Chapter Text
One would think that being bitten by a radioactive spider would excuse a person from getting sick again, but unfortunately, that is not the case.
Maybe Tommy just has what Aunt Puffy had deemed ‘Innit luck,’ otherwise known as inheriting the fun, metaphorical hand-me-down genetics of having the worst immune system alive. Apparently, both his father and mother had it as well, but Puffy (somehow) was the lucky one.
In hindsight, though, it isn’t exactly Tommy’s fault for not realising that being Spider-Man didn’t abstain him from getting sick sooner. Sue him, he’s only been Spider-Man for about a year now.
Besides, it’s not even that bad of an illness. Tommy’s only symptoms are chills and sneezing, so technically, he’s fine. He can say this is simply a bad case of a small winter cold and move on with life.
Unfortunately, though, the school day does not help his case, especially when he keeps getting weird looks from both of his friends (who undoubtedly know that he’s sick).
Tubbo tells him off for sneezing several times during their robotics class, while Ranboo does their best to try and convince him to go to the nurse’s office and have Puffy pick him up or something (even though that isn’t possible with how long Puffy’s shifts are, but Tommy doesn’t say that).
Tommy manages to get through the day with a stuffy nose and an abundance of used tissues tossed in the bin of nearly every class he’s gone through. It’s already bad enough that one of the kids who’s in a few of his classes keeps laughing at him every time he gets up to blow his nose again. He pretends not to notice when Ranboo and Tubbo both equally give the kid enough dirty looks to shut him up.
By the end of the day, Tommy’s exhausted and ready to just go home and lie down for a few hours. Maybe put on a Star Wars movie in the background while he does homework or even head down to the store to buy a new plant. Anything to distract him from the oncoming symptoms of his illness.
‘Innit luck,’ however, proves to drive further than just a sickly immune system and clumsiness, because when Tommy walks out the front entrance of the school, he’s come face-to-face with the sleek black car that belongs to the Wilbur Soot—genius, philanthropist, billionaire, all of the above.
As much as Tommy is tempted to lean into the front window and explain to Phil, Wilbur’s driver, that he’s not feeling well enough to go to the Tower today, he holds his tongue.
Both because he’s always happy to go to the Tower—it’s one of the very few things that he looks forward to during the week—and because… well, he’d feel awful if he called today off.
It’s one of the few times that he’s actually able to work in the lab with Wilbur, someone that’s been his idol for years (and is the Iron Man). Why would he pass that up just because of a stuffy nose?
He only starts to realise how awful of an idea it really was to not take today off when he barely remembers getting out of Phil’s car, much less walking into Wilbur’s lab.
The place has enough light pouring into it that it makes Tommy’s brain restart to the point of realising, ‘Oh hey, you’re actually here now! Maybe it’s time to wake back up from dreamland.’
Wilbur, much like Tubbo and Ranboo, is perceptive when it comes to Tommy. This can be both a good and a bad thing.
Good because, when Tommy’s uncertain about the food he wants to get for dinner, Wilbur tends to know exactly what it is Tommy would rather have and orders that instead of the opposing option. It’s as though he knows Tommy like the back of his hand, despite them having only known one another for about eight months now.
In saying that, though, there is the con of it only taking Wilbur about ten minutes of idle conversation to realise that there’s something wrong.
“Hey,” a hand pushes against Tommy’s forearm, once again breaking him from his reverie. He looks over blearily at where Wilbur’s sitting a few feet away. The man’s expression is screwed up with an emotion that can only be described as concern. “Are you alright, Tommy?”
Tommy nods slowly. “Mhm. Yep. I’m doing great, Mr. Soot.”
Wilbur raises an eyebrow, very clearly unconvinced. “Are you sure? You don’t seem to be doing so good.”
At this, Tommy frowns, waving the man off with his hand. “No, ‘m fine. Really. I’m–” he pauses to sneeze into the crook of his elbow, which probably doesn’t help his case at all. “‘M fine, Mr. Soot.”
