Doctor Connors is Peter Parker's father

Fear had been ingrained in Curt Connors since the day he brought Peter into his home. It hid deep, beneath layers of formulas, calculations, and stern practicality, but it never completely disappeared. He inherited this fear from his friend. He remembered how Richard—brilliant, radiant Richard—could turn into an emaciated, weak man, nursed for a month by a cold that turned into pneumonia. "Weak lungs, Mary once explained, since childhood." And Curt prayed—not to God, in whom he didn't believe, but to science, in which he believed wholeheartedly—that Peter would escape this fate. But fate, it seemed, was simply waiting for an excuse. It all started with a harmless runny nose after playing football with the boys in the autumn rain. The next morning, Peter was pale and listless. Kurt, out of habit, gave him a vitamin C tablet and sent him off to school, silencing his inner anxiety with rational arguments: we're hardening ourselves, we can't turn a child into a hothouse plant. By evening, rationality had cracked. Peter returned home, shivering with chills, his cheeks flushed unhealthily, his eyes feverishly gleaming. He could barely speak. — My head... hurts..., — he groaned, collapsing on the couch in the hallway, still wearing his jacket. Kurt's palm, pressed to the boy's forehead, was cold with terror. His temperature was soaring. The next few hours merged into a nightmarish, feverish marathon. The stereotypical image of a scientist crumbled, giving way to the hypervigilance of a military surgeon. He converted Peter's bedroom into a makeshift hospital room. With the help of a hastily summoned maid, they installed a humidifier. The medications were neatly laid out on the nightstand, the schedule scheduled down to the minute on a tablet. Kurt had canceled all his meetings at Oscorp. The world had shrunk to these four walls. The first night was hell. Peter was delirious, his body burning, his fever uncontrollable. He moaned, called for his mom, then his dad, and each time Kurt shuddered as if he'd been electrocuted. He sat on a wooden chair by the bed, unable to sleep, one hand constantly clutching the boy's forehead, checking his temperature, adjusting his sweat-drenched hair. In moments of lucidity, Peter looked at him with a hazy, uncomprehending gaze. — Uncle Kurt? I'm not feeling well... — I know, son, — Connors croaked in response, and a tender word, born of pain and fear, escaped him of its own accord. — I'm here. I'm with you. He was with him. Always. He forced him to drink warm water with honey, changed his sweaty underwear, and read dry scientific articles aloud to distract himself while his hand mechanically rubbed warming ointment on the boy's back. Always squeamish about any sign of weakness, he wiped his face without a trace of disgust and cleared away plates of almost untouched food. On the third night, Peter's condition worsened. His breathing became hoarse, ragged, and irregular. It was the very nightmare Kurt had so feared. Pneumonia. His father's shadow fell across his son's feverish body. Kurt no longer trusted himself. His confidence melted in the face of this merciless disease, so similar to the one that had taken his father's life. In a panic, he called the doctor—the best, most expensive general practitioner in New York. The doctor, a middle-aged man with an attentive, calm gaze, arrived quickly. Kurt met him in the hallway. His usually impeccable appearance was marred by his disheveled hair and wrinkled shirt. — He's in there, — Kurt said quietly, pointing to the bedroom door. — Temperature 102.5, won't go below 103. Cough... you'll hear it. The doctor entered the room. Peter lay hunched over, his body racked by another cough—a dry, hacking, and expressionless one. He looked weakly at the stranger with frightened, sunken eyes. — Hello, Peter, — the doctor said quietly, placing his briefcase on the nightstand. — My name is Dr. Evans. Let's see what's going on. Kurt stood in the doorway, clutching the doorframe with one hand so tightly his knuckles were white. He felt less like a scientist and more like a helpless child. The doctor began his examination. He