Work Text:
Two weeks after Alice officially retires, Patrick finally thinks he’s got the school nurse thing down pat. He knows the janitor’s number for when someone misses the bucket and barfs on the floor. He knows where the gym classes meet for when someone sprains their ankle. He’s getting to know the frequent flyers and their various “ailments.”
Peter Parker isn’t among them, to Patrick’s relief. Patrick can handle migraines and asthma and stomach viruses. Septic stab wounds, on the other hand –– well, there are very good reasons that he’s no longer an ER nurse.
With an injury like that, Peter should have been out for weeks. To Patrick’s surprise, he was back at school only three or four days after The Incident on Patrick’s first day. It makes Patrick wonder if he hallucinated the pus-oozing infected wound after all. If Peter was back that soon, it couldn’t have been as bad as it looked at the time.
Patrick doesn’t wonder about it for very long. He’s got his hands full with Peter’s classmates, some of whom are a lot more dramatic about much more minor ailments. He doesn’t see Peter again at all until halfway through October, when he shows up just after lunch with a bruise over his eye, trailing his friend Ned.
“What happened here?” Patrick asks, retrieving an ice pack from the freezer.
“He got shoved into a locker,” Ned says.
“Ned,” Peter groans, in a tone that’s almost enough to have Patrick flashing back to The Incident.
“Well, you did,” Ned says. “I don’t know why you let him, it’s not like you couldn’t have—”
“Ned.”
“Who is this ‘him’?” Patrick asks mildly as he hands Peter the ice pack wrapped in a paper towel.
“No one,” Peter mutters.
“Hmm. You know, there’s a zero tolerance rule about bullying at this school.”
Ned snorts. “Sorry,” he says, when Patrick glances at him, “but that has not been our experience.”
Patrick grimaces. “It does get better,” he says — uselessly, he thinks. No wonder kids don’t trust adults. “If you gave me a name...”
“No,” Peter says quickly. “No. I can take care of myself.”
Patrick nods. “How’s the stab wound?”
“The — oh. It’s fine. All healed up.”
Patrick raises his eyebrows. “You heal fast.”
“Well, you know,” Peter smiles weakly, “I guess I’ve got good genes? Anyway, I don’t think I ever thanked you for helping me out.”
“You did, actually,” Patrick says. “Though I’m not surprised you don’t remember, you were a little out of it. And it’s my job, even if I thought my stab wound days were over.”
The two of them perk up immediately, much to Patrick’s chagrin. He didn’t intend to say anything about his previous job, especially not to these two. But now they’re both looking at him like dogs smelling a steak on the grill... or sharks smelling chum in the water.
“Is that what you were doing before you came to Midtown?” Ned asks. “Where? Were you in the army?”
“Oh God, no,” Patrick says without thinking. “Uh. I mean... no, I was an ER nurse at Mercy General.”
“Oh wow, that’s cool,” Ned says. “Do you have crazy stories? I bet you have crazy stories. Is it true that you have to pull things out of people’s butts all the time?”
Patrick blinks. “Not that often.”
“That’s not ‘no,’” Ned observes. “So what’s the weirdest —”
“Ned. Seriously, do we have to talk about this?” Peter asks.
“Okay, okay.” Ned’s silent for a few seconds. “So what are you doing here? This is way less exciting than an ER.”
Patrick glances at Peter, hoping for a reprieve, but Peter’s looking at him from beneath his ice pack, clearly just as curious as Ned is. “Not everyone is cut out for an exciting job,” he says. “I like knowing how my day is going to go, more or less. And that probably no one is going to die — stab wounds not withstanding,” he adds in Peter’s direction.
“But —” Ned starts.
“Hey, I think I’m done with this,” Peter says, removing the ice pack from his face. There’s barely a mark left at all. “Thanks, Mr. P.”
“No problem,” Patrick says, taking it back from him. “Try not to get shoved into any more lockers, okay? And if you do, tell a teacher.”
“Sure,” Peter agrees easily. Patrick sighs to himself, knowing he won’t, and bends to put the ice pack back in the freezer. “Oh and hey, Mr. P?”
Patrick glances up. “Yes, Peter?”
“I think you’re doing great so far,” Peter says, and gives him a double thumbs up.
Patrick has to grin. “Thanks, Peter. Hope I don’t see you soon.”
Peter grins back. “Same here.”
***
A week later, on a balmy fall evening, Patrick is walking home from the subway, having stopped to pick up takeout from the Caribbean place he’s been going to at least twice a week since he moved to this neighborhood halfway through nursing school. It’s Friday, and he’s got a quiet weekend ahead of him. Today was just the most recent uneventful day in a string of uneventful days, and he almost doesn’t regret quitting Bed, Bath, and Beyond after all.
