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It had been embarrassment that was the real culprit here.
Peter knew why each of the Avengers individually dodged medical. For Mr. Stark, it was a combination of invasive medical trauma from the arc reactor that he didn't like to relive and an insatiable need to get back to work. For Agent Barton, it was the desire to get back to his REAL life, with his kids and his wife and his little house on the prairie. For Captain Rogers, it was because he knew he'd heal soon enough without medical intervention, anyway so why bother?
And for Peter, at least today, it was because he didn't want anyone to know that he'd gotten a laceration in his side from getting thrown into a stop sign. Yeah, he'd fuckin' stopped alright. Stopped flying through the air at 70 miles per hour.
"Peter Parker has been hit, Boss," FRIDAY had informed in Tony's ear. Tony didn't know it, or maybe he did, Peter wasn't sure; but Peter could see him stop dead in his tracks in the air.
"He's--kid, come in. Are you okay?"
Peter assessed himself. There was a big hole in his suit, revealing a bleeding cut, but nothing too dangerous, and it didn't hurt to breathe.
"I'm fine, Mr. Stark," he replied, "just a flesh wound."
Tony smiled. "I'm gonna kill you if you're saying that 'cause your limbs are severed," he warned.
"I'm really fine," Peter reassured.
"FRIDAY?" Tony asked. A second opinion never hurt nobody.
"Mr. Parker seems to show no signs of severe physical distress," she reported.
Tony nodded. "Good," he said. "Then if you're okay, get back in here. We're getting our asses handed to us."
Peter had helped them win the battle, then snuck away from medical while Tony himself was being treated for a concussion. The cut had already stopped bleeding, so it was fine, right? The spider powers would heal the rest, right?
Incidentally, wrong.
It lingered for a few days, merely tender, until he woke up on Friday feeling much, much worse than he had before. When he undid his self-applied gauze bandages, he winced to find that the sound was not only not healed, but now looked angrier than before, red and puffy and seeping. Still, he decided, he had a test to take, and if he went to school, Tony would expect him in the lab afterward, so he rubbed it down with some more Neosporin and applied fresh bandages before marching downstairs for breakfast.
Peter suffered through a whole day of school just to get to Stark Tower to suffer some more.
Tony noticed, and he was concerned, and that was the worst part.
"Kid, if you're too tired to work, you can--"
"--I'm fine," Peter cut him off, toeing the line between persuasive and rude.
Tony frowned. “Alright, jeez,” he backed off, “no need to get snippy.” Teenagers, he thought. “Well, if you’re here for the long haul, pass me my tool kit before you sit down. The faceplate of the suit needs tightening.”
Peter grabbed the toolbox as he was asked, but when he extended it to Tony, he way that the movement stretched his side made the cut throb, and he yelped, dropping the box of tools with a loud clatter.
“Peter?” Tony called, standing and closing the gap between himself and Peter with a few swift steps. “Woah, hey; you’re alright,” he breathed as Peter swayed into him. He eased the kid to the floor, narrowly saving his face from hitting the workbench, and began prodding him for injuries.
“M’fine, Mr. Stark,” Peter muttered embarrassedly, “just some sore muscles.”
Tony frowned. “You don’t take a bite of countertop in the lab for just sore muscles,” Tony pointed out. On a hunch, he cupped Peter’s cheek with his hand and cursed. “That’s a fever. What’s going on, Pete?”
Peter shifted uncomfortably, but caved--he was busted, and there was no way he was going to fool Tony any longer.
“I cut my side,” he admitted, “on a stop sign, and it’s--”
Tony held up a hand. “Wait wait wait,” he interjected in a voice that implied that Peter was about to get a lecture. “A stop sign? Like, as in the stop sign you hit four days ago?” Peter nodded, and Tony took a calming breath. “Okay,” he said, “show me the cut.”
Silently, dreadfully, Peter peeled the bandages back to reveal the still-angry-looking wound. Tony’s eyes went wide, then he glared.
“You should have seen medical,” he scolded. “This is deep, not to mention infected.”
Peter avoided Tony’s eyes. “I figured the spidey powers would heal me up before it had a chance to--”
“--You’re 15, Pete; you don’t get to take chances on that,” he interrupted. “Even Cap goes to medical when he’s hit, and it’s usually healed by the time he walks out the door. It’s just what we do.”
Exhaustion, fever, pain, and teenage rebellion made Peter a bit more bold than he’d normally be. “You don’t,” he accused. “Unless you’re unconscious when they wheel you in, you always dodge medical.”
Tony’s jaw set in what Peter thought for a moment was anger, but he was wrong.
“I’m not going to argue on that,” he said calmly, “but the standards are different. If you can’t prove to me you can handle this, then I will take it away.” Peter looked panicked. “Not this time,” he caved. “But if you ever do something so reckless again, the suit’s going away for good, you hear me?”
Peter wanted to argue that Tony couldn’t REALLY take the suit away from him, considering he’d already been Spider-Man before he’d even met the Avengers and most of it was his own design, anyway, but Tony looked so guilty and worried that he didn’t have the heart to fight it.
“Yes,” Peter agreed in a small voice, “I hear you.”
Tony relaxed a bit. “Good,” he said. “Now, you’re going to the hospital, where you can get pumped full of all the good stuff and where there will be witnesses when your aunt hottie kicks my ass.” Peter wanted to laugh at the joke but he wasn’t sure it was one, so instead he just nodded and allowed Tony to help him up gently and lead him to the car.