Archive of Our Own

“Though I might not understand it,

It’s not always as we planned it,

But we grow stronger when we break.”

            --an excerpt of lyrics from “River” by Josh Groban

~~

Peter decided that getting stabbed was a good thing. Well, not a good thing, but it did have its benefits. First of all, Mr. Stark was talking to him again. That was good. He felt as if he was floundering there for a while—and in some ways he still was. But at least now he had someone in his corner who understood what it meant to be a hero. As much as he loved his aunt, she didn’t fully grasp why he had to be Spider-Man. Granted, Peter had given her a watered-down version of the bite and everything that happened with Ben when she demanded it after his disastrous homecoming dance. He wasn’t about to discuss the details; air them out in the open. That was vulnerable territory.

Don’t think about that right now. Peter chastised himself. Letting his thoughts spiral to Ben wasn’t something he often allowed himself to do. Especially now. When he was just trying to hold his mental health together by thin threads that could snap at any moment. That was another good thing about getting stabbed. He could talk to Mr. Stark about anything. Although reluctant to talk about dying and returning to the living world, Peter was glad he had the option to lay it all out in the open. For some reason, he felt like he couldn’t do that with May. He didn’t want to scare her. She was already frightened and worried enough about his mental state. It didn’t do any good to add another thing.

As his train of thought came to an end, Peter realized he had been staring unseeingly out the window for who knows how long. They were on the highway now. Him and Happy. He was going upstate to spend the weekend at the compound. Mr. Stark reasoned it was because May needed a break—a common excuse from the man—but Peter knew Mr. Stark wanted to help him fix the tear in his suit; a casualty of getting stabbed. Peter knew it was his way of making it up to him. Because there was no way in hell Mr. Stark didn’t blame himself for the incident.

Ugh. And if Peter was being honest, he blamed himself for Mr. Stark blaming himself. His ceaseless guilt always wanting to make itself known. But the insistent part of his mind knew he wouldn’t have been stabbed if he’d just kept the iron spider suit. A petty criminal’s knife wouldn’t be able to penetrate the suit’s nanite shell. He didn’t regret his decision to give it back to Mr. Stark, though. He couldn’t regret it. Because he couldn’t bear to look at it. Not right now.

Thoughts of guilt and regret continued to run circles around him until the car pulled up to the compound. No matter how many times he came here, seeing the large A on the side of the building never failed to make him vibrate with excitement. It suddenly hit him that he hadn’t spent a weekend here with Mr. Stark since before that day. Last weekend didn’t count. He’d been confined to the medbay and too high on pain meds to appreciate his location. But now that he was here, he was going to make the most of it. As soon as Happy put the car in park, he flung his door open and bounded up the steps, forgetting his backpack and suitcase stored in the trunk.

“Someone’s a little eager, aren’t they?” Mr. Stark teased the second Peter entered the lobby. “Missed me that much, kid?”

“Oh. Um. H-hi!” Peter stuttered sheepishly, embarrassed to be caught in his eagerness.

Mr. Stark just chuckled and pulled him in for a one-armed hug as Happy caught up with the pair, red faced and panting from carrying Peter’s things up the steps and into the building.

“Why don’t we go put this stuff in your room?” Mr. Stark said, gesturing to the suitcase and backpack Peter was taking from Happy. “Then we can work on your suit until dinner time.”

Peter agreed readily, nodding his head in quick succession.

It wasn’t until Peter dropped his backpack on the bed and put his suitcase in the closet that he noticed how different the room looked. The walls were the same shade of light blue and the upholstery hadn’t changed, but the Star Wars, Alien and Ferris Bueller’s Day Off posters were gone. In their place, framed photos lined the walls.

They weren’t just generic photos that came in store-bought frames either. They were personal. Photos he hadn’t looked at in years. From albums he hadn’t wanted to go anywhere near after Ben died. The familiar baby picture of him in his mother’s arms, his father looking down at him fondly. A photo from his kindergarten graduation, May and Ben towering over his tiny frame, beaming smiles on their faces. Ben sitting by his side, helping him with homework. Helping May decorate the Christmas tree. Watching a movie, sandwiched in between his aunt and uncle. Building Lego sets with Ned. A photo he hadn’t seen before of him and Mr. Stark in the lab. Another one of the two of them laughing about something.

