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Bring Your Umbrella; the Forecast Calls for Rain

Chapter Text

Peter was tired, to say the least. Many people his age worked a part time job flipping burgers, but no, this is where he is right now. He should be at home, studying for his next test. That's where he thinks he should be, but New York thinks otherwise.

He's on the floor, and he's gasping for breath. His chest is rising and falling quick, way too quick to be healthy, and he's struggling to get up but he can't and it's so frustrating and he doesn't know what to do. He feels his heart in his throat, and he swallows it down.

Sirens roared by and as he looked up there goes the hulk. He sighs to himself, “Not now....“ He got up on his feet and started off towards the Hulk. "Hey! Buddy! Down here!"

The hulk didn't bother to stop for a second, ignoring Peter and going on through his rampage. Cops took their aim and fired, and Peter wanted to scream. "Hulk! Look! Over here!" Peter webbed his feet to the ground, trying to stabilize him. The less the Hulk moved, the less Peter had to move. "That's right, bud. Make this a lot easier for me."

To tell the truth, Peter had no clue what to do. Right now, he didn't have much strength. He could barely stand. After having been tortured for quite some time, he wasn't feeling too peachy. And now.... He had to deal with this!?

He knew the Hulk wasn't some mindless monster, knew he was much more than that. The hulk is triggered by anger, and he wondered... Could he resort back to normal by the opposite?

Jokes. Peter was great at those. Or, he thinks he is. Anyways, Peter doesn't have good jokes right now; his head isn't in the right place. He struggles for a joke, but his head is spinning and he can't find one. He thinks back on past experiences, trying to remember something funny.

“Hulk, look at me for a second!" The hulk went to squash Peter, but peter's spidey sense warned him before he could become a pancake. "Great! Now that I have your attention....." He paused to swing up on a perch. "You wanna know why I don't trust atoms?" The hulk was still rampaging, but Peter was sure he had heard him. "Cause they make up everything!"

The hulk's yelling stopped. His arms started to drop a little, and his feet stopped resisting at the webbing. Peter took this as a victory, taking the chance to sit down on the perch. He watched as the Hulk slowly lost his color and all that was left was a man left in the debris.

Peter dropped down to the floor in front of the human. His shoulders were shaking with laughter, and he was giggling like a child. Peter smiled under his mask. "Hey, you okay?"

The man looked up, his eyes wide. His laughter had stopped, and his face just looked overall confused. ”Spider-Man?"

“Yup, that's me! Surprised you know who I am," he smiled, even tho the guy couldn't see it, "It's a pleasure to meet you.” Peter glanced over to the police officers, who were looking as if they were about to take charge. "I'd love to continue this conversation, but I--"

"Bruce!" A blond man had dropped to the floor, Peter recognized him as Captain America. If he hadn't been close to unconsciousness, he would've totally fanboyed. "Are you okay? What happened?"

"I... I can't remember how I got out here, to tell the truth," Bruce replied, looking back to Steve and the other avengers as they slowly dropped. He turned to Peter. “Spider-Man here helped me back to normal. As to how..."

Peter was stumbling. Not in front of his heroes, no way. He wanted to reply, he really did. Something clever, something funny. But he couldn't. He was too dizzy. "My hilarious jokes are a cure to many, many problems. Right now, however, it's not doing much for me, so I'm gonna skidaddle." If Peter passed out here, he had no doubt the NyPD would get ahold of him.

“Spiderman! Are you injured?” Bruce asked, stepping closer as Peter moved to move away. “Let me help." Peter shook his head, struggling to get away.

"No, no! That's okay! Really, I'm just gonna--" the familiar feeling of his heart in his throat resurfaced, and he didn't think he can hold it down this time. He started to sprint and he reached to web up to a tower, but then he fell forward and his hands scrambled to lift his mask over his throat. His mouth let out a gagging noise, and he struggles to breathe and pass through the moment. Red dusted his cheeks. He was glad his mask hid.

