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Peter Parker is struggling.
Peter's struggling, between coping after the Snap, watching Tony almost die, and a literal warehouse nearly crushing him to death, plus residual grief and guilt from his parents and Uncle Ben and a slimy prick named Flash Thompson. He's got a lifetime of grief and fear and pain and hurt and more than his fair share of PTSD, considering he's only had sixteen years to accumulate it all. He's struggling, and he doesn't know how to fix it, and there's nothing he wants more than for somebody to come to him, pull him into a hug, rub his back, play with his hair, tell him everything was going to be okay. Everything had to be okay, right? It had to be. It couldn't just...feel like this forever. Like he was suffocating, like he was drowning, like if he let go, he would just float away and no one would ever find him. That had to stop, didn't it? He needed somebody to tell him it would stop.
Except everyone around him is trying to cope, too. Everyone around him is trying to rebuild, to reintegrate after losing and regaining half the population, after fighting for five years to right what had been wrong, to quite literally rebuild from ashes and dust. The team is struggling to rebuild, to reconnect, to figure it all out.
Steve is quieter than usual. He sketches more, spends more time to himself, or with Bucky - who is slowly but surely warming up to the rest of the team. Steve has his pocket-watch out more, and whenever Peter catches a glimpse of his sketchbook, it's always this pretty woman with her hair in curls, and a dance floor, and someone's uniformed back, holding her. He looks wistful a lot, like he's trying to remember something -- like he's trying to remember another-self's memories, another timeline where he has a wife, and a few kids of his own, and a long, long life with the woman he loves.
Bucky is still getting used to being around other people. He's still jumpy, even after Wakanda. He still keeps to himself, still gets stiff and tense around certain people. But he's working on it. Sam has struck up a begrudging friendship with him, and they're trying. For Steve's sake, if nothing else.
Nat and Clint aren't really talking much, but they're also pretty inseparable. Never one without the other, never out of eyesight, like they have to reassure each other they're still here. The occasional wordless touch, just to check.
Thor is -- well, he's Thor, and he's not really around much. He's got a lot on his plate, with the Guardians, and taking care of who-knows-what up in space. He's probably the only one of them that can still stomach the thought of being up there, but it makes sense. That was his life, that was his normal. Space is more home to him than Midgard ever really was, and that's okay.
Bruce is probably coping the best, which is surprising. He's settling into himself, settling into his skin, the two halves of him coming together into a whole that he's living with. He's researching every day, campaigning for more rebuild-funding, cooking up new ideas to help the environment, designing new things to help with the rebuild, to help everyone reintegrate.
And then there's Tony. Tony, who they almost lost, Tony who's here, by some absolute miracle. Who is a little scared, a little more broken than before, but who is alive, with a beautiful wife and a precious daughter that Peter is so, so blessed to know. He spends most of his time with Pepper and Morgan, these days, at least for now. He keeps promising he'll get back in the lab, that he'll start back to work, but hey - he deserves a break. He deserves the chance to enjoy the family he almost lost.
And Peter....well. It hurts, he can't lie about that. He's not jealous, necessarily, because Tony was never really his to begin with, but it still aches in this bone-deep way he can't shake. Tony wasn't his biological dad, never even claimed himself as a father figure, and yet he was. To Peter, he was. To Peter, he was someone he could turn to, that he could ask for advice, that he could sit with, silently, and work, and still somehow feel better. There were countless nights he'd dragged himself out of the lab, half-asleep, and had to bite his lip hard to keep from saying something stupid like "Goodnight, Dad", or "Love you, Dad". There were countless fights, before the Snap, from little bickering arguments to big ones, like when Tony had taken the suit, ones that nearly crushed him under the worry and disappointment Tony all but radiated. Then, when he'd come back, the way Tony had pulled him into that crushing embrace, had held him close like he was his son, when he'd explained what had happened...but it was all different, now. Tony had almost died, and now Tony was here, but Tony wasn't here with him. And why would he be? He had a real family now; he didn't need Peter.
