Chapter Text
Anxiety can take different forms, such as:
Unpredictable bouts of rage
Peter suddenly felt trapped. He could hear everything- every slight tap, Tony's breathing, someone walking a few buildings over. His ears were ringing, and he could barely keep his eyes open over the blaring headache that was forming at his temples.
His face was starting to heat up, and his limbs moved without his permission. He was sitting in Tony's lab, trying his hardest to focus on the task at hand. He couldn't, however, seem to find the fucking red wire. He could feel its presence in his hands, but it wasn't processing with him. He clutched it tighter and tighter, his body beginning to shake.
"Woah, kid," Tony said. Peter clenched his teeth together. Anger boiled within him. How dare Tony Stark speak to him at a time like this? But he kept talking, the bastard. "You okay? Why's your face getting so red?"
Peter took in a sharp breath, dropping the red wire onto the table. He vaguely noticed blood welling in his palms where his nails were digging in. He wanted to scream, to throw punches, to do anything to release the energy that was building inside of him. His chest was beginning to rise and fall erratically as he struggled to contain his anger.
"Pete?" God, there was that voice again. It was grating. Why couldn't Tony just shut up? Just close his goddamn mouth? Red tinted his vision, and he bowed his head to stop the pain from reaching his throat.
"Seriously, kid. Talk to me."
Shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up, sh- "Shut up!" It came out as a yell, and Peter slammed his fists so hard into the table that he dented the metal. Tony raised an eyebrow at the outburst, but that was the only physical reaction he had. Once the energy found an outlet, it wouldn't stop spilling out. "Why won't you just shut up? Don't you get it? Don't you fucking get it, shut up!"
Peter covered his ears with shaking hands, face scrunched up in anger or pain, Tony wasn't sure which. Peter dragged a stuttering breath into his lungs. Tony reached forward, risking a shoulder touch. It felt like he had held fire to Peter's shoulder.
Turns out Bruce isn't the only one with anger problems.
Peter wrenched so hard away from the touch that he almost pulled his shoulder out of place. All at once, Tony knew exactly what was happening. The pieces clicked into place. Anxiety attack, most likely caused by sensory overload, judging by Peter's actions.
He now had his back turned to Tony, body shuddering and arms wrapped around his stomach.
Tony had no idea how to deal with someone else having an anxiety attack. He considered reaching out again, but Peter looked coiled as if he might jump at any second. He was afraid he would cause another outburst.
Peter suddenly stalked away, fingers tugging painfully at his hair. Tony watched as he flicked his hand. A string of web came flying out, attaching itself to a piece of heavy lab equipment. Just as Tony was about to ask what he was doing, Peter yanked his arm back, bringing the equipment hurdling towards him. At the last second, he threw a punch, and it streaked across the room. After it hit the wall with a satisfying thud, Peter rolled his shoulders, cracking his neck and scapulas with the action.
"You okay now?" Tony asked, voice barely above a whisper. Peter sighed, nodding. And then, he collapsed. Tony caught him before he hit the ground, holding the shuddering body against his own chest.
"I'm sorry," Peter said. His eyes were rimmed with red as though he was about to cry, but no tears ever came.
"You're okay," Tony said back, voice muffled by his hair.
. . .
Fast-talking, stuttering, stumbling over words
It happened while Peter was blasting the words to a Broadway musical. He was in the apartment by himself, making dinner for when May got home and having the Time of His Life.
"Santa Fe!" he sang. "My old friend! Woo! Yeehaw!"
He began to stir the spaghetti sauce in his pan, using the wooden spoon as an occasional microphone. He picked up the glass cover to the pan, covered with droplets of water, and began to place it back over his dinner. As he tried to fix the rubber parts over the edge, his hand slipped, and the heel of his palm hit the stove. Hard. His heart skipped a beat as pain radiated from the burn.
Though he had been hurt worse, hell, he'd been burned by spaghetti worse, this time felt especially panic-inducing. He cursed under his breath, struggling to pull a deep breath in through his fluttering heart. He moved from the stove to the sink, shoving his hand under some cold water.