He’s fumbling for his keys in the pocket of his messenger bag when he hears a sort of distressed yowling sound. He looks around for the source of the sound but can’t see anything. Then he hears it again and realizes that it’s coming from the alleyway behind his apartment building where the garbage cans are. And that the cat –– at least he hopes it’s a cat –– isn’t alone.
“Ow, ow, ow, jeez, dude, I’m just trying to help you!” Spider-Man is saying to the very angry cat he’s trying to keep hold of. He’s big and orange and literally hissing and spitting –– and yowling, which is what had attracted Patrick’s attention to begin with.
“Um, hi, Spider-Man,” Patrick says awkwardly. Despite having lived in Queens for years, this is his first encounter with the borough’s resident superhero.
Spider-Man looks up and the “eyes” on his suit widen minutely. “Whoa, uh, hey Mr. –– um. Mister.”
“What’s going on with him?” Patrick asks, nodding toward the cat.
“Oh, he got hit by someone on a bike,” Spider-Man says. “He’s not too badly hurt, but his back leg is bleeding. And he’s really pissed.”
Patrick smiles. “No kidding.” He hesitates, but it’s a cat, not a person, and he looks about two seconds away from shredding Spider-Man’s Stark-made suit. “Look, I live right here,” he gestures at his building, “and I’ve got first aid supplies upstairs. And, uh, canned tuna. Want to bring him up?”
“Oh wow,” Spider-Man says, “uh, yeah, sure, that’s super nice of you.”
Patrick shrugs. “It’s nothing, really. Come on,” he adds, as the cat tries to claw his way over Spider-Man’s shoulder and launch himself toward the dumpster. Spider-Man keeps hold of him, and the cat gives an especially frustrated yowl of protest.
Once they’re inside, the cat actually kind of chills out. Spider-Man sets him down in Patrick’s bathroom and he starts limping around, sniffing at things, while Patrick digs out his first aid kit. “Wow, that’s a serious first aid kit,” Spider-Man remarks, watching as Patrick unfolds it across his bathroom counter.
“I’m a nurse,” Patrick says. “For people, mostly,” he adds, holding out a hand for the cat to sniff. “But sometimes I think I should’ve been a vet tech instead. It might be a little less stressful than being a nurse for people.”
“Yeah, but they can’t tell you what’s wrong,” Spider-Man says. He recaptures the cat and holds on firmly while Patrick examines the abrasion on his back leg. It’s still bleeding sluggishly, so he cleans it –– the cat goes stiff-legged and nearly launches himself up the wall –– and then starts wrapping a bandage around it.
“They also can’t lie to you,” Patrick says with a sigh, “or scream at you.”
“He was definitely kind of screaming at me earlier,” Spider-Man points out wryly.
“Well, true,” Patrick concedes. “But it’s not quite the same.”
“No, I guess not. Do you, uh, get screamed at a lot?”
“Not in my current job,” Patrick says, “but in my last job –– between the patients and my colleagues, a fair bit. I’m, um. Not especially good under pressure.”
“You did okay tonight,” Spider-Man says, like he’s trying to make Patrick feel better.
“This isn’t much stress. This is like a two on the stress scale. Maybe a two-point-five.” Patrick cuts the bandage and sits back on his heels. “I think that’s all I can do. He might’ve strained a tendon, but the only thing for that is rest.”
“I guess that’s hard for a street cat to do,” Spider-Man says, a little sadly.
“Hmm,” Patrick says. “He doesn’t act much like a stray, does he? I wonder if he’s microchipped.” Now that he’s free again, the cat is wandering around the bathroom and eyeing the door like he’s planning on escaping to the rest of the apartment. “I guess I could take him to a vet tomorrow and find out.”
“Really?” Spider-Man says, looking at him in surprise. “You’d do that?”
Patrick wonders if he’s going to regret not keeping his internal monologue inside his own head. Too late now. “I guess so.”
“What are you going to do if he’s not?” Spider-Man asks. “Just let him go?”
He sounds, at that moment, very, very young. Patrick glances at him, wondering just how old Spider-Man actually is. He doesn’t sound much older than the students Patrick sees on a daily basis. “I don’t know,” Patrick admits. “Maybe take him to a shelter? He’s a handsome guy, I bet he’d get adopted pretty fast.”
“Or you could keep him,” Spider-Man suggests. “Unless you’re allergic?”
“Not allergic,” Patrick says. “We’re not really supposed to have pets here, but it’s not like the building management pays a lot of attention. The woman upstairs has a chihuahua and no one cares.”
“So you could adopt him.”
“I... could.” Patrick’s never given much thought to owning a pet. When he worked at the hospital, his hours were too long, but now that he’s at Midtown, it seems a bit more doable. “But first I should find out if he’s got owners who are looking for him.”
