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It always starts out mundane enough to seem like an ordinary day. An ordinary day, nothing more than routine. He's stuffing a piece of toast in his mouth as he runs out the door with a muffled, "Bye, May!" before rushing off to school.
The time it takes to get there passes by in a blur, and then he's sitting at his desk and listening to his teacher drone on about anti-derivatives. He reaches for his pencil to take notes, but as soon as he picks it up, the solid object gives way and he's left with an empty fist.
He looks down, eyebrows furrowed in confusion.
Against the stark white background of his notebook paper rests a small pile of dust. The miniscule grains rub against his skin uncomfortably, the grit making him wince.
Trying to ignore the feeling of wrongness swelling in his gut, he quickly reaches into his bag and grabs another pencil, only to watch before his eyes as it, too, crumbles in his hand.
He looks up, panicked, and tries to see if anyone else has noticed. Beside him, Ned gives him a weird look.
"What's wrong?" he mouths.
Peter swallows nervously. "I, uh, just forgot my pencil. Do you have an extra one?"
Ned nods and begins to rummage through his bag, and Peter tries to focus on what the teacher is saying. After a minute, he feels a tap on his shoulder and finds Ned holding a pencil out to him.
He nods gratefully and reaches for it, only for it to dissolve before his eyes, along with the entirety of Ned's arm. Peter watches in horror as his best friend deteriorates, Ned still giving him a funny look. "What's wrong, Peter?"
He'd answer but there's no longer anyone there to answer to.
Completely losing his mind to panic, Peter stands up and stumbles out of his seat, reaching for the empty space where Ned was. The room is spinning and he distantly hears the teacher still giving a lesson, and then he disintegrates too.
When Peter wakes up, he's not sure whether he's in a dream or reality.
They're one and the same now.
Peter doesn't like soft things anymore.
Soft feels too... unstable, too apt to go away altogether. He used to fear concrete after the whole Vulture debacle. Now, however, he takes comfort it in. It's hard, steady. He's confident it won't crumble beneath his feet.
The first time Peter trains with the team post-Thanos, he loses his shit.
They're all at the edge of the mat, taking turns sparring with one another, the on-lookers cheering and calling out tips. He loves the comfort of being surrounded by his people. His family.
Peter and Steve are next to go, and he swallows back a wave of nerves as Steve smirks at him cockily.
Turns out, Steve doesn't even have to throw in a punch before Peter ends up on the ground.
As soon as his feet touch the mat and feel the soft cushion give way beneath him, he's falling backwards and scrambling to find hard ground again, because oh god, it's going away, I'm crumbling, I don't want to go I don't want to go pleasepleaseplease. Distantly, he hears a high-pitched whine and realizes too late that it's coming from him, and he finally feels the ground harden beneath him before he's stumbling to his feet and running as far away as he can.
He thinks maybe he's crying but it doesn't matter, because the ground beneath him is hard and steady and sure, and it's the only thing he's been certain of in a long while.
And he knows, Peter knows that hard things crumble too, but he also knows that it takes water years upon years to chip away at mountains before they turn to sand.
When Tony finds him, barely half an hour later, he's fast asleep on his bedroom floor in his and May's apartment.
The bed is too soft, and Peter doesn't like soft things anymore.
Everything that Peter has ever known has been reduced down to two things:
1) Absence
2) Presence
There are things that exist, and things that don't. There is an overwhelming sea of emotions, and there is apathy. There is a thrum of anxiety, and the absence of it. There is light, and then darkness in its absence. He's not sure what category he goes into yet. Some days, he's present, and others, absent.
Today, he's absent.
He's here, he knows for a fact that he's here, but it feels like a lie. Some facts aren't concrete. Some are soft, ready to give way under a little bit of pressure. He's here, and he knows that for a fact, but it's a soft fact.
He goes through the motions of the day on autopilot. Nothing feels hard today. He feels more like an observer and much less like the one carrying any of his life out.
He figures that's probably for the best.
(If he's absent, he can't be turned to dust.)
When Happy picks him up from school, he watches himself get into the car and mumble out a quick hello, before lapsing into silence once again. Peter is so far gone from anything surrounding him, so blessedly gone, that he doesn’t notice Happy glancing worriedly at him from the rearview mirror.
