking-wet suit. 

“Do you think he walked here?” El asks, as she and Peter lean against opposite sides of the bathroom door to wait for Neal. 

A particularly loud clap of thunder rattles the windows as Peter says, “I wouldn’t doubt it. The way he looked...how badly he was shaking...he had to have been out in the rain for a while.”

El shakes her head. “He said he needed to get here.”

“I know,” Peter replies. “I just don’t know why.”

A few minutes later, Neal emerges from the bathroom. He looks a little out-of-place in pajamas, and his hair is sticking up in several different directions. This, frankly, worries Peter. He’s never known Neal to let his hair get messed up, even on the worst of days. 

“How do you feel?” El asks, as she and Peter each wrap an arm around Neal’s shoulders and guide him to the couch. 

Neal shrugs. “Not as cold,” he says, though he’s still shaking. “Still bad.”

“What do you mean, ‘still bad’?” Peter asks. He and El let Neal sink down onto the couch, and he grabs the blanket draped over one of the armrests, draping it over Neal’s shoulders. 

“I felt bad, before. ‘S why I came,” Neal explains. 

“Bad how?” El asks. 

“Just bad. Achy and hot and my head felt funny. ‘M not that hot anymore but everything else...” Neal trails off. 

“You’re probably sick,” Peter says, feeling slightly exasperated that Neal had put himself through the ordeal of walking to his house in a storm because he felt bad. Did he not realize that he had a phone?

“I guess,” is Neal’s reply. “Knew you could help.”

El and Peter turn to each other at the same time, both wearing similarly fond - if exasperated - looks. 

“Of course we can help,” Peter says. “But, you know, you could have just called me.”

Neal raises his eyebrows and says, “oh,” as though the thought is just now occurring to him. “Are you mad?”

El sinks down on the couch next to him. “Of course we’re not mad,” she says. Neal turns his head to look at Peter, who moves to sit on Neal’s other side. 

“Of course not,” Peter echoes. “You’re always welcome here, and I’m glad you came to us for help instead of suffering on your own. Even if you did end up causing yourself more suffering in the process.”

Neal nods, pulling the blanket tighter around himself. He’s almost stopped shaking, Peter notices, which he takes as a sign that he and El can move from unfreezing Neal to getting him some help with his sickness. From what Neal had said, it’s most likely just a fever, which is a relief, because making it better does not require a trip to the drugstore in this weather. 

Peter and El both stand up at nearly the same moment. “We’ll be back,” El promises, and Neal nods, the rather forlorn look on his face brightening up considerably when Satchmo comes down the stairs with a cheerful jangling noise and promptly curls up at his feet.

Peter and El head into the kitchen, where Peter grabs some tylenol and a thermometer, and El makes a cup of peppermint tea. They return to the living room with their items to find Neal nearly asleep, still sitting up on the couch. Peter gently shakes his shoulder, and Neal opens his eyes. “I was gonna sleep,” he says, rather petulantly. 

“You can sleep in about two minutes,” Peter promises. “But you came here because you’re sick, so we’d like to help you out with that before you crash on our couch.”

“Okay,” Neal agrees, keeping his eyes open. Peter presses the thermometer to his forehead. 

“101.3,” Peter reports. “Nothing worrying, but it’s probably a bit higher since you’re still a little wet.” He hands Neal the tylenol, and El passes over the cup of tea. Neal swallows the pills dry, makes a face, then cautiously takes a sip of the tea, his hands wrapped firmly around the mug to absorb its warmth. 

Neal makes it about halfway through the tea before setting the cup back down onto the table, lying down curled on his side, pulling the blanket securely over himself in his new position, and promptly falling asleep. El and Peter share another look, all fondness this time, before turning off the living room lights and retreating to the dining room table, where they can sit and watch the storm rage outside, have some tea themselves, and talk about the conman-turned-something-like-family that is currently asleep on their couch.

“Why are you wearing the Armani?” Peter asked, pushing the pair of battered bodega sunglasses he had been using for the past two years up to sit in his chlorine damp hair and squinting as his eyes adjusted to the dimmed lights of the penthouse. FRIDAY closed the automatic door to the balcony and pool behind him.

“First of all this is Tom Ford how dare you,” Tony said, pointing at him with the ‘dad finger’ but not looking up from his rapid texting. “Second of all I’m wearing the Tom Ford, not Armani you absolute heathen, because I have to step into a couple of meetings this afternoon.”