“Yeah, that makes sense.” Spider-Man crouches down and holds his hand out for the cat to sniff. The cat does. He seems friendly, now that Spider-Man isn’t restraining him. Spider-Man glances up at Patrick. “You said you have canned tuna, but you probably need cat litter and stuff? Even if it’s just for tonight?”
It didn’t even occur to Patrick, but he’s right. “Yeah, they carry it down at the bodega on the corner. Mind watching him while I run out?”
“Sure,” Spider-Man says, and sits down on the floor of the bathroom cross-legged, making himself at home.
It’s only on Patrick’s way out the door that it occurs to him just how weird this all is. Spider-Man is in his house, watching the injured cat they rescued together. Patrick is going to run out for kitty litter, and when he comes back he’ll give the cat some tuna, and maybe then he’ll finally get to sit down and eat the takeout that’s been getting cold in its bag by the front door.
It’s definitely, undeniably weird. Way weirder than anything that ever happened to him at Bed, Bath, and Beyond. But not nearly as awful as a shift at Mercy General, and also kind of... cool? It’s a good story, for sure, especially if he ends up keeping the cat. Not that he’s going to keep the cat, but if he did –– how many people can say Spider-Man helped them rescue their pet?
Actually, a lot, Patrick realizes later. There’s a whole Reddit forum devoted to Spider-Man and animals, full of photos of him pulling cats off of fire escapes and running after dogs that have bolted, plus more exotic animals, like cockatiels and rabbits and even a hedgehog. Like a goddamn Disney princess, someone says, and Patrick has to agree.
He names the cat Spidey.
***
Life settles into a routine after that. Patrick goes to work, comes home, and hangs out with Spidey on the couch. Sometimes he goes to the gym. Sometimes he meets up with friends from nursing school. They’ve all got more exciting –– not to mention better paid –– gigs, but he doesn’t mind hearing about them so much anymore.
A couple months go by like that. It’s been long enough since Peter Parker’s last visit to the nurse’s office that Patrick’s almost forgotten about him, until one very slow afternoon in early December.
His friend Ned is with him again, only this time he’s kind of... holding Peter up. Peter looks very green, and his eyes, when he raises them to blink at Patrick, are totally unfocused.
“Whoa,” Patrick says, jumping up to guide Peter into a chair. He pulls a garbage can over and sticks it between Peter’s feet. “What happened?”
“He has a concussion,” Ned says, ever helpful.
“So I see,” Patrick says. He shines a penlight in Peter’s eyes. Peter flinches. “How many fingers am I holding up?”
“Two,” Peter mutters grumpily.
“What day of the week is it?”
“Only Tuesday, unfortunately.”
Patrick smiles. “How did you get a concussion?”
Peter blinks, slowly. “Sports?”
“He does, um, parkour,” Ned says. “That’s how he got it. He fell.”
“Uh huh,” Patrick says doubtfully. “Well, I think you need a doctor. I’m going to call your emergency contact, all right?”
“My aunt’s working,” Peter says, slumping in the chair, looking too out of it to even argue. “And Happy’s on vacation. You’ll have to call the third contact.”
Ned’s eyes widen. “Is that ––”
“Yep,” Peter says mournfully.
“There isn’t a third contact,” Patrick says, going to his computer. That day in September is etched in his mind, even though he’d rather forget it. He pulls up Peter’s records. “It was just May Parker and Harold Hogan...” He stops, staring at the computer. Because there, in black and white, is a third name that definitely wasn’t there the day Patrick had to call an ambulance because of Peter Parker’s septic stab wound.
Tony Stark.
“Is this a joke?” Patrick asks faintly.
“Nope,” Ned says. “That’s really Tony Stark. Peter’s his intern.”
“His intern,” Patrick repeats, even more doubtful about this than about the parkour explanation.
“His personal intern?” Ned tries, sounding hopeful.
“Right,” Patrick says. He swallows. “Well. All right, then.” He supposes that the worst thing that might happen is that the number is fake, in which case he’ll try the other numbers, just in case, and then call an ambulance –– again –– if no one picks up.
He dials the number, fully expecting it to go nowhere. But the voice on the other end of the line is unmistakable. “Stark speaking,”
Patrick blinks. A few things suddenly fall into place –– like the ambulance diverting to Stark Tower, and the “nurse” in protective gear with very distinctive facial hair.
“Hello?”
“Hi,” Patrick squeaks. He clears his throat. “Mr. Stark. This is Patrick Carmichael. I’m the nurse at Midtown Tech. I’ve got Peter Parker in my office right now, and he appears to have a concussion.”
Stark vents a sigh. “I told him not to go to school with a head injury, but does he listen? No, he does not. I suppose May’s working, isn’t she? And I sent Happy to Belize for two weeks, he was starting to get too grumpy even for me. I’ll be right down.”