He tried to even out his breathing and swallow the vomit, but instead he puked it up. He looked to see blood splattering on the floor in front of him and he winced at the sight and his pain. He struggled to breathe, and he was taking s deep breath when he felt a hand on his shoulder. "Take deep breaths, kid."

He launched forward before turning around to face a group of six worried avengers. "Please," he rasped out, felling the puke rise up again, "D...Don't look at th--" his own puke cut him off.

He again fell to his knees and he coughed up so much blood. His head was spinning more and more, and he just wanted to be at home in bed. He didn't want to be here, not puking in front of the avengers, his heroes, people he wanted to impress.

"Spider-Man, take it easy. Deep breaths." Peter wasn't having it. He struggled to his feet, crawling away. Blood seeped out of his many wounds, as well as his mouth. He started to break into a sprint until he felt a strong pair of arms grab a strong hold of him.

"Man of Spiders, we wish to help!" boomed the voice Peter recognized as Thor. Peter shook his head violently, not wanting to lose his lunch on the Norse god.

"P-please," he whimpered, struggling against Thor, "Lemme go...!" His voice was weak, and he was having trouble finding the words to say. He wasn't going to give up, however. Not like this.

The panic that Peter had stifled down started to re surface when Thor had caught such a tight grip of him. He felt tears leak out of his eyes, and a sob escape his mouth. "Kid, you're literally crying in pain right now. Let us help.” The voice he recognized as Tony Stark was carrying on, "Thor, hand him to me.”


Peter mumbled a quiet protest in the form of a yelp as Thor dropped him in Tony’s arms. “Shh,” he hushed. His boosters took off, and the two of them were airborne. Peter hummed, letting his head fall down and his eyes flutter shut. Tony cradled his head and held him up by the back of his legs. “Mr. Stark, ‘m okay,” he said, shifting around in his grip.


“I will drop you if you don’t stop moving,” he warned. Peter nodded, forcing himself to still as much as he could.


A loud clang sounded that they had landed. Peter moves to get down, but Tony doesn’t let go.


“Mr. Stark,” he whined. “Let me down.”


“Sorry, kiddo, no can do,” he apologized without really meaning it. “Gotta check you for injuries.”


He pokes his head up. Tony pushes it back down. “‘M not hurt, though, just a lil’ under the weather.”


“Under the weather would be an understatement,” a new voice piped up suddenly. “You can put him down here, Tony.” Peter was being lowered down to the table, and a small scientist with curly black hair had a case of tools in hand. “What’s hurting?”


He wrapped a velcro machine around his arm, one that his aunt used to use to take her blood pressure. “Nothin’,” he replied, yawning. “I’ve just been feelin’ a lil’ dizzy, that’s all.”


The machine beeped, and it was pulled away. Bruce, the scientist, pulled out a thermometer. “Open.”


Peter complied, taking in the instrument under his tongue. He kicked his legs, sitting up to see Tony’s armor disappearing, leaving him in casual wear. He wore a frown on his face.


The thermometer beeped. Bruce pulled it out, and Peter’s noise shrunk up as he sneezed. “Well?” Tony prompted.


“104,” Bruce announced.


“You have ten seconds, Spider-Man,” Tony said, exasperated. He dragged his fingers through his hair. “ Teenagers .”


“Ah, sir, it’s just from the stab wound,” he assured, shaking his hands. “And I got that all covered!” He grinned.


“That’s it!” Tony exclaimed. “I’m done.” He walked out of the room.


Peter and Bruce exchanged glances. Peter raised an eyebrow, but Bruce just shrugged.


A moment later a loud voice, not Tony’s, screamed, “He did what now?”


“Uh oh,” Bruce mumbled.


“What?” Peter asked. Bruce turned away from him. “What?”


“You’re in for it now,” Bruce hissed, ducking away.


The door burst open to reveal Sam Wilson, Steve Rogers, and Tony. Tony had a mug of coffee in his hands. With a smug look on his face, he took a seat and sipped his coffee.


“Spider-Man!” Steve Rogers barked at him, and he straightened up. “What is wrong with you?”


