Work Text:
Peter received the text on his lunch break: Franklin brought home the flu. Gave it to me last night. The two of us are quarantined at our place.
His sandwich paused on its journey into Peter’s mouth. He didn’t mind at all that Sue had banished her sick kid to his apartment—thanks to Peter’s healing factor, he couldn’t get sick unless he’d been taking very, very poor care of himself and compromised his immune system. No, what concerned Peter was that Johnny was also sick. As much as he loved his boyfriend, when Johnny felt ill he was completely miserable and supposedly unable to accomplish simple tasks.
He took a risk and called.
“Ugh. Hello.” On the other end, Johnny sounded heavily congested. “Say hi to Peter, Franklin.”
An equally miserable voice came over the line: “Hi, Peter. We’re sick.”
“So I heard,” he said sympathetically. “Listen, Johnny, do you need me to come home early? How bad is it?”
There was a pause on the other end. Knowing Johnny, he was thinking carefully about what he wanted Peter to do and what was actually responsible. If Peter wasn’t so concerned, it might have made him smile.
“Well… you only have a few hours left, right? We can probably—agh!”
There was a gagging noise, wet coughing, and then Franklin’s utterly miserable, quiet “sorry.” A moment later, Johnny was gagging.
Vomiting. Right. Peter quickly hung up the phone and made the necessary calls to get a last-minute sub for his last class of the day—thankfully the next period was his planning block, so there was a little time to find someone. Then he was running out the doors to catch a train back to his apartment. As a second thought, he made a quick stop at a bodega to grab some piping hot soup for his two sick boys.
Soon after, he was fitting the key into the lock. Peter peeked around the corner in case Johnny and Franklin were asleep, and sure enough, they were. Both were sprawled on opposite ends of the couch. It looked like Johnny had stripped himself of his clothes—no doubt covered in vomit—and he’d managed to put Franklin in one of Peter’s old shirts. Peter smiled sadly at the sight and walked more fully into the room. He could see that Johnny had set out a bucket with a trash bag on the floor near Franklin’s head.
Peter walked quietly over the young boy and pressed the back of his hand to his forehead. He very obviously had a fever, and Peter suspected that Johnny would be running even hotter than usual if he were to check his temperature. Peter set the bag of soup down on the coffee table and found the warmest blanket they owned to drape over the two. He gently slid his hand beneath Franklin’s head and raised it so he could put a pillow beneath him. Franklin exhaled noisily, but otherwise didn’t stir. Peter smoothed his hair off of his sweaty face; when he turned around, Johnny’s blue eyes were watching him fondly.
“You look good,” Johnny said, voice quiet and congested, “when you do that.”
A little self-consciously, Peter shrugged. He’d always liked kids, and Johnny knew that. He walked over to his boyfriend and knelt next to him.
“Hi,” he whispered. “I brought soup, if you’re up for it. Should be nice and hot, still. Are you hungry?”
Johnny looked queasy at the thought. “Not right now,” he grunted. “I’m just exhausted. The kid threw up a ton, and I love him to pieces, but it wasn’t a pretty picture.”
Peter laughed softly. “I’m impressed you cleaned it all up,” he admitted. “Normally you bundle yourself in bed when you’re sick and refuse to move for the rest of the day.”
Johnny yawned. “Tempting. But I couldn’t leave my nephew hanging.” He was interrupted by a sneeze; Peter handed him a tissue. “Thanks. Yeah, anyway, he’s a mess of bodily fluids right now, but he’s my mess of bodily fluids. Has it been three hours already?”
The change in topic was so sudden that it took Peter a moment to realize what Johnny was asking. When he figured it out, he chuckled and shook his head. “I called in and asked for a sub. Had to go home and take care of my family, right?”
As soon as the words left his mouth, Peter wondered if they weren’t too presumptuous. It was no secret that he considered Johnny his family, but he hadn’t really spent all that much time with Franklin or Valeria. They were friendly and comfortable with each other, but was it too early to claim to be a part of Johnny’s family? Peter bit his lip worriedly, but when he looked at Johnny again, there was nothing but love gazing back at him.
And, like Johnny could read his mind, he said, “The kids really love you, you know.” He cleared his throat of some of the phlegm residing there. “Franklin told me to marry you.”
The breath was stolen from Peter’s lungs. Johnny looked similarly alarmed; he’d probably meant to keep that to himself, but his filter was inhibited by the fever. Peter wasn’t sure what, exactly to say in response.