Wilbur scoffs at him. “Right. FRIEND?”
Tommy’s eyes widen. He’d nearly forgotten about Wilbur’s AI. “Wait–”
“Yes, Mr. Soot?” FRIEND responds in a robotic, but kind, tone.
“Please scan Tommy for any sort of wounds or viruses alike,” Wilbur continues, ignoring Tommy’s look of betrayal. “And make it a full scan, please, FRIEND. I’d really rather not have a repeat of that time he tried to hide a knife wound from me.”
“Of course, Mr. Soot,” the AI responds. A whirring noise follows, before a beeping plays overhead. Tommy barely has time to put his face into his hands before the diagnosis is read out over the speakers. “Mr. Innit seems to be experiencing a common cold at the moment. His symptoms are a fever, chills, and possible aches or pains. Would you like me to recommend different medications and ways to deal with a common cold?”
Wilbur hums, his eyebrows pinched together in concern. “No, that’s fine. Thank you.”
Once the AI powers down again, Wilbur turns with a pointed look towards Tommy, who is very deliberately still keeping his face firmly placed into the palms of his hands.
“Tommy,” Wilbur begins, taking on that stern tone of his. “What’d I tell you about hiding how you’re feeling from me, kid?”
Tommy sighs into his hands, lifting his head so he can instead sit his chin on his palm in dismay. “It’s not even that big of a deal, Mr. Soot. ‘S just a cold, like FRIEND said.”
Wilbur rolls his eyes, shifting in his chair so that he can roll closer to Tommy. With ease, he reaches out his hand and presses his knuckles to Tommy’s forehead, wincing slightly.
“Jesus, Toms, you’re burning up,” Wilbur mutters, removing his hand so he can stand up from his chair. “I’ll get you an ice pack and some medication. Go lie down on the sofa, please?”
Tommy groans, sounding much like a child that’s just been told he won’t be getting ice cream after dinner.
“But Will,” he complains, dragging out the man’s name dramatically. “I don’t want to lie down, I want to continue working on our project.”
Wilbur waves his hand to the side. “We can work on it later. I don’t want you overdoing yourself, especially not when you’re sick.”
“I’m not overdoing myself,” Tommy argues, standing up slowly from his chair. “I’m in tip top health, actually.”
Wilbur snorts, glancing over his shoulder at Tommy. “Oh, really? Are you? Because it surely sounded like you weren’t, in fact.”
Tommy crosses his arms over his chest, feeling a bit wobbly on his feet. That’s probably not a big deal.
“I am,” he says, nodding. “I’m in my prime, actually, didn’t you know? I can prove it.”
“Oh really?” Wilbur sounds intrigued, but more so amused. “Prove it, then.”
With a flourish, Tommy stands up, and almost immediately falls over. Okay, so maybe that wasn’t the best idea.
As expected, Wilbur starts to laugh at him like the prick that he is, even though he’d immediately put his arms out to catch Tommy before he could hit the ground.
Not that Tommy was going to hit the ground in the first place or anything, though. If he was going to—which he definitely wasn’t—he could have caught himself.
“My apologies for not believing you, Tom,” Wilbur says with a teasing tone as he helps Tommy sit back down onto the rolling chair. “It seems like you are, in fact, in the ‘prime’ of your health.”
Tommy glares at him, sniffing a bit. “I hope your building explodes.”
Wilbur snorts. “You’d be sabotaging your own future, you know. When I retire, Soot Interprises is going to you, kid.”
A spark of warmth passes through Tommy. Even though Wilbur’s said this plenty of times—and he’s definitely joking each time, because of course he is—it always makes Tommy feel a bit better about himself.
“Worth it,” he jokes in response, earning another eye roll from his mentor.
“Ugh. An insolent child,” Wilbur remarks, reaching out to flick his forehead. “That’s what you are. An absolutely agitating child. Go lay down on the sofa before you give me a mini heart attack, will you?”