“Everything good, kid?” Happy asks, and Peter hums in acknowledgement, as if the small sound is an answer. He distantly remembers that at this point he’s usually talking Happy’s ears off about his day, but even if he wanted to, he can’t remember a single thing, so he just shrugs off the question and turns to the window.
It could have been five minutes or five hours - he’s not really sure of time anymore, the same way he’s not really sure of anything other than absence and presence - but they’re pulling into the Avengers compound and he waits an awkward beat before remembering that this is the part where he gets out.
He stutters out a thanks to Happy because that’s what he’s supposed to do, and then walks to the elevator on autopilot.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Parker,” FRIDAY greets. “Mr. Stark awaits your presence in his lab, as per usual. Shall I take you there?”
Peter nods. “Yes, thank you,” he says, almost robotically. In other circumstances, the irony of that would cause him to snort – he’s talking to an AI and yet he’s the robotic one – but he’s too out of it to register anything beyond the hard tile beneath him.
“Of course.” The lift carries him to one of the upper levels, and he steps out, heading straight over to the work area Tony had set up for him when it became clear that Peter was to be a semi-permanent resident of the lab.
Peter sits in the desk chair and tries to remember what it was he was supposed to be working on today. Web fluid, maybe? He was probably running low. Then again, what’s the point? His webs are only effective with solid objects. They can’t cling to dust.
“Kid? Hey – Peter!”
Peter startles slightly and finds Tony staring at him.
“Oh. Hey, Mr. Stark,” Peter acknowledges. Tony gives him a funny look.
“I’ve been trying to get your attention for the past minute or so. You walked right by me.”
“Oh. Sorry.”
There’s a beat of silence before, “Pete?”
“Hm?” Peter answers noncommittedly. Tony furrows his eyebrows worriedly. He steps closer to Peter and spins Peter’s chair to fully face him.
“Where’s your head at right now?” he questions, gently tilting Peter’s face up. Glazed eyes stare back at him.
“Um.” Tony waits for him to finish, but the rest never comes. He sighs heavily. He’s got a feeling he knows what’s happening.
“Peter, I need you to listen to me, okay? Can you do that for me?” Tony asks, urgency bleeding into his voice, despite his attempts to remain as calm as possible.
“Yeah?” Good enough.
“Name five things you can see,” Tony directs.
“Things?” Peter looks at him blankly.
“Things,” Tony confirms. “Any five things you can currently see. Name them.”
“You?” Peter says uncertainly, and Tony nods his encouragement.
“Yes, good job! Now four more.”
“Safety glasses. A glass of water. The trash can. Um. Paper.”
“Perfect, Peter. Now I want you to tell me four things you can touch. Any four things that you can feel,” Tony commands.
“This chair.” Peter pauses. He feels awareness start to seep in, but today’s an absent day and it’s nice and he doesn’t want to be here, so he imagines he’s a balloon tethered to his body and cuts the string.
“Peter! Kid!” A sharp stinging sensation hits his cheek, and he winces, clarity flooding his senses. Tony is gripping both of his shoulders tightly. “Peter. You have to stay here. Three more things you can touch.”
“T-The floor,” he stutters. “Your hands. Uh, I – Mr. Stark, I can’t, I can’t,” Peter says desperately. With one hand still on the boy’s shoulder, Tony firmly uses his other to take Peter’s hand and hold it firmly to his chest.
“Peter, focus. One more thing you can feel.” He watches as the teenager before him inhales shakily.
“Your arc reactor,” he says, finally.
“Good job, Peter,” Tony praises. “Now tell me three things you can hear.”
“You. Water dripping from the sink.” He pauses and tilts his head, trying listen. “Uh, Pepper getting pans out to make dinner?”
“You’re doing great, Pete. Can you tell me two things you can smell?”
Peter inhales, feeling the breath fill his lungs. Tony’s grip on him is becoming uncomfortable, and he squirms against it.
“Cleaner and... your cologne.”
“Excellent. Last one, I promise. One thing you can taste.”
“I... Mint? From gum earlier.”