He couldn't begrudge Morgan, though. No, the little girl was precious, and had him wrapped around her little fingers the minute he met her. He never minded watching her, to swing her around and make her giggle and grin, to hold her when she came crying because she had a scrape or a cut and he was her closest escape. It cut, though, when she called him "big brother" one day and didn't stop. There was some bitter little part of him that wanted to tell her he couldn't be, because he wasn't Tony's son anymore, he wasn't the wide-eyed kid he was before everything. He was different. He'd taken lives. He'd died, ripped apart atom-by-atom, piece by piece, the agony prolonged by the way his enhanced DNA tried to repair itself and failed. He's not 'Friendly Neighborhood Spider-Man' anymore - he's something different. He feels like someone different, someone he doesn't recognize, someone he doesn't like. He feels like someone with blood on his hands.
But he just smiles, and ruffles her hair, and kisses her head and tells her sure, kiddo, now let's get some ice cream.
He's not sleeping.
It's not new, necessarily, he was always a little bit of an insomniac even before the bite, even before Uncle Ben, even before he felt the weight of the world starting to fall on his shoulders. It was different, now, though. It was nightmares, Spider-senses cranking them up to 11, vivid and so real he can feel the acrid smoke in his nostrils; he can feel himself splitting apart, over and over again, ripping into a million pieces a million times until he's crumbling; he can feel heavy concrete on his chest, crushing him, his ribs creaking and lungs screaming as they fill with concrete dust and glass grit where he chokes and cries and begs for someone, anyone; he can see the wild look in Tony's eyes, powerful and resigned as he lifts the gauntlet, as the snap echoes, as he falls except this time, he doesn't get back up, the burns don't start to fade, and he's gone, gone, gone--
He always wakes up in a cold sweat, chest heaving like he's swung from Manhattan to Brooklyn, shaking like he's trying to crumble apart all over again. He nearly bites through his lip the first few times, trying to keep himself quiet, trying not to make any noise. He can't go back to sleep - he never wants to sleep again, doesn't even want to blink too long. He wants Tony. He wants to go to him and cry, and be held, and be told it's going to be okay. He just wants to be told it's gonna be okay. He wants to make sure Tony's alive and real and here.
He does none of those things.
So he throws himself into his work. He spends his days at school, and his nights in Tony's lab until everything starts blurring together, until his hands don't go what his brain tells them to, until his brain slows down from a mile a minute to a slow crawl, and he has to remind himself what he was thinking about. He forgoes his body's needs; he stops coming to the tentative 'team' dinners they try to have at least once a week, he forgets to eat until his metabolism burns through every shred of energy he has and he's forced to shove something down his throat just to make the shaking stop and the black dots recede from his vision. Even then, it's just enough, just enough to get him back to the lab, back to homework, back to school. He's pushing himself to the absolute limits of his physical capabilities, enhancements included, and yet--
It's not enough. It's not enough, he still can't sleep, not even when it's been 48 hours and his eyes burn, because when he does, it's still there. When he does, instead of waking up in cold sweats and shakes, instead of waking up trying not to scream, he just...doesn't wake up. His body's too exhausted to drag him out of sleep, despite the stimulus. He's trapped, he's trapped and it's too real, it's so real and oh God, oh God--
He's not coping. And he's not gonna say anything, either, because everyone else has stuff to deal with, too, and why should he burden them? Why should he burden Tony? Why should he burden Ned, or MJ, why should he burden May when she already deals with so much? Moving into the compound was probably the best thing he could do for her; he can't help but think. She doesn't have to worry about him now, doesn't have to worry about working so much overtime, about pulling so many shifts to afford their apartment, his school books and supplies, his food - because he can't help it that his metabolism required him to eat so much, but food was expensive. So, he's definitely not going to burden her all over again with all of this, stuff that he doesn't even understand how to un-burden himself with. So, he's not coping, and he's not going to confess, so he tries to find a happy medium in between.
He works late in the lab, later than he should. Designing new web fluid, tinkering with his suit, tinkering with Karen's programming. He works works works until he's sweaty and covered in oil and grease and his vision is a little blurry from looking at the holograms so much but at least he doesn't have to think or remember anymore. When he finally, finally reaches that place, he tries to sleep, but even then, it's just not enough. There's no happy medium, no middle ground. When he calms his shaking enough, when he can breathe again, he pulls on the suit. At least, out there, he can breathe. At least out there he can do something, he can protect, he can serve. He can make up for the blood on his hands. He can make Tony proud again.
It's pure chance that he ends up a liquor store.