“Oh,” Patrick says faintly. “All right.”
Stark hangs up without saying goodbye. Patrick stares at the phone for a bit, then puts it back in its cradle.
“You okay over there?” Peter asks wryly.
Patrick isn’t sure. There’s kind of a ringing in his ears. “He already knew about your concussion.”
“Yeah, I have to tell him any time I get hurt doing... parkour. I’m actually feeling better,” Peter adds. “Not nearly as nauseous now that I’m not smelling the broccoli in the cafeteria.”
“You should still go home,” Patrick tells him. “The only way to recover from a concussion is to rest your brain. No screens, no homework ––”
Peter snorts.
“–– all right, as little homework as possible,” Patrick amends. “Seriously, you should get a doctor’s note. Stressing your brain is only going to prolong your symptoms.”
Peter makes a face that Patrick decides to ignore. He sends Ned back to class, despite his protests, and puts a paper cover over the cot so Peter can lie down. He does so without complaining, which is all the evidence that Patrick needs that he’s still feeling pretty awful.
Patrick spends the next thirty minutes fidgeting at his desk, getting absolutely nothing done. And yet even after all of that, he’s still not prepared when to look up and see Tony Fucking Stark in his doorway.
He’s shorter than Patrick imagined. He never looks short when Patrick sees him on the news, but in real life... yeah, he’s kind of short.
“Um, hi,” Patrick manages.
“Hello, yes, you must be Patrick,” Stark says, removing his glasses and slipping them into the pocket of his impeccably tailored suit jacket that probably cost more than everything in Patrick’s apartment combined. Maybe his car, too. “Where’s my kid?”
“Lying down,” Patrick says, standing up and gesturing to the little room off his office where Peter is. “He was feeling sick to his stomach when he came in. He claimed it got better away from the smell of the cafeteria ––”
“But he was willing to lie down, so he can’t be feeling that much better,” Stark concludes. He raps lightly on the doorframe and leans in. “Hey, kiddo,” he says, in an impossibly gentle voice. Patrick’s eyebrows go up of their own volition. “Let’s head home.”
“Mmph,” Peter says groggily. Patrick watches, hopefully not too obviously, as Stark helps him sit up. “Home like Queens or home like the tower?”
“Home like the tower,” Stark says. “Your aunt had to cover for someone this evening, so you’re going to spend the night at our place. That way FRIDAY can keep an eye on that brain of yours.”
“S’not that bad,” Peter mumbles, even as Stark helps him stand. He leans into Stark’s side, belying his own words.
“Sure, kid,” Stark replies fondly. He leads Peter out and looks at Patrick. “So, where do I sign?”
“Uh, right here,” Patrick says, offering Stark the tablet so he can sign Peter out. He does so with a flourish. Patrick glances at it and sees a T, followed by a vague scrawl. “He should stay away from screens, and he really shouldn’t do homework until he’s been symptom-free for twenty-four hours.”
“You hear that, Pete? You got a get-out-of-homework free card.”
Peter doesn’t really react. Now that his... jeez, there really is no other word for it. Now that his parent is here, he seems to have given up fighting his symptoms. “Feel better, Peter,” Patrick offers, and Peter gives him a weak wave. Stark puts one arm around Peter’s shoulders and carries Peter’s backpack with the other, grumbling good naturedly about how it must be filled with bricks.
Patrick sits back down, feeling like all the wind has been knocked out of him.
What the actual hell.
***
Peter is back in school way sooner than Patrick expects. He thinks about saying something, but the glimpses he catches of Peter in the halls are reassuring. He’s bright-eyed, joking with his friends, shoveling food into his mouth in the cafeteria. Patrick thought it was a more severe concussion, but head injuries are weird. Maybe all Peter needed was to rest for a few days, instead of trying to power through.
He tries not to be too curious about The Tony Stark Thing, but he does find himself googling Tony Stark secret son at home with his browser history turned off. Stuff comes up, of course, but none of it is real and none of it is about anyone who matches Peter’s description. Patrick gives up and tries to put it out of his mind. It’s not his business anyway.
Soon it’s winter break, which is, admittedly, a perk that Patrick hadn’t thought much about when he’d taken the job at Midtown. Patrick shoves a disgruntled Spidey into a carrier and drives up to his mother’s place in Connecticut, where they both spend a few days hiding in his childhood bedroom from the chaos wrought by his three siblings and their combined eight children.
At least he feels like less of a failure this year. Last year at this time, he was in his downward spiral at Mercy General. He only came for two days, and he spent most of them drinking too much and trying to deflect his mother’s worried questions. This year, his brother clearly thinks he’s living in abject poverty and keeps trying to give him money, and his youngest sister asks at least three times whether he’s on Tinder and would he like her to look at his profile, but it’s undeniably better than it was.