Peter hummed in confusion, taking a bottle of cold Gatorade (the red one because it was clearly the best flavor) from the fridge and chugging it before sitting on one of the barstools. Tony flicked his eyes away from his phone to glare at the puddle dripping off Peter’s swim trunks pointedly – Peter just smirked at him and cracked open the second bottle he had pulled from the fridge, sipping on it slowly. “I thought you were playing hooky all week?” Peter teased, referencing the plan Tony had laid out earlier in the week to do absolutely nothing of value while Pepper was out of town.

“That was the plan,” Tony conceded, tucking his phone into his inner jacket pocket and then fussing with the immaculate pocket square. “Pepper was supposed to land thirty minutes ago but she had to divert her plane to our LA office for… something. Honestly I wasn’t paying attention.”

“And that leads to you going to meetings?” Peter asked with a raised brow.

“Apparently,” Tony groused, pulling the colorful beach towel from around Peter’s neck and dropping it to the floor to soak up the puddle forming under the barstool. “Sorry buddy – I know I promised a week of fun bullshit but I think we both would prefer that I keep my head attached to my body so…”

“It’s fine,” Peter brushed off and it really was. To be honest, he was still tired from their thirty hour workshop bonanza and he could do with a nap. It was a pleasant day for June in New York with a good breeze and some light cloud cover – a nap on one of the obscenely large pool floats sounded heavenly. “I was thinking about napping anyway.”

Tony’s brow furrowed for a second before his hand darted out to land on Peter’s forehead. Peter batted his hand away, narrowly avoiding falling off the stool. “You don’t feel warm. Are you sick? FRI is the kid sick?”

“All vitals within normal limits Boss,” FRIDAY answered, almost sounding amused.

“I’m not sick! Teenagers can enjoy naps you know.” Peter protested, dodging another of his mentor’s attempts to check him for a fever. “It’s pretty much our MO actually.”

Tony rolled his eyes before slipping his tinted AR sunglasses onto his face. “Oh to be young again,” he said sarcastically, gathering up a couple thin files and his StarkPad, tucking his phone into his inner jacket pocket. “You sure you’ll be okay for a few hours?”

“Yes, Tony, jeez.” Peter said with an exaggerated eye roll.

“Oh joy, teenage snark. Aren’t I lucky?” His mentor questioned as he ruffled Peter’s hair into disarray, flinging little water droplets on the counter top and causing the loose curls to tighten up more as they dried. “I’ll be back in time for dinner. Want to grill?”

“Sounds good,” Peter said with a smile, finishing off his second drink and tossing the bottle in the recycling and waving as Tony entered the elevator. Peter let out a large yawn and stretched, sighing happily as his back popped and realigned, before hopping of the stool to gather his towel off the floor and get a couple bottles of water from the fridge.

The sun was bright and warm as he stepped back out onto the pool deck and Peter luxuriated in its warmth, momentarily blinded – he hated the cold more than anything and loved being out in the heat. It took him a few minutes to pick his pool float, Tony had collected an obscene number of ridiculous ones over the past month, but he eventually decided on the watermelon one for its large round shape. He loaded it up with his water, towel and sunscreen before pushing it into the pool and following it with a splash.

He agilely climbed up to sit in the middle and took the bottle of sunscreen, spraying on another protective layer before wadding his towel into a lumpy pillow and face planting into it. “Hey FRI?”

“Yes Peter?” FRIDAY’s voice asked from the waterproof speakers situated around the pool.

“Can you play my lofi playlist?” He nearly slurred, already half asleep.

“No problem Peter,” she answered before the soft music poured from the speakers and Peter let out a sigh before fully relaxing. There was truly nothing better than a nice warm nap out in the sun. The gentle rocking of the water was quick to put him into some of the best sleep of his life.

————————————————

“Peter? Peter! Wake up kiddo!”

Peter groaned, his body stiff and tight and hot and he cracked open his crusty eyes to stare at the edge of the pool. “T’ny?” He croaked out, mouth impossibly dry and vision blurred.

“Yes, Jesus, you really cooked yourself buddy. Can you paddle over here?” Tony was looking at him with worried eyes, pulling his jacket off and slipping out of his Italian leather loafers.

“Come over there?” Peter questioned, confused. The sun had sunk behind the tower and the rooftop was now covered in shade and Peter shivered. Why was it so cold?

“Pete focus up now. I need you to come to me.” Tony said, his voice patient but with the clear undercurrent of concern that he used when Peter had gotten himself into some form of trouble.