Tommy decides that maybe it’s better if he doesn’t question what exactly it would be that gives Wilbur a heart attack.
Grumbling all the while, Tommy stands from his chair and heads over to the sofa.
“Fine, but we’re watching Up.”
Wilbur groans in the distance, making Tommy grin to himself. “Seriously? Up? What about literally anything else—and don’t you dare say Star Wars—”
“What’s that? You want to watch Star Wars?” Tommy asks innocently, trying to suppress a smirk as he glances over his shoulder at where Wilbur’s glaring at him. “We can watch Star Wars if you want, Mr. Soot. You know I love those movies.”
Wilbur’s glare deepens. “Up it is.”
Tommy turns back to the television, clicking his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “I figured as much.”
“You’re evil. A manipulative, evil child.” Wilbur grumbles from the kitchen. “It’s surprising that you didn’t become a super villain.”
“Do we have hot chocolate?” Tommy asks, scrolling through Disney+ for only a second before clicking on Up. He has elected to completely ignore Wilbur’s last comment.
“‘Do we have hot chocolate?’” Wilbur mocks, scoffing. “As if I ever run out. With you always at the Tower, I have to make near-weekly runs to the supermarket to get more of this stuff.”
Tommy knows full well that Wilbur does not do his own shopping. Last time he went to a supermarket with Wilbur was when they were at a restaurant with the rest of the Avengers and he’d gotten a bit motion sick—a wonder, really, how that still happens despite being literally radioactive—so he’d asked to stop by a market to pick up some Dramamine before heading to the Tower.
Wilbur had been bombarded pretty much the second he’d gone through the door.
Not that the guy cared, he pretty much lived for attention, but it was no wonder that he didn’t like going places.
Still, it’s a bit of a crime that Wilbur’s never been in a Target before. Understandable, but still a crime. Just like some forms of arson, as Ranboo would comment, despite Tubbo’s clear disapproval of that claim.
“Whip cream, too?” Tommy pipes up again, partially just to piss Wilbur off but also because it’s the only way he likes hot chocolate.
Give him whipped cream or give him nothing. His life motto.
“I can’t believe you just asked me that,” Wilbur responds. The whhsh-ing sound of a whipped cream can quickly follows. “Do you want ice cream too while I’m over here? In fact, what if I cook you a five star meal?”
Tommy puts on a pouting face and tone. “I’m sick, what the hell, Mr. Soot? Don’t be rude to a sick guy.”
“Oh, so suddenly you’re agreeing with the fact that you’re sick. I see how it is.”
Tommy clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth, tapping the TV remote impatiently against his knee. “Only when it benefits me.”
Wilbur sighs, but he sounds fond. “Why I ever decided to hire you as my intern, I’ll never figure out. You’re a thorn in my side.”
Tommy sniffs. “Be careful, Wil. I know the number for Child Services.”
“You- what?”
“Purpled taught me.”
“Why- okay,” Wilbur shakes his head. There’s a clattering of a coffee mug. Tommy assumes he’s set it down against the countertop out of surprise. “I don’t want to know, actually.”
Tommy pulls his knees up to his chest, curling up against the armrest of the sofa. He’s a little bit glad that he isn’t currently doing more work on the project, even if just a little bit.
Although he loves nothing more than doing work with Wilbur in the lab, he has a feeling that if he’d kept at it for another couple of hours that he probably would’ve dropped somewhere in that (which, in hindsight, maybe it’s a good thing he didn’t go down that route. He really would’ve given Wilbur a heart attack then).
He stares at the television screen, which is currently paused at the very beginning of Up—he made an executive decision to wait until Wilbur sits down to press play—with his head spinning a little.
This sickness is normal, he thinks, sneezing into his elbow. It’s normal, and it’s really not that big of a deal. Even if he can feel that sinus headache slowly coming on (definitely from how much he’d been blowing his nose earlier in class, he’s glad that at least cleared up a tad, otherwise Wilbur would probably be disgusted), it’s better than any stomach flu or otherwise.