Still, it’s a little bit of a relief to both him and Spidey when it’s time to head back on the 28th. His life in New York might not be amazing, but it’s his.
He’s only been home about twelve hours when it starts snowing and doesn’t stop. By the time he wakes up the next morning, there’s almost a foot on the ground, and it’s still going. Patrick stretches out on the sofa with Spidey on top of his chest and alternates between reading and watching Netflix. His group text with his nursing school friends is blowing up with complaints about having to go out in this weather to get to work, and he feels very smug that he gets to stay right where he is, in his nice warm apartment, with his cat.
He’s dozing to an episode of The Office when he hears a distinct thump outside his window. Patrick sits up, dislodging Spidey, and sees a familiar red and blue form on his fire escape.
“What the ––” Patrick says, scrambling to his feet. He gets up and opens the window. “What the hell are you doing out here?”
“Oh, you know,” Spider-Man says. “Thought I’d make sure no one was out in this, but then it turns out that my webs don’t do so good with ice? So I kind of... well, I didn’t totally fall, more like I slid down the side of a building, but I think I dislocated my shoulder.”
“Jesus,” Patrick says. And then, resigned, “All right, get in here.”
Spider-Man slides through the window. Patrick sits him down on the couch. “I know you won’t want to take your mask off, but is there any way for me to take a look at that shoulder?”
“Yeah. Can you put it back in? I don’t know how to do it, and I can’t swing home like this.”
Patrick grimaces, but resetting a dislocated shoulder is well within his skill set. At least there isn’t any blood. “Sure. Let me go grab an ice pack and some gloves, all right?”
Spider-Man nods. Patrick gets a pair of gloves out of his first aid kit in the bathroom, then detours to the kitchen to fish an ice pack out of the freezer and grab a clean kitchen towel. He comes back to the living room to find Spider-Man having a one-sided argument with someone Patrick can’t see.
“No, you don’t need to –– Karen, come on! I’m not bleeding, it’s just a little dislocated shoulder. Don’t be a snitch.” He pauses and then groans. “Fine. But I’m not happy about it.”
Patrick clears this throat. Spider-Man looks up, startled. “Who’s Karen?” Patrick asks as he sets everything down.
“My AI,” Spider-Man mutters. “She’s calling my back-up, even though it’s totally unnecessary.” The last two words are said pointedly, obviously more for Karen’s benefit than for Patrick’s.
“Back up is always good,” Patrick observes mildly.
“Yeah, but it’s gonna come with a lecture,” Spider-Man says, as he uses a couple of connection points to separate the mask portion of his suit from the rest of it. He tries to roll it down his injured arm and hisses in pain. “I maybe shouldn’t have been out in the storm.”
“Maybe not,” Patrick agrees. “Here.” He works the suit over Spider-Man’s rapidly swelling shoulder and down his arm. He really just needs the shoulder and the arm free to see what he’s doing.
While he’s at it, Spidey wanders out of the bedroom and saunters over to investigate the newcomer. “Oh hey,” Spider-Man says, sounding delighted, “you kept him!”
“I did,” Patrick confirms, prodding carefully at the shoulder. Spider-Man really did a number on himself, but the injury seems recent, which is an advantage. He drags his ottoman over in front of Spider-Man and sits so they’re at the same level. He pulls the gloves on with a snap.
“What’s his name?”
“Uh.” Patrick hesitates. He hadn’t ever really thought about needing to tell Spider-Man what he named the cat. “Spidey.”
“That’s so cool,” Spider-Man says. He reaches his good arm out and Spidey comes over to sniff his hand. He jumps up on the sofa and head-butts Spider-Man’s uninjured shoulder. “Aww, I think he remembers me!”
“It sure seems like he does,” Patrick agrees. “Okay, you ready?”
“I guess,” Spider-Man says, glancing over at him. “Is it going to hurt?”
“That depends. How long ago did you do this?”
“Like... I don’t know. Ten or fifteen minutes?”
Patrick nods. That confirms what he thought. “Then I think we can do it the easy way. I’m not going to shove it back in like you see in the movies. What I actually need you to do is to relax as much as possible. I’m going to massage up your bicep toward your deltoids, and that should relax your shoulder enough for it to slide back in. It’s going to feel weird, but it’s not going to hurt.”
“Oh,” Spider-Man says, sounding surprised. “Okay.”
“Rest your hand on my shoulder,” Patrick says, guiding Spider-Man’s hand up. “Now just keep petting your namesake there.” He starts applying slow and steady pressure, moving his thumbs in a circular motion.“That feels okay?”
“Yeah,” Spider-Man says. “Wow, this isn’t at all like in the movies.”
“Nope.” Patrick reaches the shoulder. The musculature is incredibly dense, he can tell that much, but Spider-Man isn’t wincing like he had earlier when Patrick had touched it.