“S-Sir, I,” he sputtered, taken back. He cowered. He went to find comfort in Tony’s face, but he couldn’t find any.


“Do you know what happens to heroes like you?” Sam asked, concern burning in his eyes. He was the more gentle one, but Steve was letting all Hell break loose.




“Young, solo vigilantes who insist on fighting recklessly and alone die. They bleed out alone in alleyways without anyone there to help. Is that what you want?” Steve exclaimed.


“N-no, sir…”


“Cause that's what'll happen,” Sam explained. “It would have. You need to take care of yourself.”


“And your family,” Tony piped in, his smug look faded a bit. “For one who parades around in a mask to ‘keep my loved ones safe’ you act like you don't care if you die. You've become messy.”




“Do you think your family wants that?” Sam asked.


Peter looked down at his lap. “There's no one,” he mumbled.


“What?” Sam prompted him to speak up.


“I'm alone now,” Peter mumbled, gripping his hands. “I couldn't save them. That's-- That’s why I have to keep fighting. A little fever won't stop me.”


It was Bruce’s turn to speak now. “But it's not just a little fever,” he said, waddling in front of him. “May I get a look at the stab wound?”


Peter paused. He knew it wasn't really a question anyways. His hands gripped the bottom of his shirt and he pulled it up over his head. “That isn't a stab wound,” Steve stated. “That's five.”


How Peter had been standing earlier was a mystery to everyone in the room. Five stab wounds dotted the outlines of his stomach. All were shallow.


“Why?” Sam asked gently.


“I'm alone,” he replied. “If I die, it's whatever. At least I was able to save some people.”


Stark shifted uncomfortably. “Kid, I--”


“No, no, don't give me any pity,” he said. “It's my fault. I wasn't able to save someone I loved, and that's all on me. This is my penance. This was my crime.”


“I remember something you had said,” Hawkeye said, making everyone jump. Nobody has seen him enter. “To a child whom lost her mother. You said for her not to be afraid for she wasn't alone.”


“Yeah?” He scoffed. “What's this got to do with anything?”


“Reap what you sow,” is the only response he got before Hawkeye disappeared into the vents. If not for the unsettling conversation, he would've laughed at his dramatics.

Steve left, but he got the feeling he wasn't done lecturing him. Sam followed after. Tony stayed, though, scrolling through his Starkpad. Bruce did, too, tending to a far away Peter.

Chapter Text

Peter’s eyes fluttered open in a frenzy. His hands scramble to the bottom of his mask, ripping it up above his mouth. His lips part, greedily taking in air.


His suit clings to his skin with sweat. His hair, soaked, wraps around his face. Vile builds up in his throat, and Peter grasps a bucket at his bedside.


He found himself in an unknown room. A Captain America themed blanket covers him. He raises an eyebrow, pushing it off of him. He rolls off the bed, dragging himself to the dresser. He sifts through the drawers, digging out a pair of shorts and a tank top. He slips off his Spider-Man suit, letting his skin breathe.


He lifts up his shirt to see blood red bandages wrapped around him.


Oh, that's right. The Avengers kidnapped him.




Peter bundled his stuff together before slipping out the door. He shut it as quietly as he could.


The floorboards weren't creaky, much to his delight. However, being the clutz he is, it didn't take long for him to trip and fall.


A sudden dip in the dark hallway sent Peter rolling down the staircase. He cringed, knowing he woke some Avengers up. He staggered to his feet, hurrying his pace.


The vile started to build back up again at the motion, but he swallowed it down. He crawled to the window, struggling to open them. “JARVIS, lockdown!” Tony yelled through a yawn.


Spider-Man’s Spidey Sense hadn't even warned him. Must've been the cold.


“Or maybe since I'm not a threat,” he replied, groaning.


“Did I say that out loud?” Whoops. “ Sorry, didn't mean to wake you up. Thanks for the, uh, bandages and stuff. I should go--”


“Like hell you are,” Tony growled. “You have the flu and a sinus infection all at the same time. Oh, and some stab wounds. Did I leave those out?” He threw his arms up. “‘I’m fine, Mr. Stark. It’s just one little stab wound.’”


