Authors Note: Hi, Blue here! It's been a while since I've updated anything and I've felt a bit guilty about it so here is a piece of writing I've been working on recently. I know this situation has already been explored by many amazing writers but I really like the idea so I wanted to give it a go myself. Anyway, I hope you enjoy and please feel free to review!

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the Marvel characters.

Edit: Sorry, found some really silly mistakes caused by copy-pasting but hopefully I fixed them all now.

OOOOOOOO

Ohh, Peter thinks with a sudden inexplicable clarity, taking in a shuddered breath that feels too high and too fast against his throat: I'm panicking.

He's in the middle of his history lesson, learning about how the mandatory evacuation of the British Expeditionary Force had been a critical happening during the Second World War, but he can't see or hear or feel or smell or touch or taste anything because everything, and he means everything, is too much:

Too loud, too bright, too close, too strong.

And it hurts.

It hurts worse than the time he had been buried alive under tons of concrete or crash landed in a military grade jet while he fought the Vulture, but he can't do anything about it because the second he moves his jeans tug at his legs and tear at his skin and his seat thrusts into his back with the sting of hundreds of needles that he feels the second he shifts he'll pass out from the pain.

So he tries to sit still; tries to conjure up the feeling of stone (because that's a totally logical course of action, supplies Peter's brain, because stone is strong, solid and does. not. move.) but he feels his resolve slip through his grasp as his muscles protest with spasms and twitches. As his hand shakes, his fingers press against the metal of his pen and his joints scream in agony because it feels like he's holding the weight of a two ton pillar in his grip. If that wasn't already bad enough his sense of touch is so badly out of order that Peter doesn't know whether he's gripping the pen with the full strength of his being or if the utensil is barely supporting itself against his skin. And the main problem, Peter thinks, is that he can't put it down because that would cause an explosion of sound that he would not be able to handle along with every other clang that's resounding and pounding in the inside of his head. So he presses harder and he feels like the bones in his fingers might break but he is not letting go. Not. Letting. Go.

Peter can feel the weighted pressure of eyes on him, they leave to moments later come back, and he realises that it's Ned sending him worried glances. In the clustered mess of his mind, Peter can shortly conclude that Ned is the greatest best friend ever and that he should probably communicate to him that he feels really, really bad.

It's just that...he doesn't get that far.

A sickening sweet sent hits his nose when a girl three rows behind him and one to the side opens her mouth to breath while she's chewing raspberry flavored gum and he gags because it feels like he just stepped into Leah's Candy Store and got drowned in liquid skittles. Automatically, his free hand juts out and presses to his nose and mouth in an attempt to escape the horrid smell. He winces at the searing burn that races over his face at the skin to skin contact and swears he is never going to go near candy ever again.

At the sound of his almost vomiting, Ned turns around fully to look at Peter with an expression on his face that screams dude-are-you-ok-or-do-I-need-to-get-you-to-the-emergency-room-like-right-now? Or at least, Peter is 99.9% sure that that is the look Ned is giving him because...well...Peter can't really see at the moment. His surroundings are just one big blur of colour and light that seem to enjoy randomly changing just to get on Peter's nerves. It's like he's looking at a highly saturated photo on which someone haphazardly decided to put a fog filter.

But now isn't the time to think about that, Peter decides frantically, because he finally got someone's attention and Ned's emergency room is sounding beter and beter as the seconds tick by because for some reason his chest is really starting to hurt.

So Peter locks onto his best friend's figure as accurately as he can (he's praying he's making some form of eye-contact) and is about to shake his head in a gesture of no-I-am-not-ok-please-call-911-or-like-Mr. Stark-because-he'll-probably-know-what-to-do when his eardrums burst.

'Mr. Leeds I would very much like you to turn back around and pay attention to my lesson seeing as it will be tested next week.' Mrs. Swallow's voice is loud, high-pitched and sends such a strong dizzy-spell over Peter that he momentarily loses all sense of gravity and nearly collides face first with his desk.