“I guess most things aren’t much like the movies,” Spider-Man goes on.
“What about superheroeing?” Patrick asks, concentrating on trying to get the shoulder back in alignment.
“Ehhhh,” Spider-Man says, making a so-so gesture with his free hand. “Not really the way I do it. I’m just helping out the little guy. No one’s ever gonna make a movie about me.”
“I don’t know about that,” Patrick says with a smile. He’s just about got it. Just a little more pressure and... he feels it slide in.
“Whoa,” Spider-Man says. “You’re right, that did feel weird, but it doesn’t hurt.”
“Good,” Patrick said. He offers Spider-Man the ice pack, wrapped in a towel. “You should still ice it for a bit, and you might want to keep it immobilized. You definitely shouldn’t swing with it until it’s had a chance to heal. The tendons and ligaments are loose, so if you put too much pressure on them too soon, it could slide back out again.”
“Yeah, let’s not do that,” Spider-Man agrees. “It’s fine, I’ve got a ride coming.”
“Back-up?” Patrick says.
“Back-up,” Spider-Man confirms. “He’s almost here, too.”
Patrick is about to ask who he is when he hears it: the sound of Iron Man’s repulsors. He barely has time to react when there’s yet another loud thump on the fire escape. He looks up to see the glowing eyes of the Iron Man suit staring back at him.
“Shit,” Patrick says. He quickly unlatches the window and shoves it up.
The faceplate retracts, and Patrick finds himself face-to-face with Tony Stark. Again.
Stark seems almost as flummoxed as Patrick is. “You again,” he says.
“Ugh, Mr. Stark,” Spider-Man says, “don’t be rude. Mr. Carmichael just put my shoulder back, and it didn’t even hurt!”
“Did he now,” Stark says, eyeing Patrick until he has to resist the urge to squirm. He steps out of the suit and climbs through the window, and now Patrick has two superheroes in his apartment.
“It was nothing,” Patrick deflects. “It’s not nearly as dramatic as they make it seem in the movies.”
“Hmm,” Stark says. “Well. Thanks.”
“You’re welcome,” Patrick says, shocked into reflexive politeness.
“And you,” Stark says, turning to Spider-Man, “are in trouble. You knew better than to go out in this. What the hell were you thinking?”
Spider-Man flinches, just a little, but he also holds his ground. “I was thinking about everyone who might be out in this because they didn’t have anywhere else to go! Lots of people don’t want to go to the shelters, and they fill up fast anyway. NYPD just throws them in jail for the night! I thought I could help.”
Stark pinches the bridge of his nose and vents a sigh, but when he lifts his head again, he looks more fondly exasperated than anything else. “Years off my life, kid. Actual years. Come on, let’s get you home before your aunt murders us both. Say good-bye to your nurse.”
Patrick briefly thinks about protesting that he’s not Spider-Man’s nurse, but it doesn’t seem worth it. “Thanks, Mr. Carmichael,” Spider-Man says, a little sheepishly. “Bye, Spidey!”
“Who ––” Stark begins.
“The cat, Mr. Stark! We rescued him together!”
“Of course you did,” Stark says as he ducks out onto the fire escape and into the waiting Iron Man suit. “Come on, kid. Grab on.”
Spider-Man clambers out after him. Patrick sticks his head out and watches as Spider-Man puts his good arm around Iron Man’s shoulders, tucks his bad one close to his body, and hangs on. Iron Man fires up his repulsors. “Thanks again!” Spider-Man calls. “Happy Holidays!”
With that, they’re up and away. The snow’s still falling thickly, and visibility is basically zero, so it’s only a second before they’re out of sight. Patrick can hear the repulsors for longer, but eventually that fades, too.
He ducks back inside and shuts the window. Then he sits down. Spidey jumps in his lap, and Patrick starts petting him absently.
What, he wonders, are the odds of Tony Stark having two pseudo-sons? Pretty low, he guesses. Then he adds in Peter Parker’s mysterious septic stab wound, the concussion that healed way faster than it should have, and the fact that Spider-Man called Patrick “Mr. Carmichael” when Patrick is about ninety-five percent certain he never told Spider-Man his name at all, and there is really only one possible conclusion.
“Of all the nurses offices,” he says to Spidey, “in all the high schools in all of Manhattan, what were the fucking odds?”
Spidey just looks up at him and chirps.
•••
The Monday after New Year’s is chaotic. Everyone seems to have been saving up their colds and migraines and menstrual cramps for when vacation was over and they were back at school. Patrick sees a steady stream of people all morning, and it’s only at lunchtime that he’s finally able to pause and take a breath.
He’s eating lunch at his desk and catching up on email when he hears someone clearing their throat pointedly. He looks up and sees Peter Parker hovering in his doorway.
