#we’re having minus temperatures atm which is so good

[ineffabeatlemindpalace]

How today(‘s run) has been, in short form: The sunset on my run was beautiful, the sky had no business being this many colours. Then my thoughts might have wandered to a particular Tumblr post and I tripped and fell flat down on my knees. It didn’t hurt so bad, not as much as the bad news anyway *pauses dramatically*. Again, the world had no damn right looking this bright. Songs from a certain soundtrack came on and I stopped for a moment to take in the familiar view of the wide open field. Nature radiating hope despite life’s challenges.

[builder051]

Hello! Good to see you back :) Would you be interested in writing a drabble with Peter being sick with a fever on a mission and it causing him to mess something really simple up? Maybe Tony yells at him first, but then realizes what’s happening when Peter gets weirdly teary about it? Thanks!

I’ve already written something like that (the only difference is that it’s minus the teary, I think).  I’m pasting the fic below. :)

___________________________________________

“Follow him!” Tony shouts, pointing at the ski-masked, ATM-robbing bandit tearing his way down the sidewalk.

Peter takes a breath and fights through the fog in his head to pay attention and process Mr. Stark’s directions.

Follow him.  Alright.  He can do that.  Or, he probably could if he had any idea which direction the dude had run in.  Peter looks up at Mr. Stark, his blank expression thankfully obscured by his own mask.

“Yeah, nice hustle there,” Tony says, a note of irritation tainting his voice.  He looks away from the alien chainsaw-wielding criminal he’s fighting to point Peter down the sidewalk.  “If you lose him, that one’s on you.”

“Ok, ok,” Peter says, snuffing a drip of snot back down his throat.  He tracks the black knit ski mask with his eyes for a moment, then starts up at a jog.

“Swinging would be a lot faster if you want to cut him off,” Mr. Stark shouts after him.

Oh.  Yeah.  Duh.  Peter deliberates shooting a rope of web up to the nearest street lamp, but considering how dizzy he’s feeling with both feet on the ground, he’s not eager to web himself anywhere.  Instead, he keeps running and aims his web shooter at the back of the bandit’s head.

It turns out to be an even stupider move.  The tacky surface of the web sticks to the ski mask and boomerangs the soft wool hat back into Peter’s hand.  “Fuck,” he mutters, shaking his wrist so the piece of clothing will drop from where it’s adhered itself to his suit.

Wait, no, he’s losing time.  The bandit is getting away.  What is he doing?  Peter feels stupid as he looks up, scanning the crowded street for the criminal.  Then Peter realizes he doesn’t have the slightest idea what he looks like without the mask.  Or even if it is, in fact, a man.

Looking back over his shoulder, he sees Mr. Stark using his Ironman suit’s pulsar blasts to destroy the other robber’s weapon.  He doesn’t want to run back to the ATM and admit his failure.  Plus, jogging is making his already achy head pound all the harder.  But Peter doesn’t see a lot of better options.

By the time he’s crept up behind Mr. Stark, a police officer has arrived and is placing the angry criminal in cuffs, then pushing him into a waiting police car.  Peter watches the scene dazedly, unaware of how much he’s in the way, standing there like a Spiderman street performer.

“Ok, come here,” Mr. Stark says, putting his hand in the middle of Peter’s back and pushing him down an alley so he’s no longer blocking the sidewalk.  The metal of the Ironman suit’s glove is painfully hard and cold against Peter’s skin, even though his body is covered in his suit’s micro armor and spandex.

Mr. Stark shoves Peter up against the brick wall of a building, then retracts his face plate so Peter can see his sweaty and rather livid face. “What’s going on with you today?  You’re slow, you lost a suspect.  This isn’t like you.”

“Hey, I—I’m really sorry, Mr. Stark,” Peter says, fumbling his mask off with shaky, hands.  The chilly November air hits his face and lights up patches of clammy sweat, making him feel like ice cubes are pressing to his face.  “I don’t know what…I just feel, like, kinda off, I guess…”

“If you want to do this, you can’t have off days,” Mr. Stark says, pushing a metal finger into Peter’s chest.

New shivers run up and down Peter’s spine, sending tremors right up into his shoulders.

“Come on, it’s not that cold.”  Mr. Stark rolls his eyes.  “Or are you gonna start crying?  Either way, I don’t have a lot of sympathy for you.”

“I’m ok,” Peter says quickly.  “I’m sorry.  I just, like, I don’t mean it as an excuse or anything.”  The longer he stands there, the more his nose drips backwards down his prickling throat, the more his lower back aches, the more his upper lip bristles with fresh perspiration… “I kinda don’t feel good.”

“You don’t feel good?” Mr. Stark repeats, giving Peter a thorough looking over.

“I’m sorry.”

“Shut up, ok?”  Tony raises his still-gloved hand to Peter’s forehead.  “FRIDAY, can you run diagnostic?”

There’s a slight whirring sound.  Then the accented voice reports, “Mr. Parker has a body temperature of 101.6 degrees Fahrenheit.  He appears to have symptoms consistent with the common cold.”

“Kind of a high fever for a cold, though,” Mr. Stark comments.

Peter shrugs.  Snuffs up a drip that threatens to fall from the end of his nose.

“Hey, don’t do that.  That’s gross.  That’s gonna make you puke,” Mr. Stark chastises him.  “Here’s what we’re gonna do.  Happy’s gonna pick you up.  Bring you a change of clothes.  Take you home.”

“But, the mission?” Peter asks.  He feels like there are cotton balls in his ears, fuzzing up his hearing and making his mental processing speed slower than the postal service.

“It’s done, kid.  There’s not a lot we can do without a visual on the one that got away…”

“I’m so sorry, Mr. Stark,” Peter says for a third time.  “I didn’t mean to…”

“Stop apologizing,” Tony commands.  “You’re sick.  You’re not firing on all cylinders.  It’s…it’s ok.”

“But I fucked up!”

“Yeah, but I’m not gonna bite your head off for it.  Not right now when I know you feel like shit.  That would… that wouldn’t do any good,” Tony says.  “And please don’t pick up my profanity habit.”

Peter smiles in spite of himself.

“Ok, I’m gonna call May, tell her you’re sick and Happy’s dropping you off at home,” Mr. Stark informs him.  “So shut up, unless you need to cough or sneeze or something.  That could be good sound effects.”