“Very good, Peter.” Tony studies the boy carefully, watching reality seep back into the previously blank eyes before him. He lets out a breath of relief, still holding Peter’s hand to his chest and gripping his shoulder.
Peter wriggles uncomfortably again, but it’s not until a soft whine pushes past his lips that Tony releases his grip.
“Are you with me now?” Tony asks, staring at him intently.
Peter nods, trying to swallow the rising panic. He’s not supposed to be here, because it’s an absent day.
“I don’t – what?” His breath starts to quicken, but Tony cuts him off.
“Shhh, Peter, it’s okay. Don’t try to speak yet. Just listen to me, okay? I think you were dissociating. It’s common in people with anxiety and PTSD – both of which I’m certain you have. You were completely on autopilot when you walked in, and I’m betting you have been all day. Now your brain is trying to cope with an onslaught of emotions and thoughts that it’s been escaping from. You’re overwhelmed, but it’s okay, because I’m here. I’m going to help you. Do you understand?”
Peter nods frantically, gripping the man’s shirt to keep himself grounded. If Tony notices how badly his hands are shaking, he doesn’t comment.
“I’m sorry,” Peter tries to say, but Tony cuts him off again.
“Nope. What’s my rule on apologies?”
“Don’t apologize if you’re not going to change anything,” Peter recites. Tony fights the urge to physically face-palm.
“What’s my other rule on apologies, Spiderboy?” Peter just looks at him, confused. Tony sighs.
“Don’t apologize for things you shouldn’t be sorry about.”
“Oh. That one.”
Tony rolls his eyes. “Yes, that one,” he repeats sardonically, but he’s relieved to see that Peter’s calming down some. They’ve managed to avoid a full-blown panic attack for now.
“If anything,” Tony continues, “I’m the one who should be sorry.” Peter jerks his head in surprise, releasing his grip on his mentor’s shirt. Tony just nods. “Yeah. I should have realized that after... after everything, you’d be struggling. What you experienced was traumatic, and now your mind is doing whatever it can to cope. Which, by the way, how often does that happen?”
“The zoning out?” Peter asks. “Not very often. It’s really not even much of a thing. Nothing to worry about.”
Tony shoots him a disbelieving look. “Want to try that again? Maybe without the bullshit?”
Peter flinches at the harsh tone. “I don’t know! It happens a lot, I guess. Why does it even matter? It’s not like I’m hurting anyone,” he says defensively.
“It’s a dangerous line to toe, Peter,” Tony says calmly. “Dissociating in the wrong place, at the wrong time, can get you and other people hurt. It’s not healthy.”
Peter looks at him helplessly. “I just. I like it. I like going away. I like being absent because if I’m not here, I can’t be – I won’t have to remember.” Tony’s heart breaks at the way Peter’s voice cracks on the word.
“I know,” he says soothingly. “I know it’s easier to go away, but we need you here. Here is what matters. We’re going to help you, I promise, but you’ve got to trust me. Do you trust me?”
Peter looks at his mentor, fear written across his face. He raises a shaking hand back to Tony’s chest, and Tony places his hand over the kid’s. Peter closes his eyes and feels the hard surface of the arc reactor against his palm.
Peter doesn’t like soft things, but this isn’t soft. It’s solid and steady and strong and feels like a truth he can believe in. It feels like presence.
“Yeah, I trust you.”
“Remind me again: why are we having breakfast for dinner?” Tony asks over the sound of sizzling bacon. Clint looks up from where he’s cracking eggs into a pan.
“Oh, you mean besides the fact that ‘breakfast’ food is literally just a social construct, and that it’s highly discriminatory and unfair to limit food to a certain time of day? It’s Backward Day! Which means, old sport, that we do everything backwards! Obviously.”
Tony blinks at him. “Did you just reference The Great Gatsby at me? In my own home?”
Natasha gives a loud snort from where she’s sitting on the counter.
“What, you don’t like him? Is it because he throws better parties than you?” Clint mocks. Tony gives him an incredulous look. “Actually, that’s a great idea! You should throw a ‘20s-style party and invite, like, half of New York.”
Tony looks up to the ceiling pleadingly. “FRIDAY, if I wanted to murder someone, without leaving any sort of trace or evidence, because they’re annoying, what would I need to do?”