“Hi Peter,” Patrick says. “Everything all right?”
“Yeah, yeah, everything’s fine,” Peter said. “Uh, I mean. I have a headache?”
Patrick hides a smile. He’d been expecting something like this, more or less. “Sure, come in. You want to lie down?”
“No, no, I think I just need to be away from all the noise of the cafeteria. It gets really loud sometimes, you know?” Peter sits down in one of the chairs, putting his backpack down between his feet. “So, uh. How was your winter break?”
“It was fine,” Patrick says. “I went to my mother’s house in Connecticut. How was yours?”
“It was fine. Uneventful.”
“Really?” Patrick says, raising his eyebrows.
“Yes,” Peter says, a little too forcefully. “Nothing interesting happened at all.”
Patrick doesn’t say anything. Peter is watching him apprehensively, and Patrick is turning things over in his head. He wants to put Peter out of his misery, but he can’t pretend not to know what he knows.
“I think I told you that before I came here, I was an ER nurse, right?” he finally says.
“Yeah...”
“I thought it was my dream job, you know. I’d always wanted to be the person who helped people at their worst moments. But the reality of being that person is that you see a lot of people at their worst moments, and sometimes you can’t help. Or you can’t help in the way you wish you could.” Patrick pauses. “I think you know what I mean.”
Peter presses his lips together and nods.
“It wasn’t for me,” Patrick says. “I’m a good nurse, but I couldn’t do that sort of nursing. Not for very long. There are people who can, but I’m not one of them.”
He’s no longer bitter about that, he realizes. He’s not angry at himself anymore, either. And that’s what lets him look at this kid in front of him –– this sweet, wholesome, brave, stupidly heroic child –– and say what he needs to say.
“One of the things I learned the hard way was that when you’re in a job like that, where you carry other people’s pain, where you feel responsible for things that maybe aren’t really in your power to change –– you have to take extra special care of yourself. If you don’t ––”
“–– you burn out,” Peter says quietly.
“Right.” Patrick nods. “And then you can’t help anyone at all.”
Peter shifts. “You sound like my aunt. She’s a nurse, too.”
Patrick nods. The two of them look at each other, a certain understanding passing between them.
The bell rings. Peter startles.
“You okay to go to class?” Patrick asks.
“Yeah, thanks,” Peter says. “And, also, um –– thanks.”
“Sure, Peter,” Patrick says. “Anytime.”
Peter slings his backpack over his shoulder and heads for the door. “Oh, and hey, Mr. P?” He pauses, waiting until Patrick looks up. “You do help. You help a lot.”
He’s gone before Patrick can respond.
***
Patrick isn’t at all surprised when his phone rings later that evening, while he’s at home making a stir-fry. Spidey is swirling around his feet despite having already been fed, clearly hoping for a dropped piece of chicken.
It’s a blocked number. Usually Patrick wouldn’t pick up, but he has a feeling about this one. “Hello, Patrick speaking,” he says, cradling it between his cheek and his shoulder as he wipes his hands off on a dishtowel.
“Good evening, Patrick. This is Tony Stark.”
He’s prepared for it, but it still kind of knocks him over. “Hi, Mr. Stark,” he says, managing to keep any kind of squeak out of his voice this time. “What can I do for you?”
“Well,” Stark says, “first of all, you can sign an NDA. Nothing personal, I’ve just been screwed over a few too many times, you know how it is. Come to think of it, you probably don’t. Either way, you’ll have to just take me at my word when I say that it’s not about you, personally, it’s just that I don’t take any chances –– especially not when it comes to Peter Parker’s safety.”
“I’ll sign anything you want,” Patrick says.
“That’s awfully trusting.”
Patrick rolls his eyes. “I mean, assuming it’s relevant to Peter Parker and/or Spider-Man. I’m not going to sign my firstborn over to you.”
“Okay, then,” Stark says. “I’ll have Happy bring the papers by later tonight.”
“That sounds fine.” Patrick pauses, but Stark doesn’t hang up. “Was there anything else I could do for you?”
“Possibly,” Stark says. “You see, Peter has a bit of a... phobia. Hates needles. Hates anything medical, actually. He has a tendency to have anxiety attacks when he sees anyone in a white coat coming his way, and it means he refuses to seek medical attention when he really should.”
“Like with the stab wound.”
“Yes, that.” Patrick can hear the wince in his voice. “But for some reason, he doesn’t seem to mind you. He likes you, even.”
“Well, I don’t wear a white coat all that often,” Patrick points out. “I didn’t even when I worked in a hospital. I wore scrubs most of the time.”
“Cheeky,” Stark says, but he sounds like he’s smiling. “You know what I mean.”
Patrick turns the heat off under his dinner, sensing that this conversation required his full attention. “Where’s this going, Mr. Stark?”