“Okay,” Peter grunted. He tried to shift his heavy arms and then gasped in pain, clenching his eyes shut. “Ouchies,” he mumbled, not making any effort to move again. A splash sounded and Peter opened his eyes to see Tony in the water with him, efficiently swimming over to his ridiculous pool float. “But Tom Ford,” Peter protested dumbly.

“This was last seasons suit anyway,” Tony dismissed as he reached the edge of the float, treading water. “I’m gonna help you get into the water Petey – you’re way too hot. It’s not going to feel all that great but you need to trust me alright?”

“You’re Iron Man,” Peter agreed, groggy. “Trust you.”

“Good to know buddy,” Tony said as he carefully reached out and put his arms under Peter’s chest. Peter let out a gasp as his mentor’s wet sleeve rubbed against his sensitive arm but kept his body limp and let Tony maneuver him to the edge of the float while barely keeping it from tipping completely over on them both. “Alright kiddo, take a deep breath for me and hold it okay?”

“Yeah,” Peter grunted before pulling in a large gulp of air and squeezing his eyes shut. To his benefit, Tony was fast – he lifted Peter off the float and dumped him into the water before hooking his forearms under Peter’s armpits and pulling his head up above water again. Peter coughed as he surfaced, more awake and aware now, and really feeling just how truly fucked he was. His skin from the back of his neck down was tight and burning and he remained limp to not stress out the damaged skin any more. “That sucked.”

“Sure did,” Tony agreed, carefully paddling the both of them to the shallow end of the pool where a gentle incline would lead back up to the pool deck. “Think you can walk if I help you?”

“Maybe,” Peter answered, but did adjust himself in the water so he was floating next to Tony with his arm wrapped around the man’s shoulder and Tony’s arm wrapped around his waist just below the edge of his swim trunks to prevent him from touching the tender skin of his back. Exiting the pool was difficult since Peter realized he had definitely burned the bottoms of his feet but, with Tony’s help, he was able to limp out of the pool and towards the penthouse door.

“We’ve gotta get you in some oatmeal,” Tony told him as they entered the living room. The cool air from the AC made Peter shiver but the cool polished concrete floor felt like heaven on the soles of his feet.

“Why oatmeal?” Peter asked, letting Tony steer him down the hall and past his own bedroom towards the master bedroom and into Tony’s own ridiculously huge bathroom.

“It’s an anti-inflammatory,” Tony told him as they entered the bathroom. The large porcelain tub that could probably fit seven or eight full grown men was filling with tepid water mixed with oatmeal – clearly FRIDAY had been listening to their conversation and had acted accordingly. Well that or Peter had missed when Tony had asked her to set it up.

It took some maneuvering, but, soon, Peter was lying face down in the tub, his head pillowed on a pile of soft towels with Tony applying damp washcloths soaked in the cool water and oatmeal to the parts of his back that weren’t submerged in the water. Peter shivered violently once, his failing thermoregulating attempting and not succeeding in functioning, before he just lay, missable, in the tub.

“Close your eyes,” Tony said, wetting another washcloth in the sink with clean water only and wiping his face down. He frowned as his hand ran over Peter’s forehead and he draped the cloth over Peter’s face and eyes to cool the reddened skin. “You’ve got quite the fever brewing Webs.”

“I just wanted a nap,” Peter moaned and he heard Tony let out a little sad sounding chuckle.

“I know. Just relax and try to cool down for now,” and then he stood up and walked to the door. “I’m going to grab you some dry shorts and get the bed set up. Try not to drown.” It took more effort than Peter thought it would but flipping Tony off over the lip of the tub was totally worth it.

He fell into a light doze from there – drifting off as the stinging in his back dulled down to a more comfortable level. “Oh Peter,” Bruce said from above him and Peter jerked in the tub, dislodging the washcloth from his face and causing his body to let out a sting of pain and protest. He let out a little grunt and Dr. Banner winced from above him. “Sorry Pete. I thought you heard me come in. You really burnt yourself.”

“I know,” Peter said, wanting to be irritated but too tired to feel much of anything. Bruce gave him a sad smile.

“According to FRIDAY your temp is down enough we can get you out,” Bruce told him as Tony leaned over the tub as well so both of them were staring down at him. Peter just blinked. “Let Tony and I do most of the work – you don’t want to stress your muscles. Once we can get you out and dried off I’ll get you started on some fluids and electrolytes and that should help some. And my aloe plant donated a couple of leaves to the cause.” Dr. Banner joked. Peter gave him a weak smile in response, not really looking forward the the execution part of Bruce’s plan.