Wilbur must acknowledge this as well, because he gently nudges Tommy in the head with his elbow as he walks past.
Tommy looks up, frowning instantly when he sees that the man is carrying a big ass tray in his hands.
“What’s that for?” he blurts out, rubbing underneath his nose with his jacket sleeve.
Wilbur shoots him a look of mild disgust. “Don’t wipe your nose on your jacket, please, that’s nasty. I brought tissues and stuff- here, look.”
Wilbur sets the tray down onto the coffee table, revealing an entire smorgasbord of different things—from an Iron Man themed tissue box to a pair of steaming mugs; one with the words Coolest Avenger on it, and the other with a science pun that makes Tommy giggle a little.
“You’re such a parent,” Tommy comments, reaching forwards to grab a tissue from the box to wipe his nose. “Seriously, what the hell is this? Did Phil teach you about this?”
“Actually, it was your aunt,” Wilbur says lightly, grabbing his mug from the tray and taking a sip. Tommy catches a whiff—eugh. Coffee. “She told me all about the times you’d bring her breakfast in bed because she’d be too exhausted to get up after her graveyard shifts.”
Tommy flushes. “Well- yeah, I mean… why wouldn’t I? She does enough for me.”
Wilbur gives him a small, fond smile. “I know, kiddo. What I’m saying is that you deserve to have the same given to you. You do enough, Tommy. More than enough, even. Let me take care of you for once, yeah?”
Tommy shrinks into the sofa cushions a bit. “Oh.”
“Don’t go crying on me,” Wilbur says quickly, but his tone is soft. “I’ll tell all the media and magazines about it. The headlines: Iron Man makes Spider-Man cry. Stay tuned for why, not clickbait.”
Tommy reaches out and shoves Wilbur’s shoulder, taking another great big sniff. “You’re such a prick.”
Wilbur laughs loudly, holding his coffee mug up into the air so it doesn’t spill. “I know, I know. Press play on the movie before we get all emotional again, please. I can’t handle all this mushiness in one day.”
Tommy huffs, ignoring him. “If you don’t want to get all sappy again, then we are watching the wrong movie.”
“I tried to tell you that,” Wilbur sighs into his coffee mug, giving a nonchalant shrug. “Never listen to me though. Of course not. Why would you ever want to listen to your mentor who is both older and wiser than you?”
“Hey,” Tommy complains, pulling another innocent sad look. “I’m the sick one here, so I’m the one choosing the movie. It’s only right.”
Wilbur looks up at the sky. “Is that a rule or something? Who set that into place? Surely it wasn’t me. I never get sick.”
“FRIEND would agree with me,” Tommy points out, even though he’s actually not entirely sure if the AI would. “Right, FRIEND?”
“Of course, Tommy.” the AI responds in a kind voice.
It’s still slightly odd, hearing how nice the AI sounds after Tommy had heard the last AI that Wilbur had. Not that the previous AI was rude or anything, just… built for Wilbur to bicker with, Tommy supposes.
“See?” Tommy turns to stick his tongue out at Wilbur. “I’m right.”
Wilbur sighs, looking more amused than anything. “Obviously I know that, kiddo, I put the rule into place. Press play already, will you? I feel like I’m losing years of precious time over here. Soon enough I’ll be eighty and all gray-haired.”
“Elderly,” Tommy comments astutely as he finally picks the remote up and presses play.
Wilbur sighs, rubbing his forehead with his hand again. “Jesus. Tommy, do me a favour and don’t put me in a home, please. The last thing that the Wilbur Soot needs to be caught doing is playing bingo in some retirement home and actually enjoying it.”
Tommy blows his nose into another tissue, mentally preparing himself for the onslaught of emotions he’s about to feel from the movie playing on screen. “No promises.”