It's a quiet little place on the corner, maybe a little run-down, but hey. It happens. He's been here before, two armed robberies and one minor arson, and he can't help the way his feet carry him inside. The clerk - a middle-aged man named Chen who looks a little older than his years, but with eyes that are still soft and a smile that is still wide enough to put him at ease - recognizes him. Well, recognizes Spider-Man. And he gives him a sad kind of smile, and a warm hand on his shoulder, and he gets it. He just...gets it. He used to be a cop, he explains, rubbing his thumb gently against Peter's shoulder as if he can recognize the brokenness behind the mask. As if he knew that, too. He gets it. And so Peter leaves there with a knot in his stomach and three bottles of whiskey curled against his chest, heading back to the compound while Chen watches, sad, as another one starts down the road that he's seen so, so many travel.
Living at the compound would make things harder to hide, but he's pretty good at sneaking around by now. And no one notices him sliding back in - hell, no one's probably even awake, not even Steve or Bucky or Sam, because it's too early even for one of their miles-long runs. He makes it back to his room with his bottles and he's shaking again, he realizes distantly, a little tremble that's accompanied by the soft clink clink of glass as the bottle quake, by extension. This is wrong, he knows. He's too young, and he shouldn't, and once he starts, he might never go back, but he can't sleep. He can't sleep, and he's not coping, and he's not okay, and maybe...just maybe. Maybe he can find a little relief at the bottom of a black label.
It tastes like shit. It's bitter and it burns and he's choking and for one hot second he's back there, pinned, choking on debris and pleading for someone to help him, for someone to come, anyone, please help me please I'm under here please somebody -- but then he can breathe, as the burn starts to fade, as it mellows into something warm and heavy in the pit of his stomach, working loose that knot that's been there since he the store. He can breathe, and he still sputters a little, but by the second bottle he's figured out how to take it slow and easy so that it flows over his palate, down the back of his tongue. He doesn't quite enjoy it, still, but he's starting to calm. His senses start dialing down, from an 11 all the way down to a nice, calm 5. The world is fuzzy around the edges, fuzzy and soft in a way that's inviting, like one of those good dreams (had he ever had good dreams? He can't remember, why can't he remember) that makes you want to roll over and fall back asleep even though your alarm is buzzing in your ear and you just know you’ve got to face the day, but not just yet. His breathing, which he feels like is perpetually too-fast these days, slows down. He's got two empty bottles beside him, but he feels...almost at peace. Like it's going to be okay. Distantly, he thinks maybe it shouldn't take two bottles of Jack to make him feel that way, but hey. Seems like his enhanced DNA is just fucking him over again. Besides - it's not really real, right? It's like him getting hurt. It's a bitch for the time, and sometimes he gets these phantom pains from old wounds, but he heals - and quick, quicker than normal people. It doesn't count. So, it's okay for him to get hurt, okay for him to put himself in harm's way, because he would heal, and if he didn't -- well. So, him drinking isn't that much of a big deal, because whatever damage he might do to his liver or his brain or whatever will just heal, and he'll manage. He falls asleep somewhere in the midst of his quiet musings, and this time, he actually sleeps.
The nightmares don't go away, exactly. He's starting to think they won't ever go away, that they'll constantly be there, even invading his waking moments, like when he hears an explosion too close or when he's in a closed-in space and in a dizzying moment he's under a warehouse again, and then he isn't. But while the nightmares aren't gone, they aren't as real. Aren't as vivid. That dial stays turned down to 5, and he can breathe, he can suffer through. So he sleeps. He wakes up. He goes to school, comes to the lab, and that night, he heads back to Chen for another soft, sad smile and a pat on the shoulder and more of what he needs. It's a good thing superheroes don't get carded.
He doesn't feel good, necessarily. He doesn't feel good about what he's doing, about how he's managing things. He doesn't feel good that he can only sleep when he's two bottles deep, that the lines in Chen's face get deeper every time he comes in. He doesn't feel bad either, though. He doesn't get hungover - a little sick at his stomach, maybe, a little achy, but not like he's seen in movies and on TV. He's sleeping, and even though it's not very restful and even though it's not as long as a teenage superhuman needs, he's at least sleeping. It's not good, but it's not bad - it's grey. He remembers, distantly, what feels like a lifetime ago (and isn't it, now?), Tony speaking to him in the back of the car. Don't do anything I would do, definitely don't do anything I wouldn't do - there's sort of a grey area in the middle, that's where you operate. He thinks yeah, this grey area is pretty alright. It's functional. He's making it work.
