#how many ffing ways can you spell spiderman

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Okay but... can you imagine how sick Peter would be if he ate a bunch of left over Halloween candy thinking it'd be fine in the morning cause of his metabolism but then Tony called and he had to swing around the city for a while? He'd probably manage to keep it down until he got to the tower and then he'd dizzily stumble towards the bathroom but end up loosing it in the hallway on Tony's shoes since Tony was concerned about him and grabbed Peter's shoulder to spin him around or something...

Thank you so much for this!  It’s possibly the most excellent prompt ever!  And you @wiseinnerwhispers, you make the world go ‘round with all the support and love you give.  

So here you go.  I think I messed up the details a little bit, and I don’t even want to talk about the timeline.  But this does take place right after my last Spiderman fic, No sympathy.

___

Peter wakes and immediately looks at the clock.  It’s 6:59. His alarm will be blaring in a minute. He blearily reaches out to turn of the device before it can startbeeping at him.  May’s given himpermission to miss school if he still feels as sick as he did yesterday, but asPeter lifts his head, there’s no echoing throb. It’s a relief.

He slides out of bed and heads to the bathroom to wash hisface and brush his teeth, stepping a little harder than he normally would justto test his luck.  The resultantvibrations die out around his shins and leave his head alone, and the taste oftoothpaste doesn’t turn his stomach, so Peter decides he’s ok.  

He kicks it into high gear and goes back to his bedroom todress and pack up his backpack.  Petergrabs his suit from the back of his desk chair where he’d thrown it last night,shakes it, and gives it an experimental sniff. It’s a little sweaty, but the god-awful scent of homeless man’s potsmoke has dissipated.  He wads up thespandex fabric and tucks it into the bottom of his backpack.  

Peter barrels through the kitchen, almost knocking AuntMay’s orange juice to the floor as he throws pop tarts into the toaster andlooks for something to toss in his bag for lunch.

“Feeling better this morning?�� May asks, looking up from thenewspaper.  

“Oh, yeah,” Peter says, still scanning the pantry.  “I don’t know what hit me, but I’m finenow.”  He spies a half-finished bag ofcandy corn and a handful of fun-size Milky Ways, and Peter sweeps them into hisbackpack.

“Maybe just had to clear your system,” May suggests.  Then, “Are you taking all my candy?”

“Um.”  Peter hastensto put a few of the chocolates back.

“No, go ahead,” May says, smiling to show she was joking thefirst time.  “You didn’t really get tocelebrate last night.”

“But, I mean, I could leave some.”

“Take it.  Or I will eat it all, and I can’t afford newjeans,” May jokes.  “I’d give a lot tohave that teenaged boy metabolism.”

“Hm,” Peter muses, feeling a little guilty that his growinghunger lately has forced an increase in the grocery budget.  He forgoes dropping cheese crackers into hisbackpack as well.

The toaster spits out the pop tarts, and Peter takes one ineach hand, clamped between his thumbs and index fingers so the steaming pastrieswon’t burn him.  “See ya, May,” Petercalls, transferring one pop tart to his mouth as he lets himself out the frontdoor.

“See ya,” May echoes.

Peter wolfs down his breakfast as he dashes to school.  He hadn’t realized the hunger gnawing at thecorners of his stomach, but now that he thinks about it, he didn’t have much ofa dinner last night, and most of it ended up splatted on a street corner and inthe toilet.  It makes the pop tarts tasteextra good, like the food of the gods. Which, who knows? Maybe they are.

His morning classes pass quickly, and Peter does his best tofocus on algebra and chemistry and history even though his mind is on otherthings.  He didn’t do that great of a jobof patrolling the neighborhood last night, and he forgot to call Mr. Stark andleave a message.  A mission report.  If Mr. Stark asks about it, he’ll just tellthe truth and say he was sick, which is perfectly valid reason for an excusedabsence.  But it still doesn’t seem likea great track record for a superhero.

During lunch, Peter hides out in the band room with Ned towork on the Lego death- star-in-progress. Ned has a treasure trove of Halloween booty to share, somehow includingthe diamonds of watermelon sour patch kids and multiple full-size chocolatebars.  Peter adds his candy corn andmilky ways to the pile and chows down, ruefully wishing he’d made butteredtoast for breakfast.  Or at leastsomething a little less sugary.  It onlytakes a few pieces of candy to sear his tongue with sweetness and make his teethfeel grimy.  But Peter’s hungry, and withhis current rate of calorie burn, it’ll only take a few rounds of the block inhis Spiderman suit to burn it all off.

The bell is ringing to signal the end of the lunch period,and Peter’s phone is vibrating up a storm in his pocket.  Pretending he’s on his way to class, he ducksinto the bathroom to check the messages.

Mr. Stark: There’s athing.  Can you assist?

 Mr. Stark:  Oh, you’re at school.  Nevermind.

 Mr. Stark:  But really, can you assist?

 Mr. Stark:  Happy’s on a Starbucks run.  Please provide own transportation.

Peter hastens to compose a reply.

 Peter: Yeah! Ofcourse!  I don’t have any tests today.

He considers deleting the exclamation points.  Decides against it.  Oh well.

Peter: To the tower,right?  What do you need help with?