“That would not only be unethical, but I do not advise murder as a solution to such a problem. May I suggest duct tape instead?” A note of amusement seeps into her tone. Impressive, really, because she’s just an AI.
Sam laughs from where he sits on a bar stool next to Steve, both nursing a cup of coffee in their hands. “What does she mean ‘unethical’? Do AI’s even have a moral compass?”
“I am programmed with a Code of Ethics,” FRIDAY informs him, sounding almost offended. “It is approximately 281 pages long. Would you like me to read it to you, Mr. Wilson?”
“No no no, that’s quite alright,” he reassures.
“Maybe another time?” Steve cuts in. “God knows Sam could use a refresher on what’s ethical and what isn’t.”
“Hey! I resent that.”
Steve is just about to respond when Peter walks in, eating a can of Pringles.
“Hey, kid,” Tony greets. “I hope you’re ready for a long weekend. Training hard, catching bad guys. The family business, etc.”
“Oh, leave him alone,” Bruce scoffs, walking in behind Peter and ruffling his hair. “I know for fact you’ve got a movie marathon and ice cream party planned.”
Peter rolls his eyes, but inwardly, he’s relieved. He wasn’t sure he could handle any rough training yet. Not after the last fiasco.
“Hey, did you know that the shape of a Pringle is called a hyperbolic paraboloid?” Peter asks enthusiastically, holding up a chip.
“No, but now that I do, my life will never be the same,” Clint deadpans. Natasha whacked him with a spatula.
“Ignore him, Peter. That is very cool,” she comments, looking at the boy fondly. Even the assassin has a soft spot for the teen.
“Oh, speaking of chips, you might want to put those away,” Tony says, nodding pointedly at the stove. “We’re about to eat.”
Peter shoots him an incredulous look. “You do realize I could easily eat, like, fifteen cans of Pringles and still have room for a three-course meal, right?”
“Right. Enhanced metabolism. Forgot.”
Peter feels eyes on him and turns to find Steve giving him a weird look. “What?”
“Why is your shirt... like that?” he questions, eyeing the shirt which had a nerd pun on his back rather than his front. Peter looks at him like he’s committed a crime.
“It’s Backward Day. Duh.”
“See? It’s a real thing!” Clint exclaims triumphantly.
“Whatever. Go sit at the table. Food’s done,” Natasha announces, carrying a plate of pancakes.
“FRIDAY, tell Pepper dinner’s ready,” Tony commands.
“Already done, sir.”
Everyone gathers at the table, setting down plates of food in the middle. Pepper strolls in with a smile and immediately sits between Tony and Peter.
“I can’t believe you guys didn’t burn anything,” she jokes, and Tony hits her playfully.
“We would never,” he protests, giving her a quick peck on the cheek. “Hit me up with some of those pancakes, Steve.”
Peter heaps up his plate of food high, stomach growling in anticipation. “This is great, guys! Hey, Bruce, can you pass me the toast?”
“Sure thing,” he responds, handing him the plate. Peter snatches three pieces. “Lightly burnt – perfect!”
“You are one weird kid,” Sam comments, shaking his head.
“But you love me,” Peter points out.
“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” he grumbles good-naturedly.
A comfortable silence lapses over the table as everyone digs in, basking in the comfort of each other’s company. Peter scarfs down his eggs as though he hadn’t just been eating. He listens as light conversation began to pick up around him.
“Have you heard from Ross lately?” Bruce asks. Tony’s face darkens at the name.
“No, he knows better than to talk to me right now. It’s been weirdly silent, but I think people are hesitant to talk to us nowadays.”
“They fucking should be. We’ve done enough saving the world for now,” Natasha comments, ignoring Steve’s exclamation of, “Language!”
“Oh, touchy,” Sam snarks without venom. “But I get it. It’s nice to pretty much relax for now.”
Peter takes a bite out of his toast, and everything comes to a complete stop, the conversation turning into nothing more than a full buzz.
No no no, he thinks frantically, too afraid to move or chew or breathe. He looks down at the hand holding the delicate piece of bread and watches specks of dust fall to his plate, his heart beginning to pound erratically, because oh my god, it’s everywhere it’s everywhere and maybe there’s some rational part of his brain that knows it’s just crumbs but it’s the irrational part of him that’s been winning lately.