“Sir, really, I'm fine,” he protested.


“I don't want to hear it,” he dismissed him. “After how reckless you've been acting… Did it ever occur to you…? Never mind, let's just get you back to your room.”


Peter inched away. “No thanks,” he said, leaning away from his hands. He staggered to his feet only to fall back down. “Nope, okay, I'll just stay here.”


His head was pounding. “You know how I know you're so young?” Tony asked suddenly. Anxiety tugged at his heart. Does he know?


He stammered, “Um, n-no, sir, I-I, uh, I'm not?” It came out like a question.


“You make me feel like an old dad,” he answered, scrunching up his nose. “I don't like it.”


A bubbly laugh escaped his lips. “Thank you,” he giggled, even if it wasn't a compliment. The laugh soon took a sharp turn into a coughing fit. He crouched down to the ground, taking refuge in his elbow.


A hand struck against his back, probably meant to be reassuring but didn't really help much. Tony had an uncomfortable look on his face. “Are you okay?”


Peter grinned. “Ya worried for lil’ ole me?” he teased, leaning in. Tony snorted and pushed him away.


Stop ,” he warned. “Seriously, how old are you?”


“Eh, hard to say. Time isn't real, anyways. It's just an illusion, Mr. Stark.”




Peter sighed. “Twenty-two?”




“Yeah, okay, you got me,” he confessed. “Forty-three.” He gave a toothy grin and raised his hands.


A shock of cold hit Peter and his entire body convulsed in a full tremor. Just a moment ago he had been burning up, but now he was ice.


“Did you just have a seizure or something?” Tony asked, putting his hands up. “What was that?”


“N- nothing! ” He lied, shaking off the cold. His trembles became more erratic, and his teeth started to shatter.


“Yeah, okay,” Tony shrugged, walking off into the kitchen to find something to eat. He was rambling on to JARVIS when a hand slapped him playfully on the back. He still lunged forward.


“People don't know if you don't tell them,” Natasha whispered. “He's cold!”


Tony stepped beside him and gently pushed him forward. He stumbled and fell on his couch. A blanket was thrown over his head to which he wrapped himself inside. “I'm not a psychic, you know?”


He sunk deep into the cushions. “I know,” he mumbled. He curled into the Avengers themed blanket for more comfort. “How did you know?”


Natasha grinned. “What do you want for breakfast?”


“No! I wanna know!” he begged, giggling. “How?”


Natasha avoided the question. “Wheat cakes? That sounds great.” She stood off the couch and walked off to the kitchen.


She picked up a box from the pantry and walked over to the stove where Tony was fixing his coffee. She lifted the box over her head before dropping it on Tony’s face. “He wants wheat cakes.”


Tony grumbled something under his breath and picked up the box.


Peter smiled wryly at the sight. With a relaxed sigh, he sunk deeply into the corners of his blanket. He snuggled up at the domestic sight.


It's been so long since he's felt so… at home.


He gets that feeling when he's web slinging through the streets of New York, the streets he grew up on. But, the feeling of being alone never escapes him, even then.


“Wheat cakes!” Tony exclaimed. He dropped the supplies on the counter. “JARVIS, get Sam or Steve down here. I can't cook this. I can't cook anything.”


A sleepy eyed Sam Wilson waltzed into the room a moment later. He wore a “kiss the chef” apron over his pajamas. “The Great Stone Dragon has awakened!” he announced. Tony exhaustively dropped the recipe in his hands. “Wheat cakes? And… Well, okay. Odd request.” He raised an eyebrow at the list.


“How so?” Tony chirped.


“Stark’s having a midlife crisis!” Clint yelled from the air vents. He dropped down to the floor. “Old man!”


He shook his head. “No way!” He exclaimed. He snatched the list out of Sam's hands. “What? Smiley fries? And,” he paused, flipping to the recipe behind it, “Candy sushi? Hold on--”


“Nothing to be ashamed about, Stark,” Sam was quick to say.


