How peter got sick

by Ace_themagician

Peter Parker was ten months old, and his whole world was pain.

His belly cramped in waves, sharp enough to make him whimper and curl tighter on his side in the crib. He didn’t understand why the bottle hurt him. Babies weren’t supposed to understand things like expiration dates or souring milk. All he knew was that the stuff tasted wrong, smelled wrong, and made his insides burn.

He cried until his little throat was raw, but no one came. May had tossed the bottle in and left.

The pacifier was cracked down the side, rubber peeling, but he reached for it anyway. It slipped from his sweaty fingers, clattered against the crib bars, and rolled out of reach. A sob ripped out of his tiny chest. He wanted arms. Warmth. Someone to press him against their chest and make the hurting stop. Instead, he was alone, the room dim, the crib bars cold under his cheek.

His breaths came in wheezy little huffs. His fever had spiked higher, beads of sweat dotting his curls, his skin clammy even though he shivered.

That was how Tony and Bucky found him.

Tony had been restless all day. Something was gnawing at him, an ache in his chest he couldn’t shake. It wasn’t unusual—he worried about the kid more than he liked to admit. May had fought hard to keep Peter in her care after Ben’s death, but Tony had never trusted her to do it right. Not fully.

When he and Bucky reached the apartment door, it wasn’t because May had called. It was because neither of them could ignore the silence any longer.

Bucky’s knuckles rapped hard against the door. “May! Open up!”

No answer.

Tony’s jaw clenched. He pressed his palm against the scanner on his watch, overriding the lock with Stark tech. The door slid open with a click, and both men froze.

The apartment stank. Sour milk. Stale food. Something acidic, sharp.

And then they heard it—thin, rasping cries from the back room.

“Peter,” Tony breathed, and he was already running.

Bucky was on his heels, metal hand flexing at his side like he wanted something to break.

The nursery was worse.

The crib was shoved in the corner, bare except for a thin blanket tangled beneath the small, trembling form curled in on itself. A bottle lay tipped against the bars, the liquid inside clotted and sour.

Peter was burning up. His cheeks flushed red, curls plastered damp against his forehead. He whimpered weakly, reaching out with tiny hands that grasped at the air. His cries were hoarse now, almost too soft to hear.

Tony’s heart cracked wide open. “Oh, baby boy…”

He scooped Peter up carefully, cradling him against his chest. Peter let out a broken sob, pressing his face into Tony’s shirt like he recognized him even through the fever haze. His little fists clutched at the fabric, desperate.

Bucky was already cursing under his breath, scanning the room. He picked up the bottle and snarled when he saw the crust at the rim, the curdled formula inside. “This—she gave him this?” His voice was shaking with fury. “Expired. It’s expired.”

Tony rocked Peter gently, whispering soft sounds, running his hand through the damp curls. “Shh, bug. We’ve got you now. You’re okay.” But inside, his chest was boiling.

Peter hiccupped weakly, tiny hands clawing at Tony’s shirt, trying to crawl closer. He didn’t want the bottle. He didn’t want the crib. He just wanted warmth, arms, comfort.

Bucky ripped the pacifier off the floor, saw the split rubber, and nearly crushed it in his hand. “She gave him this too? He could choke—Tony, he—”

“I know,” Tony said tightly. He pressed his lips to Peter’s hot forehead. The fever burned through the fabric of his shirt. “We’re getting him out of here. Now.”

May wasn’t home when they left. Maybe that was better. Because Bucky wasn’t sure he could have stopped himself if she had been.

The drive back to the Tower was silent except for Peter’s weak whimpers. Tony held him the whole way, rocking him, humming under his breath. The baby’s fists clung to his shirt, face pressed against his chest like he was terrified of being put down again.

“Don’t worry, bug,” Tony whispered against the soft curls. “You’re never going back there. Ever.”

The Tower medbay was ready when they arrived. Bruce met them at the door, his calm face cracking when he saw the fever-flushed baby in Tony’s arms.

“What happened?”

“Neglect,” Bucky said, voice like ice. He hovered close, as if ready to fight anyone who came near. “Expired formula. Pacifier split in half. Crib empty. Apartment stank.” His jaw clenched hard enough to creak. “He was just…left there.”