It was all quite overwhelming. Speechless, Peter turned slowly in a circle taking in the sight around him. The walls were plastered with photo after photo of precious memories long forgotten, locked away in the dusty corners of his mind. Eventually, his eyes landed on a lone frame sitting on the bedside table. It was edged in simple, black wood with a stripe of striking, iridescent mother-of-pearl adorning the middle.

But while the frame itself may have caught his attention; it was the photo that kept his gaze there. Peter remembered taking it. It was after May found out about his vigilantism. After she calmed down and worked out her issues with Mr. Stark. Once she realized there was no stopping him, she agreed to let Peter continue being Spider-Man on the terms that he would have a real internship at Stark Industries—among other things.

It was one of many photos taken that day. He and Mr. Stark decided to have fun with it. The official, plastered smile and stiff-backed photo was the one he took home with his certificate. The proof May needed that it really was an official internship.

But Peter couldn’t help but wonder why—out of all the pictures—Mr. Stark chose to frame this one. The man looked stoic and serious, colored sunglasses hiding the glimmer in his eyes. Yet, the rest of the photo was laughable. Even now, it brought a small smile to Peter’s face. They were giving each other bunny ears, and Peter’s mouth was wide open, like a gaping fish. The occupants of the photo seemingly unaware they were holding the internship certificate upside-down.

“So, do you like it or what?” Mr. Stark said, peering over his shoulder.

Peter jumped, turning to face his mentor. Absorbed by the memories as he was, he’d forgotten he wasn’t alone in the room.

“Seriously, kid. Don’t leave me hanging. I worked hard on this.”

“Where did you get all these?” Peter asked, gesturing to the walls around him.

For a moment, Peter wondered if he’d somehow said the wrong thing. Mr. Stark looked uncomfortable at his question, staring at the floor and shifting on his feet.

“Your aunt.” He answered after a moment, looking into Peter’s eyes. The boy realized it must have been a strain to stay serious instead of making a quip. “After everything…” A sigh. A pause. “She came over one day. Said she had something important to talk to me about.”

“Tony.” May said, pulling album after album out of her bag. He was befuddled as to how she had fit all of them in there, vaguely wondering if she’d made some sort of deal with Mary Poppins. “It’s of no use to bury the past. We need to face it. Keep his memory alive.”

He gulped. “May, I don’t—”

“You are going to look at these photos, Stark. It will be good for you.” She interrupted. “I know you’ve been holed up in that lab of yours for months now. Trying to fix everything. But sometimes you need a reminder of why you are doing this to yourself. Who you are doing it for.”

“Pepper stuck you on me, didn’t she?”

May just smiled, placing a steady hand on his shaking one. “You can make copies. Put them up around your workspaces. It will brighten them up.”

“Most of the photos were in the lab until recently. I decided they would have a good home in here, now that you are coming over every other weekend.” Mr. Stark continued. “I know it can be hard. Sometimes you wake up and don’t know where you are. I was like that after New York. But I’m hoping you can look at these and be reminded there’s a whole lot of people who care about you, kid.”

Peter didn’t know what to say—didn’t know if he could even form words, if the lump in his throat was anything to go by. He was touched in a way he didn’t know how to describe. To think that Mr. Stark knew just what he needed. An anchor. For the nights when he felt as if he was lost at sea, his mind drifting without anything to hold on to. When he felt panicked and scared and alone.

“Thank you.” Peter said, words not enough to describe the gratitude he felt.

“Your welcome.” Mr. Stark answered simply, putting an arm around his shoulder. “Now, lets go work on that suit of yours. What do you say?”

--

Working in the lab was soothing. The steady rhythm of working with tools and formulas and equipment was liberating. Relaxing. It lulled him into a calm and carefree state. Peter knew Mr. Stark understood this too. That’s why he wasn’t surprised when the man brought up the unfortunate events of last week. Doing things by hand made him malleable and willing to open up.       