spoke to Peter quietly and soothingly while his experienced hands did their work. — Now I'm going to listen to your breathing, — he said, taking out a stethoscope. — Breathe normally. Deeper. One more time. The metal tip was cold as the doctor slid it under Peter's shirt. Peter flinched. Kurt involuntarily took a step forward, but the doctor stopped him with a calm gesture. As he listened to the boy's chest and back, Dr. Evans's face grew serious. He adjusted the stethoscope, forcing Peter to breathe deeper, his lips pursing each time. — Okay, — he finally said, removing the stethoscope. — Now, Peter, I need to examine your chest. Can you lift your shirt? Peter, exhausted and obedient, began to lift the hem of his pajama top with weak fingers. Of course. Here is the text with the dialogue formatted using dashes in the fanfiction style: With each breath, the skin between his ribs retracted, forming small but distinct pits. The muscles of his neck and abdomen tensed unnaturally, straining to breathe. This was a sign of severe respiratory failure, a sign of pulmonary failure. — I understand, — Dr. Evans said quietly, meeting Kurt's gaze. There was no panic in his eyes, only a stern, pitiless clarity. — Mr. Connors, we need to talk. Peter, don't move, we'll be back in a minute. He stepped out into the hallway, and Kurt, his legs numb, followed him. — He's developing obstructive bronchitis, close to croup, — the doctor said quietly but clearly as soon as the door closed. — The respiratory failure is worsening. Those intercostal retractions you saw are a bad sign. The next stage is cyanosis, a bluish tint. He needs hospitalization. Immediately. Corticosteroids, oxygen, constant monitoring. Kurt leaned against the cold wall. His world, built on logic and control, had completely collapsed. He saw those dimples in his skin. He knew what they meant. Just like Richard had at the height of his illness. — Will he... will he die? — he breathed hoarsely, his voice not that of a scientist, but of a frightened man. — If we don't do anything, then yes, perhaps, — the doctor replied coldly. — But we will. I've already called a car. It will be here in ten minutes. Gather the bare essentials for him. He returned to Peter to begin preparing for the transport. Kurt was left alone in the empty, too-quiet hallway. He slid down the wall to the floor, his head resting on his knees. A fine, uncontrollable tremor shook his body. He had lost. His science, his control, his attempts to protect the boy—all were in vain. The father's shadow had overtaken his son. Peter's weak, frightened voice came from the bedroom: — Dad?... I'm scared... Kurt raised his head. Tears were streaming down his face—the first in years. He stood up, wiped his face with his sleeve, and took a deep breath. He couldn't allow himself to fall apart. Not now. He entered the room and walked over to the bed. He took Peter's hot, sweaty hand in his own and squeezed it tightly. — I'm here, son, — he said, and to his own surprise, his voice sounded firm and confident. — I'm with you. We can do this. I promise. And in that moment, he realized his fight was only just beginning. And he would fight not as a scientist, but as a father. Until the end.

***

The ambulance picked them up less than fifteen minutes later. The ride to the hospital was a blurry nightmare for Kurt: flashing lights outside the window, the steady hum of a siren, the muffled voices of the paramedics, and Peter's hoarse, wheezing breath that drowned out all other sounds. Kurt held Peter's hand as he sat on the hard, reclining seat, his world narrowed to the sound of that breath. Every wheeze, every labored breath echoed through him like an icy needle of fear. In the hospital emergency room, everything happened quickly. The word "Dr. Evans" and the appearance of a private clinic did the trick. Peter was immediately transferred to a private room. Nearly unconscious, he was changed into a hospital gown and laid on a functional bed, which Kurt found too large and unforgiving for such a small body. Nurses, efficient and emotionless as androids, surrounded the boy. One was inserting an IV, the other was attaching a