By some miracle, he manages to catch himself, crouching over the table and letting his head just loll from his shoulders. If he could stay like that, Peter thinks with a head pounding in agony, maybe everything would eventually go away.

Out of the corner of his eye there spins a fray of colour as Ned twists back around, the rhythm of the boy's heartbeat escalating now that the attention is on him. 'I'm sorry Mrs. Swallow,' Ned begins, voice up an octave as anxiety pokes at his throat. 'It's just that, well,' There is a pause and Peter has the sneaking suspicion Ned is looking at him but he can't tell because he decided to close his eyes to keep out the scorching light stinging at his vision. 'I think Peter might be really ill so may I please take him to the nurse's office?'

An earthquake rumbles over Peter as Mrs. Swallow's heels click against the ground. 'Is that so?' She asks thoughtfully and a lot closer than she was before. 'Mr. Parker are you doing alright?'

No.

No, Mr. Parker is definitely not doing alright and he would prefer to be taken to the hospital right about now, thank you very much.

It's just that...he can't speak.

And it probably has something to do with the fact that his hand is still covering his mouth and nose but that suddenly isn't really important right now because he can't breath and there's something in the way but he doesn't know what and everything is just so -

'Mr. Parker?'

- loud and bright and painful and Peter would just prefer it if everything would just shut up and leave him alone and -

'Hey, hey Peter, dude?'

- why can't he breath?

Suddenly the sound of a door slamming open resounds through the room. Peter hears the strain of the hinges as iron shifts together and how the slam of the wood against the wall sends vibrations to rattle the objects on the classroom shelves.

His ears sting. There's a "pop". Warm liquid slides down his skin.

After that a few things happen.

Someone calls his name, the school bell rings, his pen snaps in two and Peter...simply falls.

Then everything is quiet once more.

OOOOOOO

'Fancy seeing you here on this lovely Wednesday, Mr. Stark-'

'It's been two days, kid.'

'This lovely Friday, Mr. Stark.' Peter amends without missing a beat, bright smile on his face as if he isn't laying in a medical bed, pale as a ghost and an IV strapped to his arm.

The sound of a heart monitor gives undertone to the exasperated sigh which escapes Tony's mouth, a hand coming up to pinch the bridge of his nose and eyes closing for a moment. Once he reopens them, his gaze again travels up the figure of Peter Parker. He admittedly looks better than when he was brought in; the blood has been cleaned from his ears, his eyes are no longer red and his chest is slowly but steadily moving up and down. Despite the improvements, Tony still feels nauseous when he looks over the kid because he looks too...frail.

And it...well, it irritated Tony because everything had been fine. The kid had been fine.

Peter had made it to school without any need to suit up (Karen had updated Friday) and Tony had been satisfied that the kid finally had a normal, red-and-blue-spandex free morning. The day would have carried on uneventfully; Tony locked up in his lab and Peter stuck in class -heck- Tony had wanted to ask if the kid would come by later to tinker with some gadgets. They would have had a perfectly relaxed and educative time blowing machines and programming the elevators to stop at the wrong floors.

But no, of course not.

At 12:53 p.m., when Tony had been reaching for his fourth cup of coffee, the kids vitals suddenly go haywire: heart beat escalating to an unhealthy rate, adrenaline levels rising seemingly without any provocation and stress indicators going off the charts.

Tony had sprung into action without hesitation, pulling up the schools security feed and contacting Karen but none had helped. The kid was just...sitting there; rigid and tense but face twisted in discomfort and pain. Then suddenly his hand snapped to his mouth as his eyes went wide, repulsion flickering through them.

Tony had watched and waited, pulse pounding in his throat and apprehension bubbling in his stomach.

Kid, Tony thought, terror filling his mind, you've got to move your hand.

The second Peter's oxygen levels started dropping, Tony was already halfway out the window, suit clicking around his body as the armour formed.