“You know, Pete. You’re very lucky I haven’t removed this yet.” Mr. Stark started, tapping the housing unit on his chest. “I promised Pep I would get rid of it before the wedding. A sort of gift, or promise of retirement, you could say. You would’ve been screwed big time without it.”

Peter understood. He could read between the lines. He didn’t really remember how he got back to the compound, but he could put two and two together. Dead. He would have been dead without it. Without Mr. Stark flying him to medical attention as fast as his suit would allow.

When he spoke again, he wasn’t looking at Peter, fixated on some of the suit’s wiring. Somehow that made it easier. “Kid… I know we talked in the medbay. When you were high on pain meds. But we need to discuss this. What happened back there? What made Spider-Man get stabbed by a low-level criminal?”

Peter gulped. He really didn’t want to talk about this right now, even though he knew it was inevitable. He knew Mr. Stark wanted an explanation. One that made sense and wasn’t said under the influence of drugs that knocked him off his ass. But the problem was Peter didn’t have all the answers himself. He was still trying to understand what exactly happened. He’d even asked himself the same question. How did he get bested by an amateur thief when he’d gone toe-to-toe with Thanos?

Don’t think about him. He told himself, slamming the screwdriver he’d been using on the table a little too forcefully. But that was just it. He hadn’t been the same since he showed up and decided to carry out some crazy, maniacal plan. Peter hadn’t wanted to die. He still had so much of his life to live. But then it was over, and there was nothing he could do about it. No matter how hard he fought, he could feel every cell in his body screaming for release; and he had eventually succumbed. That scared him. Terrified him. Now, he feared death. Of inching anywhere close to dying. Of feeling his heart begin to beat weaker and weaker in his chest. Of skin becoming clammy and cold, like his uncle’s when he died in his arms.

He supposed that’s what it was, really. The criminal had brandished a knife and he froze. His brain immediately screaming at him, telling him this was it. The thought made him feel bitter and weak. How could he ever be Spider-Man again when he was like this? And out of all the ways to die, why did he have to go like that? Why did he have to remember it? Peter Benjamin Parker was all too aware that life wasn’t fair, but this was cruel and ruthless and terrifying.

“I don’t know.” He finally said, cowardly backing away from Mr. Stark’s question.

The man came closer, taking the pliers he didn’t realize he was still holding out of his hands. Hands he hadn’t realized were shaking. “I think you do know.”

Peter sighed. A long exhale not fit for a sixteen-year-old kid. “Do you know what it feels like to die, Mr. Stark?”

“No, but I’ve been pretty damn close to it.”

Realization dawned on Peter. Mr. Stark understood, better than anyone else in his life, the kind of fear he felt in those moments. He could talk to his mentor about this. He turned and faced the man head on, looking in his eyes. An invitation to speak, to learn, to understand.

“Have I ever told you what happened in New York, kid? The whole story?”

Peter shook his head. He knew Mr. Stark had PTSD after that, but he didn’t really know what caused it in the first place.

“I flew that missile into the wormhole, as you know. And I tried calling Pepper, but my suit systems failed in the vacuum of space. The last thing I saw before passing out was the stars. I thought I was gonna die out there. My body floating in space.” Mr. Stark sighed, running a hand across his face. “But after you resign yourself to death, its hard to live life afterwards. There are things you can’t explain. I know you know what I’m talking about, kiddo.”

Peter nodded. “Yeah… yeah… I was— On Titan, I knew what was coming. My senses were screaming at me, but there was nothing I could do. So I finally gave up. And that probably makes me a coward, but—"

“Nope. We’re not doing that right now.” Mr. Stark interrupted.

“Doing what?”

“Calling yourself a coward. No more name calling allowed. You were brave out there, kid. Braver than I’ll ever be. You don’t get to beat yourself up.”

Peter paused for a moment. Taking in the man’s words. He wasn’t entirely sure Mr. Stark’s assessment was correct, however. As far as he was concerned, giving up was cowardly. There was no way around that fact.

“Tell me what you’re thinking, buddy.” His mentor said when the silence stretched on for a little too long.