He stops showing up for dinner completely, because the less he eats, the easier it is to get his enhanced system drunk. He's still staying in the lab more than he should, but hey, that was starting to become his normal, anyway. If he's already drinking a little, he can even handle F.R.I.D.A.Y. playing some music for him, helping him in the groove and lose track of time even further. That knot of guilt is loosening a little more each day. He misses a couple of days of school - really, he's just busy, it's not a big deal - and Ned and MJ are out of their minds. He's stopped going trash trawling with them for old electronics to tinker with, he's stopped with the coffeeshop study groups and hanging out in the library and even their Goodwill shopping days. He's not as active in the group chat anymore. They're worried about him, they want their Peter back, but he's getting more and more afraid that he doesn't remember who 'that Peter' is anymore. They want him to talk, but he wants to do anything but. He's fine. He's totally fine, he's fine, okay? Okay so maybe he's not healing as fast anymore. Maybe he's still not really eating a whole lot. Maybe his reflexes are a little slow, maybe his senses are wobbling back and forth between too-dull and too-sharp and sometimes it knocked him off kilter and makes it hard to breathe. Maybe it's starting to take a little more than two bottles to get him through a night, but he's fine. He's coping. This is technically coping, because he's doing something about it.
Except he isn't. Except he's not. Except, enhanced or not, there's only so long he can go - so long anyone can go - without a proper sleep. There's only so long he can go with barely eating, with running himself ragged between school and the lab and being Spider-Man and being an Avenger now, too, and dealing with his own death and the deaths of others and -- He's sixteen. He's sixteen years old. As much as he wants to think otherwise, he's not invincible, and this can't go on forever.
He at least thought it would come crumbling down because of something big and dramatic and heroic. Another Battle for New York, another saving-the-world type of fight that he can really get behind, that's worth fighting for. If nothing else, maybe a patrol gone wrong. A shady drug deal with too many knives, an armed robber that he couldn't disarm, something. He doesn't expect it to happen at school. He doesn't expect the fist that comes flying at his face, he doesn't expect his head to crash into a locker and somehow, that metallic sound throws him so deep into a flashback that he's panicking, and he can't breathe, and he's not at Midtown anymore he's fighting for his life and he's going to get crushed, he's going to die down here, somebody please please help me, help me I'm under here please, somebody somebody please--
His grey space fades to black as the panic attack consumes him, as he passes out there in the middle of the hallway. He doesn't expect everything to come crumbling down like this.
When he wakes up, he's somewhere cool and white and sterile, the scent of antiseptic stinging his nose, making it burn. Senses back to eleven, he notes idly, face scrunching in discomfort as he opens his eyes and is nearly blinded by how bright everything is. Med-bay, he recognizes after his vision adjusts. He's in med-bay, at the compound, and--
Tony. There, at his bedside, one calloused hand clutching his smaller, smoother one. Tony, eyes red-rimmed and still wet, face creased with a mixture of guilt and pain and hurt that he never, ever, ever wanted to see there. It makes his chest tight, panicky, makes his breathing pick up because oh my God, what happened, is he okay, is Pepper okay, is Morgan okay, what's going on--
His mentor jerks, surprised by the rapid-fire stream of words from the boy he thought was still unconscious just a minute ago. Tony jerks, and then opens his mouth, and then closes it with an almost pained little noise. Peter doesn't expect that Tony Stark is at his bedside - has been since the school called - because he passed out, because he got his shit rocked and had a flashback and subsequent panic attack so bad that he couldn't breathe, because when Helen was looking him over she discovered that his blood-alcohol was high, and had been that way for some time. It doesn't process. It doesn't make sense. Something else has to be wrong -- Tony must be hurt, or Pepper, or maybe Morgan is sick, but why would Tony be there for him?
And Tony looks at him, at this kid, this child forced into an adult's shoes far too soon, this sweet boy with a heart of gold and a martyr complex to rival his own. He looks at him, laid up in a hospital bed, drying out and looking too thin, looking too pale, looking like he hadn't slept in weeks. He looks at those big brown doe-eyes of his and sees a man twice his age, a young man who has seen far, far too much and still doesn't think of himself, still always places others first. He looks at this boy looking like hell and worrying about him instead of himself, asking if he was okay, asking about his wife and child and why would he be there with Peter?
Tony looks at him.
And he cries.