“I’d like to make you an offer, Mr. Carmichael,” Stark returns. “A lucrative one. I’d like you to be Spider-Man’s nurse-on-retainer.”
Patrick’s initial impulse is to either hang up the phone or run screaming from the apartment. Or both. But he takes a breath, and that impulse passes, leaving... something else, Patrick isn’t quite sure what yet, in its wake. “What does that entail?” he asks.
“For the small stuff, he can call you. He can go to your apartment like he did the other night, or you can go to him at his aunt’s. They live about a half mile away.”
“His aunt’s a nurse, isn’t she?” Patrick says. “Why doesn’t he go to her?”
Stark sighs. “Well, she works a lot, for one. Lots of night shifts. You work at his school, so your off hours are basically the same as his. But mostly, it’s that he doesn’t want to. He’s still trying to spare her the worst of it. He’d rather have someone else, someone who isn’t family.”
“I see. And for the big stuff?”
“You’d come here,” Stark says.
“Mr. Stark ––”
“Call me Tony.”
Patrick blinks. He looks up at the ceiling and mouths, What the fuck? “Tony,” he says, “you must’ve looked into me. You have to know how I ended up at Midtown Tech.”
“Yeah, you flamed out pretty hard at Mercy General, didn’t you?”
“I did,” Patrick agrees. “Which is why I don’t think I’m the one you want.”
Stark –– Tony, Jesus –– hums. “I’m not so sure that’s true. I have excellent nurses and doctors, Patrick. I mean, seriously, the best that money can buy. But none of them have the secret sauce you do when it comes to Peter. For the small stuff –– yeah, I want you to handle it. But for the big stuff, I just want you there for Peter. Especially when his aunt and I can’t be.”
Patrick doesn’t say anything for a moment. What surprises him is how tempted he is. Not by the money, though he’s pretty sure that when Tony Stark says an offer is lucrative, he means it, but by the chance to help a kid like Peter. To be part of his team.
But as tempting as it is, the thought also terrifies him. “Can I think about it?”
“Sure,” Tony says. “You have two hours. Happy’ll bring that paperwork, too. If you sign, you’re in. If you don’t –– well, I won’t bother you again. Can’t promise about Peter. You live in Queens and work at his school, and he has a tendency to latch onto people he likes.”
Patrick has to smile. That definitely fits with what he knows of Peter so far. “Fair enough. I’ll think about it.”
“You do that,” Tony says, and hangs up.
***
Happy Hogan is not at all happy. He growls at Patrick even while he’s signing the NDA, and when Patrick hesitates over the new hire paperwork, still not sure what he wants to do after a couple hours stewing over it, he damn near barks.
“Don’t do it if you’re not sure,” he says. “The kid doesn’t need someone bailing on him. If you don’t think you can hack it ––”
“Excuse me?” Patrick replies, drawing himself up.
“You heard me. It’s not a walk in the park,” Hogan says. “This isn’t a cushy side gig. Just because you’re not the superhero doesn’t mean shit won’t happen to you, too, and you can’t bail when the going gets rough. So if you’re not sure, just say ‘no’ now. Save yourself and the kid a lot of pain.”
Later, Patrick isn’t sure what exactly rises up in him at that moment. Maybe it’s the way Happy is looking at him, like he’s sure Patrick hasn’t got it in him. Or maybe it’s just thinking about Peter Parker, all heart and zero instinct for self-preservation.
“I’m doing it,” Patrick says, and signs on the bottom line before he can think twice about it.
Afterward there’s a brief flash of panic –– Jesus Christ, what has he done? –– right before certainty settles in. It was the right choice. Scary, but right.
Hogan is obviously surprised. “Okay, then,” he says, scooping up the papers. “Come to the tower on Friday at five, I’ll give you your security pass and an orientation.”
“Thanks,” Patrick says. He sees Hogan out the door, closes it, and latches it firmly behind him.
His phone buzzes. He glances down and sees a text –– from a real number this time. Happy says you signed. Congratulations, welcome to Team Spider-Man. Be prepared for prematurely gray hair and an ulcer.
Patrick snorts. He types back, Thanks, Mr. Stark. Will I see you Friday, too?
Yeah, have Happy bring you by my lab and you can say hi to me and the kid both. Oh, and don’t get any ideas about leaking this number. Happy knows where you live and several ways to hide a body.
Patrick shakes his head. Spidey, sitting on the back of his sofa, is watching him through half-lidded eyes, the end of his tail flicking idly back and forth. Patrick sits down on the sofa, so they’re basically at eye level.
“Well,” Patrick says to him, “I think life is about to get a lot more interesting. Are we ready for that?”
Spidey chirps, then leans forward to head-butt Patrick affectionately.
“Yeah,” Patrick says, smiling. “I think so, too.”
Fin.