Sighing for what felt like the millionth time during the conversation, Peter said, “I’m still not exactly sure what happened. With the stabbing, I mean. I just— he got out the knife and I froze. I thought I was gonna die again.” Looking into his lap, Peter mumbled his next words, because saying them out loud made them true. Made them real. “I’m terrified of dying. And that makes no sense, right? I’ve already died once; I shouldn’t be afraid of it.”

“Peter.” Mr. Stark said, the use of his full first name and not a nickname causing him to look up from his lap. “It makes sense that it doesn’t make sense. And that doesn’t make you a bad superhero, and it certainly doesn’t make you a coward. You went through something scary and traumatic. It’s just taking your brain a while to figure out how to process it all.”

“But what if it never does? What if I’m like this for the rest of my life?”

“I’ll be honest with you.” Mr. Stark said, forgoing leaning against the table and instead sinking onto the stool next to him. “It doesn’t go back to the way it was before, but it gets better. You learn to live with it, and that’s the important part.”

He supposed that was true. That was what happened with Ben, after all. At first, he couldn’t breathe through the soul-crushing pain and panic of seeing the life leave his uncle’s eyes. He laid awake night after night because when he closed his eyes, he saw blood on the pavement and glassy, unblinking orbs staring straight at the night sky. Unseeing. But over time it became bearable. Over time, Uncle Ben is dead wasn’t the first thing he thought of when he woke up in the morning. Over time, he began to smile again, and May smiled too.

This was uncharted territory, however. He didn’t know how long it would take to start feeling like himself on a regular basis again, to stop having panic attacks every day. But he believed Mr. Stark. He believed him because he didn’t know what to do if he didn’t.

“You’ll get back out there, kid. I know you will. You’ll be swinging around the city and causing me heart attacks again before you know it. Just be patient with yourself.”

Peter nodded, feeling a little lighter and a little more hopeful than before.

--

Sitting in the school cafeteria the following Monday, Ned and MJ flanking him on either side, he thought about his weekend with Mr. Stark. It felt great to spend time in the lab with him again. Like he was finally getting back to a normal routine. But now it was Monday and he was back at school. Confined to the musty classrooms and hallways of Midtown. Bored out of his mind.

As he listened to Ned and MJ argue about which Back to the Future film was the best, (an argument he had with Ned many times before MJ joined their ranks) he felt his phone vibrate in his pocket. Pulling it out, he was slightly disappointed to find a text from May.

remember your appointment today. i wont be home until late.

Ugh. He’d forgotten about his therapy session after school, and he was somewhat annoyed May reminded him. Now that he remembered, he knew he would feel guilty if he didn’t show. Guilty of wasting Mr. Stark’s money. Which made no sense. The man was a billionaire after all. The cost of his therapy sessions was like pocket change to the man. But he knew he needed to go. Even though he sometimes doubted the effectiveness of his sessions with Mira. She was a nice woman, and she didn’t judge him, but that was before the whole stabbing situation.

Peter sighed. Rubbing his face in his hands. He was sick of this. Sick of feeling broken and stupid. Stupid for allowing himself to get stabbed in the first place. Stupid for not being over feeling himself fragment into a million tiny little pieces. Sick of needing therapy, even though he was the one who asked for it.

“Peter, are you okay?” Ned’s concerned voice asked.

Peter looked up, finding worried, stricken expressions on both his friend’s faces. He didn’t know how to answer Ned’s question. What did okay even mean anymore? Some days he felt okay, but it was a far cry from what okay used to mean. Before all this.

“I just— I don’t know.” He finally said, defeated.

A pause hung in the air for a moment, his friends seemingly surprised he didn’t just brush them off, say he was fine. MJ recovered quicker than Ned, her concerned expression morphing back into one of determination. “Whatever it is, you can tell us.” She said simply.

Maybe it was a little impulsive, a little rushed and not well thought out, but Peter decided to tell them everything. Right in the middle of the school cafeteria of all places. “Because— because of everything that’s happened, I started going to therapy a little while ago. And I have another appointment today after school, but I don’t really want to go.” He mumbled sheepishly, feeling his ears heat up.

His friends didn’t say anything for a moment, Ned seemingly both relieved and shocked at Peter’s sudden confession and MJ looking at him as if he’d grown two heads. 

“That’s it?” She asked when the silence went on for a little too long.