pulse oximeter to his finger, its tiny red light showing alarmingly low numbers. — Saturation 89, — the nurse stated coldly, and Kurt felt his breath catch. He knew what that meant. Oxygen deprivation. And then She appeared. A respiratory therapist—a woman with kind but tired eyes, pushing a cart with an inhalation apparatus. The device was large-headed and menacing, hissing and producing a thick, white mist. — Hello, soldier, — she said softly to Peter, who was staring at the apparatus with fear. — This is our dual generator. It will help your lungs breathe freely again. Think of it as inhaling superpowers. But Peter was too scared and weak. When she brought the mask, connected to a long tube belching steam, to his face, he panicked. He shook his head, weakly trying to push it away with his hands, his breathing becoming ragged and even more hoarse. — No... don't... I won't... — He choked on a cough. The nurses exchanged glances. One of them prepared to hold him. — We'll have to restrain him, — she said without much emotion. — No, — Kurt said quietly, but with iron determination in his voice. He stepped forward. — Give it to me. Let me try. He approached the headboard. His enormous frame blocked the light, but his movements were gentle. He sat on the edge of the bed, the springs sagging. — Peter, — he said, his voice a quiet anchor in the boy's storm of panic. — Look at me. Peter stared at him, tears streaming down his face. — It's scary... — he sobbed. — I know. But it's necessary. It's like... like my formulas, — Kurt searched for a comparison that would resonate with the boy. — Remember how we analyzed the train problem using beetles and birds as examples? It was confusing and difficult at first. And then you found the algorithm. It's the same algorithm here. This steam—it's like the key to your lungs. It will open them. He took the mask from the therapist's hands. His one hand was steady. — I'll hold it. Just breathe. Breathe into my face. Imagine we're in the lab, running a really cool experiment with steam. He gently but firmly pressed the mask to Peter's face, holding it in place with one hand, and pressed the back of Peter's head against the wall, preventing him from breaking free. He didn't look at the nurses. He looked only into Peter's wide, tear-filled eyes. — There, — he whispered, his face mere centimeters from the mask. — Deep. Breathe. I'm with you. I'm not going anywhere. Peter looked at him, at his focused, serious face, and his panic slowly began to recede, replaced by trust. He took a tentative, ragged breath. Then another, deeper. The steam filled his lungs with a medicinal mist. Kurt didn't move. He became a living support, a human support for the mask. He whispered words of encouragement, explained the properties of the medicine, how it would fight the disease inside him—turning the medical procedure into a scientific mission. The nurses watched silently. The therapist smiled softly and stepped back, giving them space. Ten minutes passed. Fifteen. Kurt's arm went numb, but he didn't flinch. He watched as Peter's breathing gradually deepened and evened, as that terrible whistling sound faded, as the pink color began to return to his cheeks. The pulse oximeter showed 94, then 95... When the procedure was over, Peter was almost calm. He wearily dropped his head onto the pillow, his eyelids drooping. — Thank you, Dad... — he whispered, and almost immediately fell into an exhausted but healthy sleep. Kurt slowly, with difficulty straightening his stiff muscles, put the mask aside. He looked at the monitor, at the smooth green pulse line and the confident oxygen saturation numbers. Only then did he allow himself to exhale. Deeply, with a shudder he hadn't felt all this time. He sat by the bed until the early morning, never closing his eyes, watching his son sleep. And in the pre-dawn twilight, illuminating the room with a cold light, he finally understood. His strength wasn't in preventing illness. His strength was in being there when it came. In holding up a mask. In being the one who wasn't afraid to breathe in his face. In being a father. Not a perfect father, not an omnipotent one, but his own.