Bruce’s expression hardened. “Let’s get him on fluids. Fever’s high. We’ll check his stomach too—if he ingested any of that…”

Peter whimpered as Tony tried to lay him on the cot, little hands clinging desperately, refusing to let go. His eyes opened, glassy and wet, and he let out a soft, broken noise.

“No, no, it’s okay,” Tony soothed quickly, gathering him back into his arms. “I’m not leaving, baby boy. I’m right here. Papa’s right here too.”

Bucky sat at the edge of the cot, his metal hand trembling as he stroked Peter’s curls. “We’ve got you, little bug. You’re safe now.”

Peter’s cries quieted to soft hiccups, his fever-hot body nestled between the two men.

And for the first time in his short life, even though he was sick and hurting, he wasn’t alone. He was held. He was wanted.

He was loved.

Before he was Sick and Alone

Peter’s cries had grown faint by the time Tony and Bucky reached him, but the sound still cut through the silence of the apartment like a knife. His little body shook with fever, clammy skin sticking to the thin cotton onesie May had left him in. His lips were dry, his cheeks flushed, his eyes glassy.

He had given up on the bottle long ago. The spoiled formula had twisted his stomach too badly. All he wanted was warmth.

But warmth never came.

The crib was cold. The blanket was too thin. His pacifier was broken. He kicked feebly, making little noises that sounded less like cries now and more like whispers for help.

And then suddenly—warmth. Arms.

Strong arms, safe arms, wrapping around him, lifting him out of the crib.

Tony’s voice, rough and trembling, was the first anchor in the haze: “Oh God, baby boy… I’ve got you.”

Peter clung with surprising strength for a fever-weakened baby, tiny fists gripping Tony’s shirt like he would never let go. His body molded against Tony’s chest, his head tucking under his chin as if his little body already knew—this is safe. This is where I belong.

The Ride to the Tower

Tony refused to buckle Peter into the baby seat in the back. No way was he letting go.

He sat with him in the passenger seat instead, rocking him gently with every bump in the road. Peter whimpered at the sudden movements but burrowed deeper into Tony’s chest, his little breaths hitching, trying to match the steady beat of Tony’s heart.

Bucky drove like a man possessed, metal fingers clenching the wheel hard enough to dent it. His jaw was locked, his eyes hard, but every red light killed him. Every second felt stolen.

Tony leaned down, whispering against the top of Peter’s damp curls. “You’re okay, bug. Dad’s got you. Papa’s right here too. You’re not alone anymore. We’re not leaving you.”

The words were soft, steady. A promise.

Peter’s small body trembled, but eventually his cries quieted into weak little hiccups. He sucked feebly at his thumb, still searching for comfort, still needing something to soothe the ache.

Tony kissed his fever-hot forehead. “We’ll fix everything. No more broken pacifiers, no more crusty bottles. Just warm arms. Always.”

Bucky’s voice, low and rough, rumbled from the driver’s seat: “She’s never getting near him again. I swear it.”

The Medbay

When they reached the Tower, Bruce was already waiting. He took one look at Peter and his calm composure cracked.

“Fever’s bad,” Bruce muttered as he moved to set up fluids. “Skin’s clammy—he’s dehydrated. Did he drink anything?”

“Wouldn’t touch the bottle,” Tony said, his voice tight. “And I don’t blame him. Smelled like sour poison.”

Bucky cursed under his breath.

Bruce nodded grimly. “Let’s get him stabilized.”

But when Tony tried to lay Peter down on the cot, the baby’s little body stiffened. His fists tightened in Tony’s shirt. His mouth opened in a hoarse wail that broke everyone’s heart in the room.

“No, no, hey, shh, it’s okay.” Tony scooped him right back up, holding him close again. He swayed gently, rubbing circles into Peter’s back. “I’m not leaving you. Not ever. I promise.”

Bucky sat on the edge of the cot, stroking Peter’s damp curls with his metal hand, careful and tender. “You stay right there, doll. We’ll let the doc do what he needs to do, but you stay in Dad’s arms the whole time. No more empty cribs.”

And so that was how they did it—IV slipped in while Tony cradled him against his chest, Bruce murmuring quietly as he worked, Bucky right there at Peter’s side, making sure every needle, every wire, every monitor was gentle.