The damaged area was beginning to turn purple. Tears pricked his eyes as his thoughts tumbled over one another.
"Pete?"
He jumped at the sudden voice, coming from the watch on the wrist that wasn't being drowned right now.
"H-Hello, Mr. Stark."
"Hey. FRIDAY says you're in distress. Wanna tell me what that's about?"
Peter closed his eyes, giving himself a mental reminder to never wear that stupid watch again. He groaned as the pain worsened. "Yes. I'm o-fuck. I mean. Ah. I'm o..okay. I'm okay." He heard Tony hum, and he brought the wrist to his face to hear his next words better.
"Of course you're fine. Now, what's going on?"
Peter wiped at the sweat forming at his hairline with his free hand. He felt like he was going to explode.
"N-Nothing, I'm..."
What was he saying? He couldn't remember. His entire body was screaming at him to run. Get out. Hurry.
"Okay, Peter. I'm on my way."
What did he say? On his...what? What does that mean?
Peter decided to ignore this, sinking to the floor with his burning hand and anxious mind. He bowed his head, closing his eyes and waiting for the pain to stop. He vaguely heard whimpering. It didn't register that it was his own. After a few minutes, he heard the water being cut off, and arms wrapping tightly around his body.
"Hey, kid," a familiar voice greeted. "You're gonna be alright. Let me see your hand." Through his blurred vision, Peter couldn't tell where exactly he was, or who was talking to him. Nonetheless, he complied. A gentle touch turned his hand over so it was lying palm up.
"Oh, Peter," the man said. "You really got yourself good this time." There was a chuckle. The person with the calming voice slowly rubbed something over the affected area, and Peter flinched. "I know, kid. I know. It'll get better, I promise." Then, there was something being applied to the burn. The pain immediately eased. Peter sighed in relief, letting his head loll onto the chest of whoever had come to his aid.
Tony buried his fingers in the kid's hair, wondering what could have possibly triggered an anxiety attack bad enough for him to pass out. He knew it couldn't be the burn; he had been hurt way worse than that before. He smoothed hair off the kid's damp forehead, whispering soft, concerned reassurances into the curls. They were so going to be having a long talk about this later, but right now, he could settle for calming Peter down.
"Mr. Stark?"
Oh, so now the kid recognized him.
"Yeah, kid?"
His speech was slow and slurred, as if it were just coming down from an adrenaline high and was now crashing, hard.
"I'm sorry for all this." Tony shook his head, his fingers pushing at Peter's closed fist so he could get a better look at the already healing wound.
"Don't apologize, Underoos. I've got you."
. . .
Not talking at all
The ones that would render him speechless were always slow. A quiet onset of bone-aching panic. Anxiety thrumming deep within his veins, shaking him from the inside out. They were always the worst.
He was sitting at his desk in the compound this time, scribbling doodles all over his pre-cal notes. Fuck analytical trigonometry. His vision blurred slightly, and he didn't notice the tears until he tasted them. He sighed, watching the problems swim before his eyes. Maybe that was the worst part of it all. The numbness. He would have loved to scream right now, to be angry or sad or anything other than whatever the opposite of feeling was.
"Hey, kid," Tony said, slapping his shoulder from behind. Peter wrinkled his nose at the sudden and unwanted touch. He wanted physical affection, yes, but not the rough hits. When he didn't respond right away, Tony turned to look at him.
"Going through a rebellious phase?" he asked, an incredulous smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. Peter dried his eyes and shook his head. He was exhausted. He didn't care what Tony thought of him at that moment.
Luckily, Tony didn't notice. He simply shrugged, getting back to whatever his intention was when he first came in. After ten minutes of working in silence, Tony looked up at Peter, exasperated.
"What is up, today, kid? You're not gonna try to hug me? Take videos? Yell something about your wig every time I breathe?" Peter sighed, burying his head in his hands. How could he possibly make Tony understand that he couldn't talk right now even if he tried?