***

The crisis was over. The sharp, piercing fear that had gripped Kurt's heart like an icy hand gradually subsided, replaced by a dull, exhausting fatigue and attentive, watchful care. Peter came to. The wheezing and rattling in his lungs gave way to the deep, even breathing of sleep, and his feverish flush became healthy, albeit pale. The hospital had become a temporary, sterile world for them. Curt Connors, a renowned scientist whose presence usually required an entire office and a team of assistants, had voluntarily locked himself in this room. His world narrowed to four walls, the sound of the monitor, and Peter. He barely left his bed. The laptop stood on the nightstand, but Kurt rarely looked at it. His entire attention was focused on the boy. He had learned to recognize the slightest changes in Peter's condition by the sound of his breathing, by his facial expression. He took Peter's temperature himself, carefully moving the thermometer with his precise, graceful fingers. He helped Peter drink through a straw, holding the glass so the boy wouldn't have to strain. The food at the hospital was bland and tasteless. On the third day, seeing Peter hesitantly picking at his Jell-O with a fork, Kurt silently got up and left. An hour later, he returned with a thermos. — It's chicken broth, — he said, avoiding eye contact, as if he'd done something shameful. — From the chef at that restaurant… remember where we had dinner on your birthday? He says it's… his grandmother's recipe. He poured the broth into a cup. The aroma of real homemade broth with dill and carrots filled the soulless room. Peter drank every drop, asking for more for the first time in days. Kurt sat next to him and watched him eat, a dull, silent satisfaction shining in his eyes, stronger than any legal subsidy. The weakness caused by his illness made Peter whiny and moody. He was bored, sad, and his body refused to obey him. One day, he burst into tears of frustration, unable to assemble the complex construction set Uncle Ben had brought him. Instead of lecturing him on patience, Kurt silently walked over, sat on the floor next to the bed, and picked up a few pieces. — Sometimes a system seems chaotic, — he said quietly, — until you find the main load-bearing element. Watch. His nimble fingers quickly connected several pieces, creating a solid foundation. — Now try it. Put it together. They assembled the set in silence for half an hour, passing the pieces back and forth. No loud conversations, just quiet, collaborative work. And it had a calming effect on Peter more than any sleeping pill. Finally, the day of discharge arrived. Peter, still a little unsure but already beaming, was dressed in his lounge clothes. Kurt silently gathered his few belongings, folding each one with extraordinary care. The ride home was silent. Peter looked out the taxi window at the bustling streets, which seemed so bright and foreign to him after the isolation of the hospital. Kurt cast quick, appraising glances at him from time to time. A clean house awaited them, but there was something new in the air. Kurt hadn't simply let Peter in. He carried his backpack and helped him take off his jacket. His movements lacked the usual polished efficiency, but there was a new, soft, slow fluidity to them. — You need to rest, — Kurt said in a slightly hushed voice. — No studying. No computers. Just rest. He led Peter not into his room, but to the large sofa in the living room and wrapped him in the same crumpled blanket. — Wait here. Kurt entered the kitchen. Peter heard the clink of dishes and the quiet hiss of the kettle. A few minutes later, he returned with a tray. On it sat the same bright cup of cocoa next to two plates. One held a still-warm, vanilla-scented pudding. The other held sliced ​​apples, sprinkled with cinnamon and nuts, beautifully arranged, as if in an upscale restaurant. — The doctor said we need to recuperate, — Kurt muttered, looking away and adjusting his glasses. — This is… quite nourishing and light. Peter looked at the tray, at the apple, sliced ​​with such care, at the pudding, clearly bought at the best bakery in town. And then he looked at Kurt. At his tired, serious face, at his one hand, the one that had just done all this for him. He didn't say "thank you." Words were too small and insignificant for this moment. He simply pulled back the edge of the blanket, inviting her to sit next to him. Kurt froze for a moment, then carefully lowered himself onto the edge of the couch. He straightened awkwardly, as if afraid to disturb the fragile atmosphere. Peter broke off a piece of pudding, but instead of eating it himself, he held it out to Kurt. — Try it. It's delicious. Kurt looked at the offered spoon, at the boy's serious face. And obeyed. He took the spoon, his fingers lightly brushing Peter's. — Yes,— he said quietly, swallowing the piece. — Delicious. They sat silently in the dimly lit living room, separated by a plate of pudding. Outside, dusk was gathering, illuminating the city lights. The house smelled of cocoa, vanilla, and a quiet, newly found peace. The illness had receded. It left behind a weakness in their bodies and a trace of anxiety in their memories. But it had also given them something else—an unshakable certainty. The certainty that even in the darkest night, even in the face of their deepest fear, they were not alone.