“It's not for me, dumbass,” Tony spat, smacking him lightly upside the head. “It's for junior over there.”


Peter kicked a leg up in the air from his cozy spot on the couch. “Hello!” He greeted provocatively.


His head poked out a moment later. “‘Junior’?” He mouthed, tilting his head. Clint jumped, putting his hands on the top of the couch, swung his feet forward, and did an acrobatic maneuver into the spot beside Peter.


“You play Mario Kart?” A Nintendo switch was held out to him in his hand.


Peter hesitated. His mouth started to drool under his mask. He wasn't ever able to play games on new consoles for their price, not that he ever really had time to play them anyways.


Between being Spider-Man, spending time with Aunt May, going to work, and attending school —


School. A shiver ran down his side suddenly. He sprang off the couch. Vile built up in his throat, his feet wobbled, and his head swam. A hand yanked him down back on the couch. “Whoa, kid,” he eased. “We don't have to play Mario. I have Zelda?”


“No, no,” he shook. “I, uh, I have somewhere really important to be. I have to go now! ” Sweat beaded his forehead.


“No, you don't!” Tony called from the kitchen. “You're staying here.”


“It's really important,” he said, breathless.


“What could be so important?” Clint sighed. “Just call in sick, if it’s work you're worried about.”


Right. Spider-Man was an adult. He laughed awkwardly. “Right, can I borrow a phone to call the, er, office?”


It wasn't a total lie. He didn't need to call in sick for school; a doctor’s note would excuse him. But he already has so many absences already…


He did, however, work a job aside from school. One which was run by a tyrant.


The phone stopped ringing. “This is the Daily Bugle’s receptionist Molly Green talking; how may I help you?” A woman answered.


“I won't be able to come into work today,” he replied.


The woman hummed. “Alright, then. I'll make sure to take note of that,” she said slyly in fake amusement. “I need a name, sweetheart.”


He leaned away from the other Avengers. “....” he whispered.


“You're going to have to repeat that,” she growled in the fake chipper tone of hers.


“Peter,” he says, cupping his mouth and the phone. “In photography.” He faked a cough. “Parker.” His harsh, obviously fake cough caused Clint to look up sharply from his tablet.


“Oh, ” she said, “Mr. Jameson’s favorite .” He didn't have to see the receptionist’s face to know she was smirking. “You may tell him yourself in that case.”


Peter started to protest, but the line was already put through to Jameson. Peter held his breath.


“What is it, Parker?” The rough voice of his boss came bursting through, and Peter had to hold the phone far away from him. Although feet away, he could still hear him well enough. “I don’t want any excuses.”


“Sir, I need a sick day,” he requested, voice small. He picked at the bottom of his shirt. He nervously peeked up at the Avengers, who were all staring at him.


“You need a sick day, huh?” he said “Poor baby need a break?” A pause. “Well, too bad! I couldn't care less if you were bleeding out! Show up to work, or you're fired!”


Peter gagged. The line went dead.


“Are you a demon?” Clint asked. “Cause I think you're working for Satan.”


Peter snorted. “No, not Satan. Satan’s a lot nicer,” he sighed. “I haven’t missed a single assignment for him. I don’t know what his deal is. Anyways, I’m not going to start now. Bye!”


“You aren’t going anywhere, remember?” Tony reminded him.


“I will get fired,” Peter pleaded. “This job is very important to me.”


Clint snorted. “Why? You like working in Hell?”


Peter stuck his tongue out under his mask. “Superhero-ing does not pay much,” he answered.


“Kid, what does civilian you work as?” Tony asked, Peter didn’t feel like arguing.


He puffed air. “I used to work for Oscorp until the Goblin attack. Now I do work in writing,” more specifically, journalism. More specifically, photography. More specifically, selfies.


“Oscorp?” Tony exclaimed. He put a hand over his heart. “Traitor.” He crossed his arms.