If he was being completely honest, it may not have been a topic they’d talked about yet, but it was something he’d thought about. It was almost scarily easy to imagine being with Johnny forever—waking up beside him each morning, falling asleep in his arms each night, and everything that came in between. He got along with Johnny’s family really well, too—he could picture a mesh of Christmas and Hanukkah at the Baxter Building with the kids and Sue, Reed, and Ben. A quiet life—or as quiet as it could be when you were Spider-Man—appealed to Peter when he pictured it with Johnny, in a way it never had before.
He thought the permanence of such a union would scare him, but there was something in his gut that told him he was right not to be afraid. They knew each other well enough, didn’t they? They’d been through so much together, he wasn’t sure how much more committed to the other they could be.
And he loved Johnny. He knew in his heart that that wouldn’t change any time soon.
But it wasn’t the right time to broach that topic; he wanted Johnny well and aware if they were going to have that conversation. “He’s a really sweet kid,” Peter said at last. “And I love those kids, too.”
Johnny’s expression was incredibly tender. Peter cupped Johnny’s cheek with the palm of his hand and kissed him on the other cheek. Johnny was flushed and very hot to the touch, but Peter didn’t shy away. They stayed like that for a moment, content to just be near each other.
Several seconds later, Johnny’s face grew pale and his eyes widened. “Bucket,” he grunted, “ bucket —”
With lightning reflexes, Peter had the bucket under Johnny’s chin just in time. When he was finished, Johnny collapsed back against the arm of the couch, completely spent. He looked so miserable that Peter even reached out with a tissue to wipe some of the saliva and bile from the corner of Johnny’s mouth.
“I’ve got you, babe,” he said, standing up. He took the bucket into his hands, wrinkling his nose at the smell. He tied a knot at the top and went to change it out. “Get some rest. I’ll take care of everything.”
Johnny frowned, but it didn’t look like he’d be putting up much of an argument. “Are you sure?” His eyes drifted to Franklin, who was stirring and whining in his sleep. He likely felt guilty about leaving Peter to take care of them both, but Peter was feeling strangely up for the challenge. He blew a kiss to Johnny, still holding the trash bag.
“You can trust me, Johnny. I’ve got you both.”
Johnny seemed to debate with himself for a moment, but then he nodded his acceptance. He closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep, so Peter took the opportunity and finished changing the bag in the bucket. Then he changed out of his work clothes into sweatpants and a Midtown alumni hoodie, pushing the sleeves up to his elbows. He found Johnny and Franklin’s soiled clothes in the laundry bin, so he started a load. While it was running, Peter changed the sheets on his and Johnny’s bed. By the time he’d finished, his enhanced hearing picked up on Franklin’s change in breathing; he was awake. Sure enough, when he ventured back into the living room, the eight-year-old was rubbing his eyes and coughing pathetically. Peter disappeared into the kitchen and returned with a glass of ginger ale.
“Thanks,” Franklin murmured as he sipped from the straw.
Peter rubbed his back. “Feeling any better, kiddo?”
Franklin shrugged and leaned into Peter’s touch. “My tummy hurts,” he said. “And I’m cold. And I can’t breathe.”
That was a no, then. Peter grabbed a second blanket and tucked Franklin in snugly, ensuring that the little boy had enough use of his hands to continue holding his drink. Then he brought out the soup, quietly instructing Franklin to stop eating if he started feeling queasy. Then he switched on a movie with the volume down low so as not to wake Johnny.
He went to leave the room again, maybe to put the clothes in the dryer, but Franklin turned huge, blue eyes on him—Peter knew immediately who had taught him that expression.
“Peter,” Franklin began, speaking a little shyly, “will you stay with me?”
Something swelled in Peter’s chest. He could remember being Franklin’s age and wanting nothing more than to snuggle with his Aunt May or Uncle Ben when he was young, so maybe this was just Franklin searching for comfort where it was available. Still, Peter couldn’t help but feel touched that he was the one Franklin had requested.
“Sure, buddy,” he whispered. “Let me make some popcorn and we’ll do a sick day marathon, okay?”
A grin that wasn’t at all hindered by Franklin’s sick eyes and pale complexion brightened his face. “Okay,” he said eagerly.
Minutes later, Franklin was snuggled right up against Peter’s side, using him as a pillow. Peter was balancing their drinks and a popcorn bowl on his lap as they watched the first Star Wars movie; Peter learned that Franklin’s favorite character was R2D2. By the time they were halfway through the movie, Peter was covered in snot and saliva, he’d had to change the bag in the bucket three times, the soup had spilled on his lap, and he couldn’t feel his fingers since Franklin’s leaning against him had cut off the blood circulation in his arm.
Peter just wrapped the arm around Franklin’s shoulders, pulling him close, and dealt with the painful tingling sensation. He felt so, so privileged to be sandwiched between Franklin and Johnny. He wouldn’t trade it for the world.