Peter whimpered but didn’t scream. He pressed his little cheek against Tony’s chest and held on tight. He was too weak to fight—but he didn’t need to anymore.

Through the Fever

The hours stretched long.

Tony stayed sitting upright with Peter curled against him, refusing to put him down. Every so often Peter would stir, letting out a pitiful cry, and Tony would soothe him with soft hums and kisses to his temple.

Bucky paced the room like a wolf in a cage. Every time Peter whimpered, he was there in an instant, leaning close, whispering comfort. His large hand dwarfed Peter’s tiny fingers as he held onto one, rubbing circles with his thumb.

“Hey, little bug,” Bucky whispered when Peter’s glassy eyes fluttered half-open. “Papa’s here. You fight through this fever, yeah? You’re safe. You’re loved. You’re ours.”

Peter let out a soft noise, a hiccupping breath, and gripped tighter onto Tony’s shirt.

Tony’s voice cracked when he whispered, “He thought no one was coming, Buck. He thought he was just gonna lie there sick and alone…”

Bucky’s jaw clenched, eyes shining with unshed fury and heartbreak. “Not anymore. Never again.”

Nightfall

By the time night fell, Peter’s fever had eased slightly, thanks to fluids and careful cooling. But he was still weak, still clinging desperately to Tony like letting go would mean being abandoned again.

Tony sat propped against the pillows, Peter asleep on his chest, tiny breaths warm against his neck. His curls were damp but cooler now. Every so often, he made a soft noise, thumb still in his mouth, but he didn’t cry.

Bucky sat close, hand resting protectively on Peter’s little back. “He’s so small,” he murmured. “So fragile. And she just… left him there.” His voice cracked. “I don’t understand how.”

Tony kissed the crown of Peter’s head. “Some people don’t know what love is. But he’ll never have to doubt again.”

The Aftermath

When morning came, Peter woke with a soft whimper, shifting against Tony’s chest. His eyes were bleary, still heavy with fever, but he blinked up at the two faces hovering over him—one with dark eyes full of warmth, the other with blue eyes softened into something gentle and safe.

He let out a weak, broken sound.

Tony smiled through tears. “Good morning, bug.”

Bucky leaned down, brushing a soft kiss to his tiny hand. “Morning, little one. You scared us half to death.”

Peter sighed, thumb slipping from his mouth, and tucked his face back against Tony’s chest.

For the first time, he felt safe enough to drift back to sleep.

And for the first time, Tony and Bucky knew without question—Peter was theirs.

Forever.

The Long Night

The medbay lights were dimmed, monitors soft against the steady hush of the machines. Peter was bundled in a warmer blanket now, tucked against Tony’s chest where he belonged. His fever still ran high, though not as dangerously as before.

Tony sat propped up with pillows, unwilling to lay the baby in the cot beside him. Every time Peter stirred and whimpered, tiny hands clawing for security, Tony tightened his hold and murmured softly into his curls.

“Shh, I’ve got you, bug. You’re okay. You’re safe.”

Bucky sat nearby, his metal arm resting on the back of the cot, his other hand constantly checking Peter’s tiny fingers. He stroked the little knuckles gently, grounding himself in their soft twitching movements.

“He keeps reaching for you when he wakes up,” Bucky whispered after one of Peter’s fretful sighs. “He knows you. Somehow. Even through all this.”

Tony swallowed hard, brushing his thumb over the baby’s damp cheek. “He shouldn’t have had to wait this long for us.”

“You can’t blame yourself, doll.”

“I can blame her,” Tony snapped before his voice cracked. He pressed his lips to Peter’s forehead, holding him tighter. “Ten months old, Buck. Left alone with spoiled formula and a broken pacifier. No arms, no comfort. He could’ve…” He couldn’t finish the thought.

Bucky reached over, his flesh hand covering Tony’s where it held Peter. “But he didn’t. He held on. He waited for us.”

Peter stirred then, making a soft, broken whimper. His little mouth opened in a weak cry, the sound too hoarse for a baby his age. But the moment Tony hummed gently, rocking him, Peter quieted, clutching the fabric of his shirt again.

