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Flames eat the logs in the makeshift fireplace, and Peter’s mesmerized by it. He watches it with a contentment in his chest that he’s got no business feeling. He’s got way too much to do to feel this peaceful, and yet he doesn’t think it’s possible to feel any other way.
Ditching New York and driving down to Tony’s cabin for the weekend had been intended to help focus on his studying, to create a distraction free environment to power through an essay and a project he’d been avoiding for weeks.
But that hadn’t been what happened.
Instead he’d been greeted by Tony standing over the grill and Morgan jumping up and down, believing he was there simply to play with her. Peter is never great about saying no, so they swam in the lake while Tony grilled up their dinner, and once it got dark, Tony had sent Peter to the barn to haul some firewood and Pepper had built the bonfire.
The bug spray Tony had forced on him made him sneezy, but no matter how determined Peter was to dodge him and the spray bottle, the man hadn’t been persuaded to let him get away with going without it.
“That’s the only bad thing about spring down here,” Pepper had told him, at least looking at Peter with some sympathy after Tony had attacked him with the insect repellent. “The bugs are unstoppable. We had to have a team come out and treat the house yesterday.”
They had roasted marshmallows and eaten smores. They had told stories and laughed, and despite being sneezy and unproductive, Peter had had a good time. A quality Friday night, with his second family, but as the flames start to die out, Peter comes to terms with the fact that it’s over and it’s time to start on his projects.
“You’re so boring,” Tony tells him, after Peter announces he’s leaving him to hit his books. “And responsible.”
Pepper pokes Tony with a roasting stick. “Leave him alone.”
“I’m not really that responsible,” says Peter, lifting himself out of the lawn chair. “I waited until the last minute.”
“You’re getting it done,” says Pepper. “That’s all that matters now.”
Pepper offers to mentor him in time management, while Tony rambles about how he could always just start in the morning and wing it, and while Morgan takes advantage of her parents not paying attention to poke at the dying fire with a stick, causing ashes and sparks to fly.
Eventually, he manages to stumble into the house and set up a study station with his laptop, his school books, his highlighters and pens and multiple notebooks. He organizes his materials, arranges his notecards, and he’s ready to begin.
Except he’s not.
He’s just staring at his blank Google docs screen. He tries to switch to taking notes from his textbook, but the words jumble on the page and his eyes get blurry. They get blurry and watery and they don’t stop until he’s got actual tears streaming down his face, until they’re burning and no amount of rubbing them relieves them.
“Pete?”
Peter recognizes that it’s Tony’s voice, but that’s just it, he’s got to rely on his ears to do his seeing for him, as his eyes are useless. He doesn’t respond. Just buries his face into his hands and claws at his eyes.
“Kid,” says Tony. He grips his shoulder and sits down next to him. “Are you crying?”
He jabs at his eyes some more until Tony pries them away.
“It’s okay if you need help on your projects,” says Tony. “Between me and Pepper you’ve got one point five responsible adults to help you out.”
“I can’t see,” says Peter, more water leaking from his eyes. His voice sounds a bit wheezy too, and he notices that his breathing isn’t as easy as it had been just an hour ago, when he had been outside.
“What? Did you give yourself a stress migraine? Maybe you should take a break, and we’ll get back on the schoolwork tomorrow…”
“No, Tony,” says Peter. He pulls his hands back up to his eyes. “I’m not crying… I just, my eyes are burning… like I have allergies.”
As if on cue, he sneezes.
“Allergies? But you were fine outside…” Tony’s voice trails off, and it’s as if it clicks together in both their heads at the same time.
Tony grips his arm, pulls him to his feet, and directs him through the house and out the front door, where a welcome fresh breeze hits him and combs through his hair.
He sits on the porch swing, and after only a few seconds, he blinks and the burning in his eyes reduces to only an itch.
“Better?”
“Yeah,” says Peter, with a breath. “Way better.”
“Fantastic,” says Tony. “You’re allergic to insecticide.”