Getting lifted out of the tub was nothing short of agony even though Tony and Bruce lifted him under his armpits again and left him leaning his chest heavily against the bathroom counter to keep as much weight off his feet as possible. Bruce pointedly left the room and Peter endured a few mortifying moments where his mentor had to help him dry off and change into a loose pair of athletic shorts that sat low on his hips so as to not interfere with the burn. He was going to have an awful tan line by the end of this he thought sadly, taking in the lobster colored skin of his back and neck.

Bruce crept back in moments after and had Peter lean his hip against the sink so that he could place the IV catheter into his forearm while standing – making it easier on both of them once they would get him settled into bed. The California king sized bed had been stripped down to just its fitted sheet and, with a little assistance, Peter did a controlled flop face first into the memory foam pillows, letting his eyes shut as he felt Bruce connect the IV line and the cool rush of fluids through his veins.

He was nearly out when a cold plop on his back tore his eyes back open in surprise and he felt immediate relief from his tight, hot skin where the wet mass had landed. “Feels good,” he slurred drowsily as a careful hand massaged the goop into his back. A second set was working on his tight calf muscles, loosening them up and easing the burn.

“Fresh aloe,” Dr. Banner told him. Nothing better for a sunburn.”

Peter hummed in agreement and let himself drift off, finally comfortable.

—————————————-

“I just wanted a nap,” Peter whined as he limped and hobbled into the kitchen of the penthouse almost three days later, Tony following a few steps behind to catch him if he fell over and relying on the walls and his ability to stick to anything to keep him from falling. “I wore sunscreen!”

“Clearly not enough,” his mentor told him, voice tight with irritation. Peter had been saying the same thing on repeat since he woke up from his nap and it was clearly grating the man’s nerves. Peter opened the fridge and pulled out a bottle of water, cracking it open and taking large gulps. Even days later and after Bruce pumped him full of fluids Peter still felt parched and dehydrated. “You know you’re supposed to reapply like every hour in direct sunlight and water right?”

“Well I do now,” Peter answered, leaning against the stove so he could take the weight off his legs. His skin still felt so tight that it felt like it may burst. And the blisters… best not to think about it. Tony clocked the movement.

“Time for more aloe,” he said pointedly, shooing Peter off toward his bedroom. “I’ll get it out of the freezer and be right behind you.”

Like a bad dream, Mizuki’s appearance coincides with a rumble of thunder. He’s not happy to see Naruto at the table; then again, most of the village isn’t happy to see Naruto, so what else is new. Iruka-sensei turns into a different person with Mizuki. He gets an extra plate and serves him, asks if he needs anything else, flinches, asks again if Mizuki wants anything else. And only once Mizuki waves his hand and grins baring all of his teeth does Iruka-sensei sit back down and continue eating.

“I’m going to stay tonight, Iruka,” Mizuki says.

Lightning flashes outside the kitchen window. The rain starts coming down.

“Iruka-sensei, do you want me to go home?” Naruto asks.

He doesn’t get to respond. 

“This storm is going to get pretty awful, Naruto-kun,” Mizuki answers instead. “You should stay here tonight.”

“I wasn’t asking you,” Naruto seethes. “It’s Iruka-sensei’s house. If he wants me to stay, I’ll stay. Otherwise, I’m going—”

“You can stay, Naruto,” Iruka-sensei murmurs. He gets like this around Mizuki, but only when they’re at home. Naruto doesn’t like this side of his sensei, but he doesn’t know what to do about it. “I don’t want you catching a cold because you had to walk home in the rain.”

They finish dinner, and Mizuki takes Naruto by the shoulder and leads him out of the kitchen. He says they’re going to stay out of Iruka’s hair while he cleans up. Urgh; why does everything Mizuki do or say in these moments make sense? 

The rest of the night goes by quietly. Iruka-sensei joins them on the couch in half an hour, his eyes puffy like he’d been crying. But he curls up next to Mizuki when the jerk opens his arm, and the three of them watch TV for a while. Naruto sneaks glances at them every few minutes and his confusion grows. Mizuki is running his fingers through Iruka-sensei’s hair and they’re holding hands on top of Mizuki’s lap. Iruka-sensei has his eyes closed and a small smile on his face. He’s resting his temple against Mizuki’s shoulder.

They look happy.

Iruka-sensei looks happy.

Outside, the wind whistles and the rain patters on the windows. Each roll of thunder echoes through the village’s valley, and the lightning that precedes it illuminates the night.