Bucky leaned close, his voice low and steady. “That’s it, little bug. Dad’s here. Papa’s here. You don’t need to cry anymore.”

And for the first time since they’d found him, Peter slipped back into sleep without fighting.

Care Through the Fever

The night was long.

Every half hour Bruce came by to check vitals, but the routine became gentler once he realized Peter refused to leave Tony’s arms. They did everything with Tony cradling him, Bucky supporting whenever needed.

When Peter’s fever spiked again, Tony and Bucky worked together to cool him.

Bucky dipped soft cloths into cold water, wringing them out with careful hands, while Tony brushed the cloth gently over Peter’s flushed skin. The baby whined weakly but didn’t fight it, eyes fluttering half-shut, trusting the touch even through the discomfort.

“There we go,” Tony murmured. “I know, bug. Cold. But it’ll help.”

Bucky smoothed the blanket back around him once they finished, his metal hand hovering near Peter’s curls as if afraid to touch but desperate to.

“He’s so small,” Bucky whispered again.

Tony looked down at the baby in his arms, his chest tight. “Yeah. But strong.” He kissed Peter’s temple. “Strongest little bug I’ve ever met.”

The Team Finds Out

Morning came, and with it, the quiet footsteps of people who had been worried but respectful enough not to crowd in during the night.

Natasha was first. She slipped silently into the medbay, her sharp eyes softening when she saw the sight—Tony slumped against the pillows with Peter tucked under his chin, Bucky perched protectively at their side.

“Is he…?” Her voice caught.

“Alive,” Tony whispered. “But sick. Fever, dehydration. She left him with spoiled food, Nat. Left him.” His throat tightened on the word.

Nat’s jaw clenched. She walked closer, lowering herself until she was eye-level with the baby. Her hand brushed over the blanket lightly, almost reverently. “Not anymore,” she murmured. “Not while we’re around.”

Clint came next, then Steve, then Sam—each one pausing at the doorway, each one silenced by the sight of the sick baby held between Tony and Bucky like the most precious thing in the world.

Sam swallowed hard, voice husky. “He’s just a baby…”

“Not just a baby,” Bucky said firmly. His blue eyes were blazing. “Our baby.”

No one argued.

A Pacifier, A Promise

Later that morning, Pepper arrived with a small bag. She crossed to the bedside, setting it gently on the table. “I went shopping,” she said softly.

Tony arched a tired brow. “Shopping?”

Pepper smiled faintly. “For him. New bottles. Clean formula. Pacifiers. Clothes. Everything she never bought.”

Tony’s chest constricted. He opened the bag with one hand, still holding Peter close with the other. Inside were neatly packed baby supplies—safe, clean, brand new.

Bucky picked up one of the pacifiers, soft blue silicone, perfect and whole. He held it gently against Peter’s lips. “Look, little bug. No more broken ones.”

Peter’s tiny mouth opened, instinctive. He latched onto the pacifier, sucking weakly at first, then with more steady comfort. His little fists unclenched, his body loosening against Tony’s chest.

The sight nearly undid both men.

Tony brushed tears from his eyes. “He finally gets what he wanted.”

Bucky leaned close, kissing Peter’s temple. “He gets everything now. Arms, warmth, love. All of it.”

Never Again

By the time Peter’s fever began to ease for good, both Tony and Bucky knew one thing for certain: he wasn’t going back.

Pepper handled the lawyers. Natasha dug up evidence of May’s neglect. Bruce documented the medical state they had found Peter in. The Avengers closed ranks around the baby like a shield.

But through all the noise, the paperwork, the anger—Tony and Bucky never once put Peter down.

They held him through fevers. Through whimpers. Through restless half-sleeps where he kicked and clawed for comfort.

And when, finally, the fever broke and Peter opened his eyes properly for the first time since they’d rescued him, the sight nearly broke them.

His glassy brown eyes blinked up at them, clearer now. He let out a soft little coo around the pacifier, tiny fingers reaching up to tangle in Tony’s beard.

Tony choked out a laugh, tears spilling freely. “There you are, bug.”

Bucky pressed his forehead against the baby’s curls. “Welcome home, little one.”

Peter didn’t know words yet. But he knew warmth. He knew arms. He knew love.

And for the first time in his ten months of life—he had them.

Forever.