Two minutes later and Tony was running through the halls of Midtown High school. With a final stride he had burst open the door of Peter's class in time to call the boys name and see him slide off his chair and drop to the ground as the school bell rung.

Everything after that is a blur.

Tony vaguely remembers calling for Bruce to set up a medical area for Peter, dragging the boy up and racing back to the Tower, all the while his heart beating like a maniac in his chest.

Upon arrival the kid had been taken out of his hands almost immediately, limp body vanishing behind white doors as Bruce gave Tony a squeeze on his shoulder and disappeared after Peter.

Now, two days later, Peter had fully come to and been placed in a separate room for supervision, chatting away like his regular self with the nurse staff as if he hadn't just come out of the ICU.

And Tony was not having it.

'You shouldn't be taking this so likely.' It comes out harsher than he means but Tony holds steady.

Peter winces slightly, shoulders defeating and demeanour dimming. He quickly tries to cover it up, a small grin spreading across his face but it doesn't reach his eyes. 'Yeah, I got the main rundown from a very angry Miss Romanoff and an uncharacteristically quiet Mr. Barton.' He says quietly, twisting his fingers in his hand. 'But you know - "what happened happened" - so there's no point in worrying about it now.'

'You nearly chocked yourself, Peter.'

The boy looks down quickly and grabs the edges of his blanket, twisting the fabric until his knuckles turn white. His voice cracks as he says; 'I know, Mr. Stark, but...I just...I-I didn't mean to...' He trails off, leaving the room unfulfilled and empty.

Tony huffs, running his hand through his hair, as he takes in the lost look on Peter's face. This kid, he thinks, is going to be the death of me. With that he walks forward and takes a seat on the edge of Peter's bed.

'Peter,' He begins, looking at the boy. 'We know that you didn't intentionally choke yourself. You gave us a scare and that's why it might seem like we're angry at you but we're not. All of us are just relieved that nothing really bad ended up happening.'

'So you really aren't angry?' Peter looks up skeptically, eyes slightly watery and red.

Tony smirks and tilts his head. 'Shocked? Yes. Going to monitor your vitals into the next millennium? Definitely Yes. But angry?' He says, reaching over to ruffle Peter's hair. 'No, I woundn't say I am.'

At that the kid genuinely smiles; corners of his eyes crinkling and irises shining, and Tony can't help but feel his heart melt all over again. The worries of the last few days fade away and Tony is happy to just sit there, listening to the kid as he tells him exactly what happened; from how everything suddenly became "too much" and how his senses (which were already dialled up to eleven) sprang up to 112 to how he had tried to communicate with Ned and how a girl was chewing raspberry flavoured gum. The most shocking part was of course that Peter had been so out of it that he hadn't realised he had been suffocating himself which was alarming to say the least but Tony decided that he would leave that bit of information untouched for right now and instead kept quiet and listened, hand never leaving Peter's head until he had finished his tale. After that Tony promised that everything was going to be ok and that when Peter finally got out of bed arrest, the two of them would go prank some businesspeople.

Peter laughs at this, glee evident in his eyes. 'How do you still have business Mr. Stark?'

Tony grins, relaxing in the light of the late afternoon sun.

'What can I say?' He answers. 'I'm a genius.'

OOOOOOO

Next week when Peter goes back to school, Ned greets him with a big hug and proceeds to rattle on about how they "really need a sign for those situations" and as "the man in the chair" he comes up with the most obscene collection of hand gestures that Peter is wheezing with laughter by the time they make it to class.

From then on, the days pass by. Peter scores an A+ for the review on The Second World War (he's got some amazing tutors), manages to send every Stark employee to the wrong floor at least once (it's Mr. Starks building) and constantly keeps a small box in his pocket (filled with a specially designed pair of glasses and earbuds).

'Just in case.' Mr. Stark had said as he handed him the objects, walking away as if that wasn't a big deal.

Later that day, Tony's lab has a new "#1 Iron Man" mug on its table.

Peter and Tony wear matching smiles for the entirety of the next week.