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Why Stark insists on boxing and wrapping everything he gets the boys, Peter has no idea.
The sleek black box contained nothing special–just a new base layer for his suit. Well, three. One black, one gray, one white. Plus two new PS5 games, six seamless T-shirts, a multi-pack of seamless boxers, a freezable gel hat for his migraines, a pair of sneakers, a package of Starbursts, a pack of seamless socks, and what appeared to be a very expensive moisturizer.
Okay, so, maybe it was special. Peter was only expecting the base layers, the underwear, and maybe the socks. Stark has a tendency to overbuy, especially after a stressful situation, and the beginning of their weekend trip was nothing short of stressful for the old man. If he gets out of this summer vacation with anything less than a full head of gray hairs, Peter will be baffled.
It wasn’t anyone’s fault , really. Nobody did anything wrong. It just so happens that Peter is prone to being overstimulated, and for whatever really unfortunate reason, sometimes it makes him, well…
They were in the Benz on the freeway and had been for an extended period of time. Tony wanted to take the boys on a weekend getaway out of the city for guy time, as he called it, and Pepper was more than happy for Tony to take her loveable yet psychotic children out of the Tower for a few days, so off they went. They were headed for a cabin pretty far upstate, and they were going to take the jet, but Tony thought it would be a better idea to drive with the boys and make it a road trip. Peter and Harley would never have considered just casually taking a private jet to a cabin in the woods, so a road trip sounded better to them. Tony thought it would make it more campy and fun, so everyone was pleased with this decision until they realized there was a metric shit ton of construction on I-87 and sat in traffic for a solid hour and half before rolling to a hard stop. Harley passed the time by counting how many veins he could see in Tony’s neck every time someone behind them honked.
So three and a half hours into the trip, they were locked in bumper-to-bumper traffic with plastic gas station bags full of Nerds Ropes, pretzels, and Slim Jims. Harley was skimming a graphic novel in the backseat with his feet kicked up on the center console, much to Peter’s protest. Harley argued that his socks were brand new, so it was fine. Stark told them to knock it off.
Peter was trying to do some of his summer homework in the front seat. They weren’t moving, so writing wasn’t a problem. It should have been the perfect time to get his work done. Stark was trying to answer emails and also keep his eye on the road just in case anybody moved, but there was nothing to worry about–they were going nowhere.
Harley, only half-paying attention to what he was attempting to read, was the one who noticed Peter fidgeting with his shirt collar. It was a well-worn shirt, but it seemed to be bothering Peter extra today. That happens sometimes. Some days Peter’s able to wear whatever he wants, other days he changes four times because his clothes get uncomfortable. No big deal.
But he kept tugging and fidgeting and rolling the collar. Then he moved his fingers to the sides of his shirt and picked away at the seams. Harley kept his book in his lap to try and avoid Peter catching him staring, but his eyes were fixated on Peter, and Peter was fixated on whatever was going on with his clothes.
Peter moved on to pick at his shorts, shifting around in his seat to try and get comfortable with the fabric. They were a rougher mesh material, something he’s usually fine with, but being confined to the car while fighting a battle with his clothes made it a problem. His feet shuffled too, and Harley couldn’t see, but he was sure Peter was trying to decide whether it bothered him more to have his shoes on or off, or trying to rotate his sock to get the seam to stop touching his toes all funny.
His movements and tugging and fidgeting got more and more frantic. Harley was about to open his mouth to try and solve a problem before it starts, but Peter beat him to it.
“I’m gonna throw up.”
“What?” Stark’s attention snapped up from his sullen emailing, and he eyed Peter with a frantic glint in his eye. “Why? Why? Don’t do that?”
“Gonna do it.”
“Do not throw up.”
“Can’t stop it.” From the back seat, Peter was stiff as a board, like any movement would make him lose it. He looked frozen in time with his perfectly sharpened pencil gripped between his fingers and his shoes half-on.
Harley’s eyebrows were pulled towards his hairline as he darted his own attention between the two in the front seat. Stark had fully turned his body to face Peter, but he was also pressed back against the door as far as he could recoil, like he thought Peter would puke right into his lap.