“Oh, that’s right. I remember you fussed all over me when you found out who I really was under the big guy. I guess if you knew so much about gamma radiation, you’d be a scientist,” Bruce said, and Tony’s eyes bulged.


“What?” he exclaimed.


Peter yelped meekly. “Uh, yeah, I guess I’m a bit of a science nerd myself.”


Tony lit up. “Then come work here! Oh, wait. Child labor laws…”


Peter lightly smacked him in the side of his arm. “I just told you I had two jobs. I’m not a child.” Well, he’s interned at two jobs. That counts, right?


Tony smirked and stroked his chin. “Now, see, I would believe that,” he said. “But you’re sitting on my couch, and I have no clue how you are not dead yet.”


Peter rolled his eyes. “Gee, thanks, Mr. Stark.”


“Calling me that doesn’t make you sound any older,” he grimaced.


“I’m just being polite,” he defended.


“Yeah, well, call me that again, and you’re going to regret it.”




Clint waved the playstation controller furiously. He slid in a disc and was loading up a game. “Anyone going to play with me?” he asked, but Tony and Peter were having a stare battle. He grumbled something under his breath and threw himself into a match.


“Can I go home now?”




“Mr. Stark, I would rather not--”


“That’s it!”


Tony was climbing over the couch to possibly strangle Tony when Steve swooped in and saved the day. He threw Tony over the coffee table and into the wall.


Peter froze. Steve put a hand to the side of Peter’s face. Tony let out a wail of discomfort, and Peter was a little sympathetic. “Uh, Captain, Tony is--”


“He’s fine,” Steve replied without looking. “Are you okay?”


“Uh, yeah,” he mumbled, pushing his hands away from his face. He leaned over to look past him. “Mr. Stark?”


“Don’t taunt me, kid,” he growled.


“Were you really going to wrestle with him? He’s a delicate flower,” Clint argued. Emphasis on ‘delicate.’


“I am not delicate,” he replied. “I am the stuff made of nightmares!”


Laughter broke off in the living room. Peter blushed and scratched the back of his head. All the Avengers were down there now. Natasha had just walked in for the last part. She sported a small smile on her face.


Sam was pushing a mug into his hands. “Hi, stuff of nightmares, I’m dad,” he joked. “Here’s some hot chocolate.”


Peter grinned, despite his embarrassment. The Avengers all took their seats and started eating their breakfast. A plate of eggs, french toast, and sausage was passed towards him.


He tugged at the bottom of his mask and pulled it up above his mouth. He started to take slow, steady sips out of the drink. Nostalgia tugged at him.


Clint was chewing a piece of bacon in his mouth while raging at Overwatch. He was button mashing the controller.


He was watching the game intensely. And even though it isn’t a game known for its horror, when an enemy came out of nowhere he choked. He started gagging, and it was a mix of the spook and his sickness. He was hunched over, and he felt like the mask was suffocating him.


His eyes screwed shut, and his hands tugged to move the mask higher up off his nose so he could breathe. He hiked it up and greedily took in air.


Tony clicked his fingers to his thumb. “‘Oh, don’t worry, I’m perfectly fine for work today. I’m a stupid idiot who keeps throwing myself in danger, and it’s okay if I hack my lungs up in the process’,” Tony mocked.


Peter hiked his head out of his lap to look him in the eyes give him a thumbs down.


Tony’s mouth dropped to the floor. “You…”


Peter did an imaginary hairflip. “Yes, me, thank you for noticing.”


Clint had dropped his controller. The game sounds blared at him.


“Dude, what’s wrong?” he chirped. “Do I have something on my face?” He glanced down at his lap. “Did I accidently cough up my liver?”


“Spidey,” a voice drawled. “Face.”


Peter hesitated for a moment. Reluctantly, slowly, painfully, Peter tore his eyes off of Tony to

look at himself. Bundled up tight in his hand was a red cloth.


Everyone was staring. A rosy pink blush dusted his cheeks.


He let out a nervous laugh. “Oh.”


He brushed some of his hair out of his face. “Hi, everyone,” he greeted. “I’m Peter-Man.”