Finally, his weakness got the best of him. He slid out of his chair and made his way over to Tony. The man watched, one eyebrow cocked in curiousness as to what was going to happen next. Once Peter got close enough to, he fell heavily onto Tony's chest.
Stark let out a surprised "Woah!" before managing to wrap his arms around his kid's body. "Okay, okay. That's okay. What's going on?" When Peter didn't answer again, Tony sighed. Okay. No talking. Cool. He reached up a steadying hand, passing his thumb over Peter's temple and pushing hair behind his ear. Peter sniffed loudly, pressing his face into Tony's shirt so he wouldn't see him cry.
Tony didn't comment on his tears, just traced slow circles across his back to calm him down. It took a few minutes, but Peter stood straight again. His face was red and held traces of tears. He body was shaking. He felt exhausted beyond words. He wanted to go to sleep and sleep forever. Tony seemed to get this message, because he trapped one of Peter's arms with his hand.
"Come on, kid," he said. "Let's go sit down. You've earned a break." He spared a glance at the huge pre-cal textbook that was lying, open, on his desk. Peter followed him without putting up a fight, his breathing evening considerably.
When they got to the couch, Tony was the first to sit, following by a reluctant Peter. Tony sighed, pulling Peter into his chest. Peter melted into his arms, eyes squeezing shut as the tension left his body. Tony buried his hand in Peter's hair. He used his free hand to guide Peter's nails away from his arm. "You don't have to do that," he assured. "You're okay. You're safe. There's no reason to be scared."
The warmth of Peter being pressed so close numbed the thoughts in Tony's head. His eyelids began to slip after about ten minutes of them sitting there together. Suddenly, he heard a voice beyond the cotton feeling of sleep.
"I can't talk during anxiety attacks sometimes," Peter was saying.
Tony tightened his grip over Peter's hand, a last-ditch effort to ground the kid. "I'll remember that," he murmered.
. . .
Sitting rigid, staring into space, zoned out
After school that day, Peter sat on a stool in Tony’s lab. He hadn’t been able to focus all day, the nightmare from last night hitting him again and again. By now, he had forgotten almost everything from the dream, even the things he had seen. The thing that bothered him was the fear he felt. It was always the fear that came back. Rose just below the surface.
He dropped a tool in frustration. Tony looked at him in surprise; he had given Peter space because the kid looked like he needed it. But he usually never did something like this. He didn’t say anything, letting Peter keep his personal bubble. While he was usually tactile, he now flinched every time anyone got too near to him. Tony gave himself a silent reminder to punch the nightmare. He gave himself a second silent reminder to figure out a way to punch a nightmare.
Peter lowered his head into his waiting arms, and Tony got back to work, trying his hardest to fight down the urge to reach out and touch him. He had no idea if he was angry or sad or if he couldn't talk. He guessed he would just have to wait it out.
Then, Peter moved aside a few tools between him and Tony. He made a point of putting his head down, this time nearer to Tony.
The man smiled softly, putting down what he was working on. So, physical affection. He could do that. He took this as a signal to reach out, tapping Peter’s arm a few times. Then, he slid his hand up and down, rubbing small circles onto his forearm. The thought nagged at the back of his head: What had this kid seen?
He slowly made his way to Peter’s hair, petting through the curls as softly as he could. Suddenly, so suddenly it made Tony jump, Peter lifted his head. His eyes were rimmed with red, his face soft and lower lip trembling. He stared at Tony’s hand for a moment. Just as he was about to retract his touch and apologize, Peter dropped his cheek into Tony’s palm. The move was so kid-like and gentle that Tony’s heart wrenched.
Peter gazed up at him with his big doe eyes, sniffing quietly. Tony smiled in reassurance, tracing his kid’s cheekbone with the pad of his thumb. Peter melted into the touch, heaving a big sigh as he visibly relaxed.
“It’s gonna be okay, kid.”
Peter closed his eyes, trying his hardest to contain his labored breathing. Everything would be okay.
"So, let's have a little talk about these anxiety attacks."
Oh, God.