His hands shake, and he reaches for his glass of milk to wash it down, hoping the panic goes with it, but his hands don’t cooperate and he knocks the glass over. Everyone at the table turns their eyes to him, but he doesn’t even notice, mouth suddenly dry as he tries to swallow anyway.
He can picture it, picture the grains of dust coating his throat, lining his stomach and spreading like a disease, and he bolts out of his seat to the bathroom with only one thought occupying his brain: out out out, I need it out oh my god.
Peter doesn’t register the rapid footsteps behind him as his knees hit the floor, before he’s gagging and retching, trying to get it out before he turns to dust, too.
Pepper reaches him first, heart breaking at the sight in front of her. Her maternal instincts always flared up whenever Peter was around, but now they’re appearing tenfold. Without a second thought, she kneels behind him, placing a gentle hand on his back and using the other to run her fingers soothingly through his hair.
Peter turns to say something to her but is cut off as his body jerks forward, gagging all over again.
“Shhh, Peter, it’s okay,” she murmurs. “Get it all out.”
He leans forward miserably, eyes squeezing shut against the onslaught of tears begging to make an appearance. Pepper tosses a look at Tony, who’s appeared in the doorway with a concerned-looking Bruce behind him.
“I c-can't,” Peter chokes. “It’s inside me, it’s inside me help I can’t do this!” He’s panting now, bordering on complete hysteria.
“Peter, sweetie, breathe, you’ve got to breathe. It’s okay, I promise it’s okay,” she soothes, willing the boy to calm down. He just turns and looks at her with desperate eyes, clutching at the edge of her shirt.
“No, I don’t want to go, please, I don’t wanna go!” he cries, tears streaming down his face. Pepper looks at Tony helplessly and sees the blood drain from his face. He quickly steps forward and crouches next to them.
“Peter, you’re not going anywhere, you hear me?” he says firmly. “You’re staying right here, with me and Pepper and everyone else. I promise.”
Peter looks at him, body trembling. “The foo – I – it’s inside me, Mr. Stark, I have to get it out!”
Tony gently grasps the boy’s face, and Pepper backs up to give them space. “What’s inside you, Peter? What is it?” he asks, desperate to do anything to help him.
“It’s everywhere, I can’t escape it, there’s just – it all crumbles, and now it’s inside me and I’m going to crumble too and I – “ he cuts off, panting.
Tony looks at him, confused, trying to think back to the moments before Peter bolted from the table. His glass had tipped, drenching his surroundings. Peter’s hand had been violently shaking where it was holding a piece of toast. Realization dawned on him as his brain connected the dots. This is a PTSD episode.
“Hey hey, breathe, you need to breathe. It was just toast, I promise, just a piece of bread,” Tony promises, but Peter can still taste ash in the back of his throat, so he launches himself out of his mentor’s grip and heaves again.
He’s not sure how much time passes, but eventually there’s nothing left in his stomach to throw up, so he slumps back into Tony’s arms, too exhausted to be embarrassed by the childish action. Gentle hands run through his hair and he allows his eyes to drift shut to the sound of Tony’s quiet words of comfort.
Sleep swallows him whole.
He awakens on a firm mattress in an unfamiliar room.
Looking around frantically, he calms when he sees Aunt May sitting in a chair next to him. She has dark circles under her eyes, one hand holding a mug in her lap and the other holding a book. She looks up when she hears movement.
“Peter, you’re awake!” she exclaims, setting the book aside and moving to sit on his bed. He instinctively curls closer to her.
“How are you feeling, baby?” she asks, cupping his face gently.
Truthfully, he feels like crap. His throat his dry, his body is sore, and he feels like he could sleep for another century.
“I’m okay,” he says anyway, the events from earlier rushing back to him with startling clarity. “Must have caught a stomach bug or something.”
May looks at him with sad eyes. “Peter, I know what happened. Tony told me everything.”
Peter looks down, fumbling with the sheets. He doesn’t say anything. May tips his face to meet his gaze.
“Why didn’t you come to me?” she asks gently.