 Mr. Stark: Yes. Excusethe boxes.  We’re packing for the move.

 Mr. Stark:  How’s your knowledge of local gang hangouts?

 Peter: Not fantastic?

 Mr. Stark:  Hm. Ok.  Scans are showing up weirdweapons tech.  Figured if it’s HYDRA,I’ll handle it.  But if it’s justbullies, you can give it a try first.  Ialso need you to model.

 Peter:  Always happy to slam some bullies.  Model what?

 Mr. Stark:  Your suit. Duh.  I’m working on a new microarmor layer, and I need you to put it on and tell me if it hurts when I hityou.

 Peter:  Ok…

 Mr. Stark:  Don’t just stand there like a dumb kid onyour phone.  Get your ass down here.

 Mr. Stark: I’m notswearing at you.

 Peter wonders if he’s supposed to reply, but he just throwshis phone into his backpack and exits the bathroom.  He glances up and down the hall a few timesto make sure there aren’t any teachers watching, then he dashes for thedoor.  

Peter dumps his backpack in the alley and quickly pulls onhis Spiderman suit.  Since he doesn’thave any cash for a cab and his metro card’s down to a few cents, webbinghimself across the city seems like the best option.  He supposes he could park somewhere and waitfor Happy to finish up whatever he’s doing, but what fun is that?  Peter usually gets a kick out of swingingaround.  Plus, he doesn’t get theimpression Happy likes him that much.

Once he’s situated, Peter scales the brick wall and sprintsacross the building’s flat roof.  Heshoots a web onto the corner of the building diagonally across the street andjumps, letting his feet skim the roofs of a few taxis on his way over theintersection.  

With this quick method of transport, it’ll still take Petera good ten or fifteen minutes to get to the tower.  He’s less than halfway through the journeywhen his stomach starts sloshing. Honestly, it’s not that unexpected what with all the junk he just ateand fact that he was sick yesterday.  Butit’s annoying as anything.

Eight blocks from the tower, Peter’s head starts isaching.  Not in the nice, polite,excuse-me-I-think-I’m-starting-to-get-a-headache way, but more in theplease-stop-I’m-hella-dizzy way.  The waythat demands a change in activity or dire consequences.  

Peter jumps onto a rooftop and sidesteps a skylight,doubling over with his hands on his knees so he can catch his breath.  He’s fine. He tells himself he is five or six times and swallows a sweet, chocolatyburp, then leaps back into free fall before he can second guess himself.  Once he shoots a web and starts to swing,though, the disgusting flip of his stomach starts up again in the worstcombination of overindulgence and motion sickness ever.  Peter’s fucked and heknows it.  He imagines he feels worsethan Steve Rogers did in that infamous story of Cap and the cotton candy andthe Cyclone on Coney Island.

He’s swallowing hard against rising gunk in his throat whenhe swings onto the block dominated by the Avengers Tower and, as it has beenfor the past few weeks, about a thousand U-Haul trucks.  Peter doesn’t want to let his feet hit theground for fear that his body will take it as a cue to turn itself inside out,so he webs himself to the balcony on the 21st floor, the one wherehe knows Tony’s lab is located.  Thesliding glass door is open slightly, and Peter shoves through it.  He pulls his mask up over his nose and mouth,intent only on getting to the bathroom before the inevitable happens.

“Hey, where are you going?”

For once in his life, Peter ignores Mr. Stark’s question andkeeps hustling, though his pace is slowing significantly as the motion sendshis stomach into frantic convulsions. He’s sweating all over.  He can’tfeel his face.  He can’t feel his feet.

“Yo, kid.”  A handcomes down on his shoulder and forcibly spins him around.  “I’m talking to you, you know?”

“Ohshit—” Peter manages to choke out beforeeverything’s coming up, running through the fingers of the gloved hand he’spressed to his mouth a moment too late. He can’t suppress the next spastic retch, and a heavy splash ofminimally digested candy and pop tarts hits the floor, soiling his red bootsand Mr. Stark’s black Converse.

“What the fuck?”  Tony leapsbackward, then seems to think better of his actions and comes up behind Peterto place a tentative hand on his shoulder and keep him from collapsing on hisshaky knees as his stomach continues to evacuate.

“Oh, god, I’m so sorry, Mr. Stark,” Peter chokes out as soon as he cantake a breath.  “I didn’t mean—”  He cuts off with another gag.  “Sorry.”

“Um.  It’s ok,” Tonysays, sounding like he’s out of his depth, fishing for the right words.  “I’ll…call May to pick you up?”

“No, I…I can’t,” Peter breathes, scraping mucous and meltedchocolate off his tongue with his teeth. It seems rude to spit onto the floor, but there aren’t a lot of betteroptions.  

“Yeah, right, you’re supposed to be at school…” Tony remindshimself.  “Well, I have 23 guest rooms inthis place, so I guess it won’t be any trouble if you want to lie down for aminute.”  

Peter tries to say thank you, but the words turn into a wetburp he struggles to keep from turning into a heave.  “OhmygodI’msorry,” he exhales.

“You’re…gross,” Tony says. “But, come on.”  He uses the handon Peter’s shoulder to steer him down the hall. “Good thing I haven’t packed the puke-cleaning robots yet.”