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Peter’s just about had it, that day. As he sat and listened to his history teacher drone on, the last class of the day, his headache grew steadily worse. He woke up that morning after a long night of patrol and heaved himself out of bed and out the door, saying his goodbyes to May before walking to school. The day was nice-- it was late April, and the weather was breezy and warm. Buds were beginning to form on trees, and New York City-- more specifically, Queens-- was as alive and bustling as always.
Normally he would enjoy a day like this, but not today. Some days he wished everyone would just go home. It seemed everyone was out and about today. The sun was shining and a breeze lazily made its way through the classroom, sun spots dancing across his desk through the newly formed leaves right outside the window of his class. Because of the nature of the day, more people than usual were out and about, milling around the streets and shops that lay beyond the open windows of the school. Tourists were visiting and people who normally never emerged from their houses were basking in the warmth. Dogs were being walked, the rattle of their chains from three blocks away being more apparent than ever to Peter’s enhanced senses.
He cradled his head in his hands, and found himself drifting off on the sun-soaked desk. Maybe he could rest here, just for a little bit. . .
“Mr. Parker? Am I boring you?” Peter’s head shot up at his teacher’s voice, a few giggles of students following. Truth be told, Peter couldn’t care less about whatever it was he was talking about, but made an effort to pretend anyway.
“Sorry Mr. Smith,” he said sheepishly.
The teacher gave him a look but continued his lesson. MJ nudged him. “Hey? You okay?” She sounded nonchalant, but he knew she was making an effort to care. And she probably did care.
“Yeah, just. . .tired, is all.” He sighed, leaning into his hand as his eyelids threatened to be pulled back down once again.
“Yeah no shit,” MJ replied, eying him, but she left it at that.
He sat there for another ten minutes, listening to his teacher give a lecture on some important American war, he didn’t know, before he found it almost impossible to stay awake. Not being able to stave off the exhaustion, he rested his head on the desk, folding his arms as a cushion. The sounds of the city were loud in his ears, and his head pounded in time with his heart, but the tiredness was too much, and pulled him under before he could stop it.
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He woke up surrounded by fire. Everything was on fire. And he burned. He could feel his skin being seared, could feel it melting away from his bones. Or at least, that’s what he thought he was feeling. He looked down to find that his hands were fading away, into dust. And he realized another thing. He was on the ground, green eyes piercing into his skull from a few feet away. Adrian Toomes. The Vulture walked forward, just a couple of steps, before he was standing over Peter, who was strewn helplessly on the ground as his legs seemed to burn, to disappear.
He raised his foot and pressed down on Peter’s lungs, hard. The boy fought for air, trying to move his arms to try and pry the foot off of him, but he couldn’t move. Why couldn’t he move? Where was he? How did Toomes get back here? How did he find him?
He heard screaming and realized that it was his own. But not clear. It was strangled, forced. The wind was being forced out of him and all he could do was gag, to beg for air, helpless noises escaping from the back of his throat. The foot pressed down harder. He thought he could feel his lungs burning, too.
“I’ll kill you,” Toomes said, staring down with his green eyes. Those horrible green eyes, “And everybody you love.”
Peter could only lay there, helplessly, paralyzed. His head screamed, everything felt blurry as he tried to stay awake.
He thought of his family, his friends. May, Tony, Pepper, Happy, Rhodey, Ned and MJ. How much they would miss him. How much he ached to be able to see them all, one last time before he completely faded away into nothing. As he faded away, ever so slowly, the pain tearing through him and forcing hot tears down his cheeks, he could only hope that they were safe. That they didn’t have to endure the pain he was feeling. That they never had to feel what it was like to have the life pressed out of you, someone wanting to watch you suffer, and laugh. He was laughing, now. At Peter’s pain. He pressed down harder than ever as Peter faded into nothing, and he felt everything go dark.
He gasped for air, falling out of his chair and onto the ground. He barely registered where he was. He could see in his peripheral vision that his classmates were all staring at him, Mr. Smith next to him. MJ was on the ground as well, looking concerned.
Peter continued to gasp for air, hugging his arms around himself as he attempted to calm down. This couldn’t be happening. Not here, not now. He’s had his fair share of nightmare-induced panic attacks due to his PTSD and anxiety, but this was bad. He was at school, not at home. He didn’t have May or Tony to cling to, to comfort him.
All he had was a cold tile floor and a few students behind him, laughing.
They were laughing.
Peter had no time to think about that, however, as he dug his nails into his arms, squeezing his eyes shut. It was all so loud. Everything. He could hear someone yelling four blocks away from the school, three car doors slamming, about six or seven dogs were all barking at each other. He could hear the Spanish class going on three doors down, and everything that was going on in the room. From the shuffling of chairs to the laughing to the concerned words from Mr. Smith, MJ and a few other students, he could feel their eyes on him. Could hear the buzzing of a fly’s wings as it made its way into the room, the lights from all angles beating down on him.
“Look at him! He’s crying! Oh my god.”
“Holy shit.”
“Is he okay?”
“He’s going crazy.”
Peter wanted to scream.
Instead, he shook violently. His breaths came short and fast, tears streaming down his face as he tried to gain control of the situation. He was mortified. He was having a panic attack in front of about twenty of his classmates, and he was pretty sure there were phones out recording it, because Mr. Smith yelled at a few of the students to put their phones away and tried to touch Peter’s arm. Peter just flinched away violently, sobbing even harder.