Peter groans. Just another way his spider DNA makes him weak to completely normal, everyday substances.
“So earlier when you were spraying me down with bug spray,” says Peter. He blinks, trying to get his eyes back to normal. “You were actually trying to kill me.”
“Shame it wasn’t successful,” says Tony, without missing a beat.
“Rude,” says Peter. “You know you love me.”
“Yeah, yeah,” says Tony. “The real question is whether or not I love you enough to try and invent a bug spray you aren’t allergic to, or if I let the mosquitoes feast on your blood.”
“Mosquitoes carry diseases. I could die.”
“Well I guess that pretty much forces my hand, doesn’t it?”
Peter laughs, then gets lost in thought. “Do you think mosquitoes turn into mosquito-spiders when they suck my blood?”
“Kid.” A look of pure terror crosses Tony’s face, and he shakes his head. “I’m gonna have nightmares now.”
*
“Peter.”
He looks up from the tent he’s assembling. Among the tarps and the connectors and the poles, Morgan stands wearing her pajamas and her Spider-Man slippers.
“I’m so happy you’re allergic to Repel,” she tells him. “Now we get to camp out outside and sleep in sleeping bags! It’s so awwessome.”
“Thanks, Mo,” says Peter. “I appreciate that.”
“You’re welcome,” she sings, and breaks out into the Disney song as she dances away.
The Moana song will be stuck in Peter’s head all night now, and he’s humming it under his breath when Tony comes by and drops some lanterns on the ground next to where Peter’s trying to work.
“Really gotta stop letting her play that movie all day,” says Tony.
“Like you can tell her no,” jokes Peter.
“Yeah. Good point.”
They work together quietly, and are able to assemble the family sized tent they will spend the night in, by moon and lantern light. Only Pepper opts to stay in the house, firmly stating that if she were meant to be sleeping on the ground, she would have been born centuries earlier.
Morgan’s the first to fall asleep once inside the tent and cuddled inside her sleeping bag. She manages to be completely knocked just after declaring she’ll stay up the longest.
Tony kisses the top of her head, and Peter feels guilty when he rearranges to get comfortable.
“You don’t really have to sleep out here, on the ground, with us,” says Peter. “Just cause I’m allergic to your house.”
“Are you kidding me?” says Tony. “This is great.”
“Great? Really?”
“Yeah,” says Tony. “Never really got to do this stuff with my dad. Figured I should give it a try, even if it’s hell on my back.”
Peter laughs.
“So,” says Tony. “You gonna tell me what’s the deal with the homework?”
“Homework?”
“Why all of the sudden you’re mister wait until the last minute.”
“Oh,” says Peter. He stares up at the tarp. The shadow of the tree is visible thanks to the rays of moonlight. They sway with a gentle breeze, and Peter decides he’s got no choice but to be honest. “I can’t really concentrate on things… you know, ever since getting back.”
“That’s normal.”
Peter nods against his pillow. Of course he knows it, always has known that returning from the dust wouldn't be as easy as opening his eyes after a nap, but it’s nice to hear someone say it out loud. Someone he respects as much as he respects Tony.
“I wasn’t kidding earlier when you weren’t crying,” says Tony. “I’ll help you with your projects, even if it’s just bringing you coffee and keeping you on task.”
“Yeah?”
“Sure thing, kid.”
It’s a solution Peter would’ve been too ashamed to ask for without any prompting, but one he’ll gladly accept if it means putting the semester behind him.
“Thanks, Tony. I could really use the help.”
“Yep,” says Tony. “You know now that you’re allergic to bug spray I have the perfect keep Peter away spray. Every time I want to keep my fridge stocked I can just have the house treated for insects.”
“You’re the worst.”
“Can I have that engraved on a trophy?”
“Sure,” says Peter, with a shrug. “Why not?”
Tony laughs, and the tent grows quiet, except for the branches above them, still being brustled by the wind, and the lake, the calm ripples of water against shore. It’s a great thing, he thinks, before he drifts off, to be allergic to bug spray, just for this moment.