“It’s time for bed,” Mizuki says. He turns the TV off.

“Aww, I was watching that,” Naruto complains. He kind of was, and it was in the middle of the program.

“We all have school in the morning,” Mizuki continues. “Bed, now.”

“But—”

“Naruto, go brush your teeth please. I’ll be in to help you settle in a minute.”

Naruto glances between Iruka-sensei and Mizuki and wonders what he missed; if he missed something. He thought he’d been paying good enough attention that they couldn’t have said anything to each other without him noticing. He stands up anyway and shuffles off to the bathroom.

It’s while he’s spitting out a mouthful of foam that a flash of lightning lights up the bathroom, and then along with the crash of thunder comes a crash inside; something shakes the wall beside the bathroom door frame. Naruto stops in his brushing to listen.

Rain.

Wind.

“Do you like making me mad, Iruka?”

Another crack of—thunder—a body hitting the wall.

Naruto clenches his fist. Iruka-sensei told him after the first time to never interfere when Mizuki is in one of these moods. That he didn’t want Naruto to get hurt. 

“I hate hurting you, but it seems like it’s the only way to make you listen.”

Naruto presses his back against the door. He can hear Iruka-sensei holding back gasps and sobs; he bites his own hand to keep the frustrated tears from escaping. There’s a tight growing pain in his shoulders and neck as he tucks his chin to his chest.

“I give you all of me, and you can’t even spare one evening for us to be alone?”

A thump. Fabric slides down the wall in scratchy stops and starts. 

Another soft sob. More rain. Naruto wishes it were over. He just wants to go to bed. Maybe he should start inviting Iruka-sensei over to his apartment, to give him a space away from Mizuki.

“No one else can stand you,” Mizuki says. “You only have me. Stop trying to replace me, so I won’t have to remind you who you belong to.” Softer, slimier, “I don’t like hurting you, Iruka. But you make me so mad I can’t stand it. I’m the only one who can love you, okay?”

“Mizu—”

“I’ll be waiting in the bedroom. Don’t make me wait too long.”

Footsteps stalk away. A door opens, then closes. Naruto counts three, four, five, six—and then opens the bathroom door. Not even a meter away, Iruka-sensei is slumped on the floor, knees to his chest and forehead on his knees. His shoulders are trembling. Naruto crawls to be next to him and bullies his way under Iruka’s elbow.

Together, quietly, they stand and cross the hallway to the spare room Naruto uses when he’s here. He locks the door behind them and sits Iruka on the bed.

“Where are you hurt, Iruka-sensei?”

“I’m… I’ll be alright, Naruto. It’s not as bad as it could have been.”

“That doesn’t mean—”

“Did you brush your teeth?”

Naruto nods.

“The storm’s almost over,” Iruka-sensei continues. “If you want to just stay up until it passes and then leave, that’s okay. I wouldn’t…”

Naruto waits for him to finish that thought. 

He doesn’t.

“I’ll stay,” Naruto says. “I’m pretty tired anyway. I might just pass out once I hit the pillow!”

Iruka-sensei smiles. Breathes a laugh. Naruto counts a win, and inspired by it, continues, “But, um… could you stay with me for a bit?”

Iruka gives a questioning hum.

“The, uh… the thunder,” Naruto says. He’s lying through his teeth and they both know it. “It’s been pretty intense and I… I just wanted… um.” Now that he’s trying, he doesn’t exactly know what he’s asking for. He just knows that if Iruka-sensei goes into his bedroom, where Mizuki is, then he’s going to get hurt again. And he needs to prevent that.

“It is a pretty bad storm we had tonight, huh?” Iruka muses. “I thought you were too old to be scared of thunderstorms.”

“No! I am; I mean, I’m not afraid!” 

Iruka chuckles. “Sure, sure. It’s just me, Naruto. I’m not gonna tell anyone.” He looks down and away, his shoulders hunching in again. “If I’m honest, I don’t like storms either.”

“You don’t?”

Iruka shakes his head. “If you want me to stay until it’s over, I’ll stay. We can be ‘not scared’ together, okay?”

Naruto grins. “Yes!” But… “What about Mizuki?”

Iruka waves his hand. “He can wait. You’re more important.”

They lay down on the tiny bed together, Naruto snuggled up to Iruka-sensei’s shoulder. He tightens his fist in Iruka’s shirt and closes his eyes. Outside, the wind howls down the streets of Konoha and rain pelts the sandy dirt paths. The sky lights up and then the valley growls.