He hesitates. “I... I didn’t think it was a big deal. Nothing to bother people with. It’s not even that bad.”
May sighs, stroking his cheek with her thumb. “You are never a bother, Peter,” she says fiercely, and Peter feels an overwhelming rush of love and appreciation towards this woman who’s given everything for him. “If something is wrong, I need to know. That’s what I’m here for, you know.”
He closes his eyes, relishing the feel of her presence.
“I know, May. I’m sorry.”
“Shush, there’s nothing to be sorry for,” she chastises lightly. He lets out a huff.
“Now you sound like Mr. Stark,” he comments.
“Well, good. At least I know he’s teaching you right. Speaking of him, he’s waiting outside. Think you’re up to talking to him?” she asks, looking at him with worried eyes.
“Yeah, of course,” Peter reassures.
May gets up, kissing his forehead lightly and affectionately ruffling his hair. “I’ll be right outside if you need me.”
Moments after she leaves, Tony walks in.
“You look like shit, kid,” is the first thing he says. Peter shrugs.
“I feel like shit, so I guess it’s fitting.” Tony fixes him with a piercing look.
“So. C’mon, kid, out with it,” he demands, straight and to the point. Peter looks away, sighing tiredly.
“Can we just... not?” he pleads, looking up at his mentor with big doe eyes that make Tony want to give this boy the whole goddamn universe. Tony shakes his head.
“Sorry, bud, can’t do that. You’ve got to talk to me – or someone – otherwise we can’t help. I can hook you up with a thera – “
“No,” Peter interrupts in a steely voice. “It won’t fix anything. A therapist can’t fix this,” he says bitterly. Tony looks at him, gaze softening in understanding.
“Peter,” he says gently, reaching out to take his hand. “Try me.”
Peter looks away, unwilling to unravel in front of his idol. Spiderman may be strong, but Peter Parker isn’t. That’s a hard fact. It’s unmoving, unchanging. Peter Parker will always be weak. Peter disintegrated into nothing. He’s soft.
A calloused palm meets his cheek, tilts his head and forces him to lock gazes with his mentor, who’s staring intently with worried eyes. Tony’s face is open and empathetic in a way that few people get to see, and all Peter can think is, I don’t deserve this.
The thought causes unexpected tears to spring into his eyes, and he tries to look away again, but Tony’s hand has him trapped.
“Hey,” Tony says softly. “What’s going on in that thick, pain-in-the-ass, genius brain of yours?”
Peter shakes his head wildly, willing the tears not to fall. He can’t. He can’t keep being weak.
Tony watches the inner battle play out on the boy’s face, and his heart aches for him. “Oh, kid,” he whispers. “You don’t have to be afraid.”
His words seem to snap something deep within Peter, because suddenly Peter’s whole demeanor collapses, face crumpling against his will. A high-pitched, anguished sound pushes past his lips as a sob catches in his throat, hot tears racing down his face.
Without a second thought, Tony tugs the teenager forward into his arms and presses a hand to the back of his head, ignoring the wet spot that’s quickly growing on his shirt.
Peter gasps against his neck, and Tony shushes him softly, whispering all kinds of nonsensical words of comfort. “Shhh, just breathe, Peter.” Tony’s heart clenches at the pained sounds coming from his boy, and he curses the world for not giving the kid a goddamn break.
They stay like that for a while, Peter crying roughly in Tony’s arms, until finally he opens his mouth to speak, voice coming out raw and scratchy and more than a little desperate.
“I need help, Mr. Stark.”
Tony tightens his arms around him, heart breaking a little more.
“I know, kid, I know. I’m here. We’ll get you help,” Tony promises. Peter clutches him even tighter, if that’s possible.
“Please don’t leave me,” he begs. Tony presses a gentle kiss to his forehead.
“I’m not going anywhere.”
There is nothing soft about the way he says it. It’s all hard conviction and sturdy reassurance. Peter wraps it around himself like armor, builds himself a home out of it. He holds onto those words like they’re the last thing keeping him from blowing away like dust. Maybe they are.
Peter doesn’t like soft things. But Tony Stark has never been soft, so he hangs on as hard as he can.
For now, it’s enough.