Chapter Text
Peter didn’t get out of the bed the next day.
He laid on his back and stared at the ceiling, blinking slow and silent tears away. The grief hit him when he woke up, and it was disorientating. He’d been feeling better. He’d been starting to enjoy Malibu, with all its sunshine and warmth. Now he was back where he started, pulling his comforter over his head and waiting with a bit of dread for Mr. Stark or Pepper to force him out of bed.
He didn’t feel up to dealing with another one of Mr. Stark’s schemes. He didn’t even feel up to floating around in the pool or asking Mr. Stark to supervise him while he blew up stuff with the Death Star.
He just wanted to be left alone in his bedroom, to be empty and broken where no one could see that he was empty and broken. That way he wouldn’t have to feel weak or guilty about still feeling sad when everyone around him tried their best to make everything okay. It wasn’t fair. Not for him, or for Mr. Stark, or for Pepper, for this emptiness and numbness to sneak up on him right at the very moment he thought he was getting better.
A soft knock on his door marked the end of his alone time. He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, flipped over on his belly and buried his face in one of his pillows. As the door slowly creaked open, Peter assumed it was Pepper’s turn to drag him out of bed. She was the gentle one, but when Peter heard a worried, tired sigh as the bed dipped down, he knew it was Mr. Stark.
He played dead. He didn’t move or breath to loudly or do anything at all to communicate to Mr. Stark that he was awake. He hoped, maybe, Mr. Stark would take pity on him and let him sleep.
He put his hand on Peter’s back, the same way he had that night he almost died from alcohol and food allergies, and it took him a bit to realize it wasn’t in attempt to pull him from his dreams. Mr. Stark probably knew he was awake, probably heard about his distress from FRIDAY, and probably his hand was there for comfort.
Peter relaxed a bit. There’d be no more schemes. Not in that moment.
“I’m sorry, Pete,” he said, and Peter frowned into the pillow. He hadn’t been expecting an apology. It came out of nowhere, just like Peter’s grief, and now that Mr. Stark was apologizing, he was certain the man didn’t have anything to apologize for. “I keep trying to make things better for you, but I’m in over for head here. I don’t know what I’m doing, and you just keep getting hurt.”
Peter wondered if he was talking about his crushed phone, or riding around on roller coasters that was fun, at first, until it reminded him of what he didn’t have and why he could never have it again. Or maybe he could. He still remembered Mr. Stark’s confidence that night on the beach. If he still had a vision for Spider-Man, maybe that was enough to keep it going until Peter could see it again, too.
He lifted his face, shifted under the comforter and Mr. Stark’s hand, and turned around.
“I heal fast.”
At least he used to.
“And it’s not your fault,” said Peter. He sat up slowly. “At least you try and sometimes you get it right and you know, you’re around-“
Mr. Stark cut him off by putting his arms around his frame and holding on tight. Peter didn’t understand it, how or why his depression seemed to affect everyone around him so much. Hell, he didn’t understand why Mr. Stark cared about him so much in the first place, or why he was holding onto him like that, like he might be dragged away or under a riptide if he let go.
He didn’t want to question it, though, or attribute it to the faint smell of alcohol on Mr. Stark’s breath or his guilt. He just wanted to be there with Mr. Stark. He’d been wrong before. Being empty and broken was worse when he was alone.
“What can I do to help you today, Pete?”
He paused. His first instinct was to tell him that he just wanted to go back to sleep, but he knew, even if it was annoying, that Mr. Stark was right. He couldn’t sleep his life away. This was the first time he got to choose the way he coped, and he wanted to show Mr. Stark he could make good decisions on his own, without his helicoptering. Besides, he truly did think of something better than sleeping.
Peter wiggled out of his hold, and hesitantly, Mr. Stark let him.
“Could we… watch a movie? In the theater?”
“I’m invited?” asked Mr. Stark, with an arched eyebrow. Peter nodded, and Mr. Stark jumped off the bed. “Alright, let’s do it, then.”
Peter stood up, ready to follow Mr. Stark down to the theater, but also, not completely ready to leave his bed behind. He made a compromise and stripped the comforter away from his bed. Mr. Stark looked him up and down.
“Really?” he asked. “We had blankets in the theater, in the closet –“
“-I like this one,” said Peter.
He just sighed and let Peter struggle with the linguists of moving a king sized comforter down a flight of stairs and into the theater.
Mr. Stark split off to the kitchen to get some snacks, leaving Peter to enter the theater alone. He threw his comforters in the front seats, then looked down. It was a mess of empty soda cans and candy wrappers and empty chip bags. Apparently, when Mr. Stark locked the theater, it was locked even to the housekeeper.
He stared at it, then acted on impulse. He picked up as many as he could carry at one time and dumped them in the trash can near the door. He went back just one last time for the rest, until it was gone, until there were just a few crumbs littering the floor.
When Mr. Stark came back, he had a giant bowl of popcorn he sat between them, a soda for Peter and a bottle of water for himself.
“Star Wars?”
“Nah,” said Peter. “I’m tired of that one. You pick.”
The giant screen in front of them came to life, and soon Peter was lost again. This time on the sea, with pirates, instead of in space with rebels. He wasn’t lost, alone, either, and somehow, that made all the difference.