“Peter? Peter, you need to tell me what’s wrong!” He knew his teacher was trying to help him, was at a loss for what he should be doing, but it all just sounded far too loud. He let out a whine and just curled in on himself.
He was a freak. No one in that room except for maybe MJ knew what he suffered through behind closed doors, and so he was just Peter Parker. A freak having a mental breakdown in the middle of class.
He heard MJ say something to the teacher, but didn’t really register it. As he put his hands over his ears, he could feel his face become hot. His senses overwhelmed him even more, and he looked around rapidly for an escape. Anything.
All he saw, however, was a crowd around him, all chattering loudly. Some of the students were shushing them with harsh words. They may not have been friends with Peter, but a few of the teenagers knew a panic attack when they saw it, and sympathized with him. The few who didn’t understand or were just flat out inconsiderate, however, ignored their protests and continued to make fun of him.
He felt like he was going to throw up. He hoped not, at least. His stomach twisted and he had to resist the urge, curling in on himself, even more, to try and get away from the sounds, the lights. Everything.
Suddenly, the room went quiet. It was almost instant. He heard the shuffling of feet and felt a calloused hand touch his shoulder, gently, as to not disturb him. Peter allowed the contact, and the hand moved to rub circles on his back. It was soothing.
“Hey bud, I need you to open your eyes for me.” Tony. It was Tony’s voice. Peter could recognize it anywhere.
Slowly, he opened his eyes, red and puffy. His eyesight was blurry through the tears, but he could see Tony’s face in front of him, scrunched up with worry. MJ was standing behind him, her phone in hand as she gazed at him with concern. The teacher seemed awestruck at Tony’s presence but held fast at Peter’s side, trying to make sure his student was alright.
The students behind them were in a crowd, looking stricken, Flash most of all.
“Come on, let’s get you outta here.” Tony said quietly, grabbing Peter’s books and stuffing it into his school bag. He helped Peter up, and he was still shaking, slightly bent over as he tried to regain his balance. His head hurt worse than ever, and vertigo quickly pulled him to lean into Tony’s side. His face burned with embarrassment as Tony led him out of the room, MJ following closely behind.
His ears were stuffed full of cotton and he only vaguely remembered Tony checking him out of the office. He didn’t say goodbye to MJ, but she didn’t seem to mind, reminding him to text her later for decathlon notes. He only nodded in her general direction, not willing to let go of Tony, and she headed back to class.
Eventually he let go of him, however, when he found him dunked into the passenger seat of the black Audi. Tony made his way over to the driver’s side, starting the car upon entering. Peter stared down at his shoes, tracing the patterns his laces made. His breathing was starting to become even again, his eyes strained. He swallowed.
“How. . .how did you get here so fast?”
“I was in the neighborhood. I was planning to pick you up from school, anyway. Your friend MJ called me.”
Peter furrowed his brow. Why MJ had Tony’s number, he didn’t know. “What. . .what did she say?”
“She said you fell asleep during class and started getting all jerky in your sleep. Then you woke up and started having a panic attack.” His eyes were on the road, but his brow was furrowed with concern, “What happened? Did you have a nightmare again?”
Peter was quiet, and he felt the onslaught of tears make its way back. He fought it, trying to find the right words.
“Uhm . . .it was. . .uh. . .about Toomes again. And dying.” He said the last part quietly. Tony stole a glance at him as he was driving. “Again? God, Peter, we have to get you therapy.” Peter didn’t reply, instead staring out the window at the pedestrians. They stayed silent for a couple of minutes before Tony decided to break it.
“I know it must suck, breaking down in public like that,” he started, “Trust me. I had it happen to me too. And that was back when I didn’t even know what was happening to me. It was horrifying.” That made Peter feel slightly better.
“But Peter,” they met a red light, and Tony turned to face him, “You need to be getting enough sleep. You can’t just let your senses go all haywire, or else shit like that is gonna happen. You hear me?”
“Loud and clear,” Peter winced. His senses were still sensitive. Tony sighed. “Good.” And with that, stopped talking, eyes straight ahead.
Peter fell asleep after that, emotionally exhausted. To his horror, his dream only continued. He was burning, fading away and he could hear Toomes laughing, laughing, crushing his chest as he couldn’t breathe--
“Peter!” And then he was being shaken awake. He felt horrible. He was curled up in the car he vaguely remembers getting into earlier, and Tony is standing over him outside the open door. They’re in the garage of the compound.
He’s shaking, then, and Tony unbuckles him and helps him out of the car. All he wants to do is cry, but makes an effort to first make it to the living room of the residential section before he breaks down. He sobs into Tony’s shirt, distraught by the events of the day and his reoccurring nightmare. Tony listens to him through all of it. Eventually, he quiets down, and falls asleep against Tony, his face buried in his chest.
Later that night, he finds that people had been talking about him and his breakdown during class. There were people making fun of him, few in numbers, and was happy to see that the majority of his classmates posting about it were in his defense. He didn’t know most of them, but it felt nice knowing that he didn’t completely embarrass himself.
He remembered to text MJ for the notes, talked to Ned about the next Star Wars movie, and told May what happened and goodnight.
The next day, Tony got him a therapist, once a week. He and May were still there, and he made an effort to get to bed on time.
And, if upon returning to school people seemed kinder, he didn’t say anything about it.