Chapter Text
Part I: Revelry
On the other side of the reinforced door, Peter stood in the hallway, staring at the wood grain with deep, weary suffering.
Beside him, MJ didn't even look up from her phone. "They’re doing it again, aren't they?"
"Harry just said a dragon could do tap-dance routines," Peter muttered, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "And Tony is currently bragging about Happy’s heart rate. Which, for the record, is a steady eighty-two beats per minute and smells faintly of stress-sweat and those mini-quiches the caterers brought in forty minutes ago."
MJ finally looked up, a ghost of a smirk playing on her lips. "I don’t know why they keep trying. It’s like they forget your DNA is basically a biological radar system because they’re too busy playing with their shiny toys and magic sticks."
"It’s the confidence that kills me," Peter whispered, leaning his forehead against the doorframe. "I can hear the holographic projector humming at a frequency that’s giving me a migraine. They really think this is working."
"People are remarkably stupid when they think they’re being clever," MJ said, pocketing her phone. "They want the big reveal so badly they’ve completely ignored the fact that you haven't blinked in three minutes because the air pressure in the room changed when eighty people started holding their breath simultaneously."
Peter sighed, bracing himself. "I should probably go in and act shocked, shouldn't I?"
"Oh, absolutely," MJ said, reaching for the door handle. "Make it Oscar-worthy. Let them have their moment before the sensory overload actually makes your ears bleed."
Peter took a steadying breath, plastered on his best "I have no idea what’s behind this door" face, and pushed it open.
"SURPRISE!"
The wall of sound was expected. The confetti cannons were expected. What wasn't prepared for was the immediate, violent rebellion of his own respiratory system. Three floors up and a wing over, a service bot had clipped a janitor’s cart, knocking over a gallon of EverFresh Industrial Strength Peppermint Concentrate. To a normal person, it was a spill in another zip code. To Peter, it was a chemical weapon.
He froze, his face contorting into something between a grimace and a snarl.
"Look at that!" Tony shouted, throwing his arms out. "The kid is so shocked he’s forgotten how to speak. I told you, Harry! Total sensory blackout. He’s stunned into silence."
"I think he's a little too stunned," Harry noted, still wearing a self-congratulatory smirk. "Come on, Pete, don't be a drama queen. We know you hate being the center of attention, but you don't have to look like we just told you your dog died."
Peter tried to say peppermint, but it came out as a strangled wheeze. He doubled over, clutching his stomach, his eyes streaming.
"Okay, Pete, the overacting bit is a solid seven out of ten," Rhodey chuckled, sipping a drink. "But you can stop now. The surprise is over. You can come eat the expensive food."
"Guys," MJ said, her voice dropping into that dangerous, low register. She was the only one not laughing. She stepped closer to Peter, watching the way his hands were shaking against his knees. "He’s not acting."
"Oh, please, he’s totally being a butt because he’s embarrassed," Tony said, walking over to ruffle Peter’s hair. "Right, Underoos? You're just trying to make us feel guilty for—"
Tony’s hand stopped mid-air. He finally saw the way Peter’s skin had gone a ghostly, translucent white. A second later, the scent finally drifted through the vents—a faint, pleasant smell of mint to Tony, but clearly a death knell for the boy in front of him.
"Dad," Peter gasped, his voice thin and cracking. "The... the utility closet... north wing... make it... stop."
The party died instantly. The silence that followed wasn't the magical kind Harry had cast; it was the horrified kind that happens when you realize you’ve been laughing at someone having a legitimate crisis.
"Med-bay! Now!" Tony bellowed, the cool persona evaporating as he went into full-blown frantic parent mode. "FRIDAY, kill the HVAC in the north wing! Seal the vents! Why am I smelling mint? Why is there mint in my house?!"
The Apology Cake and the Coddling
An hour later, the med-bay had been declared a "Mint-Free Zone" by a frantic FRIDAY. Peter was finally off the nebulizer, though he still looked a bit like a ghost. He was sitting on the edge of the bed when the door hissed open and a procession entered that looked more like a funeral march than a birthday celebration.
Tony led the pack, carrying a cake so large and structural it looked like he’d commissioned an architect to design it. Behind him, Harry was carrying a stack of gifts that defied the laws of physics, and Harley was trailing at the back, filming the whole scene on his phone.
"Before anyone speaks," Tony started, setting the cake down on a rolling surgical tray with a heavy thud, "I have already fired the catering company. I am also in the process of buying the company that manufactured the floor cleaner so I can personally oversee the discontinuation of the 'Extreme Peppermint' line."
"Dad, you don't have to buy a chemical plant," Peter groaned, rubbing his eyes.
"I really do," Tony insisted, his face a mask of parental guilt. "I laughed, Peter. I laughed while you were undergoing a biological mutiny. I am a monster. Here, eat this cake."
Harry stepped forward next, looking genuinely pained. "I’ve added a permanent filtration ward to your room, Pete. And I brought the original manuscript of The Tales of Beedle the Bard. Consider it a 'sorry-I-thought-you-were-overacting' tax."
The living room of the penthouse had been converted into what Harley was calling the "Recovery Bunker." Peter was buried under three weighted blankets—one of which Harry had clearly charmed to stay at a constant 98.6 degrees—and surrounded by enough snacks to feed a small army. Every time Peter so much as twitched a finger, the entire room froze.
"Does your throat feel scratchy?" Tony asked for the fourteenth time, hovering over a holographic display of Peter's vitals.
"He doesn't want the movie," Harley piped up from the armchair where he was casually eating the gourmet popcorn meant for Peter. "He wants to be left alone. I, however, would like that new StarkPad pro since you’re in a spending mood."
"Quiet, Harley, the grown-ups are hovering," Tony snapped.
Even Happy was in on it, standing by the door holding a tray of lukewarm water. "You need to stay hydrated, kid. I read that peppermint can cause micro-tears in the esophagus."
"Happy, you don't even read," Peter cried out. "Please. Stop looking at me. Everyone. Look at the TV. Look at the floor. Just stop staring!"
The room went silent, but nobody looked away. They just looked at him with even more intense, guilt-ridden pity.
"See?" Harry whispered to Tony. "He’s irritable. That’s a sign of lingering toxin exposure."
"Or he's just being a teenager," Harley added, mouth full of popcorn. "But if he doesn't want that Beedle the Bard book Harry gave him, I’ll take it."
"You're not trading the heirloom, Harley," Pepper said, walking in and adjusting Peter's blankets for the twentieth time. "But Peter, honey, if you're feeling overwhelmed, we can move the party to the bedroom. We can install a medical-grade air purifier and—"
"I am going to the bathroom!" Peter announced, kicking off the weighted blankets.
He stood up, and immediately, Rhodey and Happy both moved to stabilize him.
"I can walk ten feet by myself!" Peter barked, his face turning a vibrant Stark-red. "I am an Avenger! I had a building fall on me! Not only did I survive, I got up, hitched a ride on a Stark plane, stopped the Vulture from doing horrible things, and saved a good deal of Stark proprietary tech! I can handle some freaking peppermint, people!"
"The building was different," Tony said, his voice dropping into that terrifyingly calm 'Dad' register. "That was structural. This is... chemical. It’s different when it’s your lungs, Pete."
"It's not different! It's embarrassing!" Peter stormed off toward the hallway, the heavy silence of eighty people treating him like something precious and fragile ringing in his ears.