“Do not throw up.”
“Wish I could.”
“Get out of the car?”
“Mm-mm. Not moving.”
“Peter.” Harley was starting to feel nauseous just with the idea of Peter throwing up. “Dad, roll down the window.”
The passenger window glided down barely an inch before Peter was frantically shaking his head.
“Nope. Nope. Exhaust is making it worse.”
The window closed, and Stark looked around desperately.
“Harley, give me your bag from the gas station.”
“Um…”
“Harley.” Stark’s voice was raised a full octave, like he was fending off a full panic attack. “Please.”
“I put a hole in it.”
If there were veins in Stark’s neck before, Harley had no idea what was waiting. It’s a wonder Stark’s eyeballs stayed in his skull the way they were bugging out as he turned to stare at Harley.
“Why?”
“Two holes, actually.”
“ Why? ”
“Still gonna puke. Can’t hold it much longer.” Peter was white-knuckling the seat now, pencil discarded on the floor with his notebook.
“I was trying to make a mask.” Harley’s cheeks turned a sheepish pink at how bad of timing this was.
“With a plastic bag ?”
“Sorry.”
“Oh my god.” Stark pinched the bridge of his nose. “Peter, get out of the car.”
“Mm-mm.”
“Peter.”
The spider-kid gagged, and Harley’s stomach lurched. Saliva pooled in his mouth.
“Dad, I don’t feel good,” Harley admitted queasily.
“Oh my god.” Tony was fully panicking now, glancing back and forth between the two boys. “Do not throw up.”
“Trying,” Peter strained. His eyes were closed, and he was taking deep, slow breaths.
“What is it?” Stark nearly squeaked.
“Seams. Too much.”
“Take the shirt off, Peter,” Harley nearly begged, and Peter shook his head just a tiny bit.
“Not the shirt.”
“The shorts, then, who gives a fuck, get them off.”
“Language,” Tony wheezed, trying to become one with the door to get away from his sick children. Harley scowled.
“That’s what you’re worried about right now? The F-word?”
“Not the shorts,” Peter murmured.
“What is bothering you?” Harley tried to keep his voice level and measured since Tony was clearly losing it.
“Underwear.” Peter put a closed fist to his mouth, stopping breathing, and Harley’s stomach started doing flips again as Stark dissolved into full panic.
“Oh, Jesus,” Stark murmured in horror.
“Dad, just get him out of the car,” Harley moaned, trying not to look at Peter and make it worse. “If he pukes, I’m going to puke.”
“Stop saying puke,” Peter whined weakly, and Stark frantically shook his head.
“No. I can’t do p–um, I can’t do…throw up?”
“Worse,” Peter whispered.
It dawned on Harley that his father, fearless alien-destroying wormhole-traveling crime-fighting superhero, was afraid of vomit.
“Give me his school stuff,” Harley breathed, and Stark slowly reached for the discarded study materials at Peter’s feet, passing his papers and backpack to the backseat for Harley.
“Is there a bag in there?” Stark asked hopefully as Harley stashed it safely on the other side of the back seat.
“No, but if he’s going to ralph, I don’t want him to get it on his stuff.”
“Oh, please do not puke in the car,” Stark begged desperately, and Peter took a deep breath.
The three boys sat in silence for what felt like forever until Peter slowly opened his eyes. Heavy, controlled breaths left his nose as the other two watched as if Peter had a detonator in his hand and was threatening to make the car blow.
Peter looked around like he had just woken up and slowly relaxed his body. Tony and Harley peered at him with hopefulness.
“I think I’m good,” he announced shakily, and the entire car was washed over with relief.
“Oh, thank god.” Harley rubbed his face. His stomach was still uneasy, but at least the threat was gone.
“Bless,” Tony breathed. He settled back into his seat a little more instead of being plastered to the car door. “I cannot do puke.”
Like a sleeper agent, like a secret code, the word sent Peter lurching forward as the sound of gagging filled the car. Harley’s eyes widened, his stomach jumped, and trying to save his sneakers, he lifted his feet from the car floor as he, too, thrust his torso forward.
“Aw, fuck!”