“Yeah. No. I mean—ugh!” Peter said, pressing his palms against his eyes. “I just—I shouldn’t need this, you know?  MJ, you disappeared too, and you’re fine. And Ned, you had to live seven whole months without us and your mom. Why can’t I pull it together?”

“Parker.” MJ said, sounding slightly exasperated. “Don’t pull that shit on me. From what you’ve told us, you felt everything. It wasn’t like that for me. One second I was here, and the next… gone.”

“Yeah.” Ned chimed in. “You can’t try and compare what happened to me and MJ to what happened to you. That isn’t fair, dude.”

“Why are you ashamed of this anyway?” MJ asked. “What Gen Z kid isn’t going to therapy?”

Peter laughed a little at that, realizing just how much he loved his friends. He wondered why he’d been so worried to tell them about all this in the first place. They were kind and understanding, not judgmental—about what he thought was a ridiculous problem—like he thought they might be. And he wondered, not for the first time, what he did to deserve such amazing people in his life.

--

The crisp, spring air bit at Peter’s skin as he exited the school, causing him to pull his arms a little tighter around himself. It had been warm the past few weeks, so the sudden change in temperature made him regret not wearing a jacket. He could almost hear May’s patronizing tone at his clothing choices in his head.

Making his way to the subway station, he tried not to think about his upcoming appointment. Was it frantic avoidance? Absolutely. But Peter couldn’t find it in him to care. He really didn’t want to confess to his therapist that he hadn’t done his homework. In fact, he couldn’t even remember what his homework was. It had been a few weeks since he last met with Mira, and the stabbing and everything else that had happened since then took precedence in his life.

The noise of the subway was grating on him more than usual. The screeching of the wheels on the tracks seemed to pierce his skull with relentless urgency. Usually, he could block it out enough with his headphones, at least to make it manageable. But at the moment, he wished for some sort of silence. So he could gather his thoughts.

Mira’s office was on the twenty-second floor of a lower Manhattan office building; a far cry from the therapists and grief counselors he’d seen as a child after his parents died, and then again after Ben. Instead of a shabby, run-down and tiny office stuffed into a small building in Queens, Mira’s clinic took up the entire floor, renovated and sparkling, with calming décor meant to put the patient at ease. It was definitely the type of place Mr. Stark would go; Peter mused.

As he made his way to the desk to check in, his anxiety grew. He always illogically worried about his appointments. Mira was always nice and never judged him, but a part of him hated working through these things. He just wanted everything to go back to normal without any work, despite how ridiculous that all sounded.

Sitting in one of the plush armchairs as he waited for her to call him back, Peter stared at his hands as he twisted them in his lap. Sometimes, especially on days like this, where his faltering mental health was on his mind, an insistent pounding in the back of his head, he would stare at his hands and see flickers of ash. Of Titan and orange skies. Of death and destruction. It was such a short span of time. Merely hours. How could something that only happened over a few hours take control over limitless hours of his life?

Yeah, he died. He was gone for seven months, but he didn’t remember any of that. He only remembered the battle. The one they lost. But then it was all over and he felt himself come apart piece by piece. And that only took minutes. Two, or maybe three. Three minutes that caused him to sit in this waiting room every week and get help from someone who had no idea what it felt like to die.

“Peter?” A soft voice called, and Peter looked up to see Mira standing above him, her caramel hair tied into a tight bun that seemed to pull at the skin around her eyes, accentuating the concern held in her features.

“You ready to go back?” She asked.

Peter nodded as he stood and followed her to her office.    

“How are you doing, Peter?” Mira asked once he got situated on the couch facing her desk. “Your aunt called and talked to me about the incident that occurred when you went out as Spider-Man last week.”

Traitor. Peter thought. He was somewhat hoping they could avoid what was perhaps the most embarrassing thing to happen to him in recent memory. Or at least dance around it for most of the session. Taking up time uselessly.

When Peter didn’t say anything, Mira continued. “Why did you decide to go out as Spider-Man, Peter? Can you explain to me why you made that decision? I know we discussed not going out until we both felt that you were ready.”

Peter sighed, resigning himself to his fate. “I just—I needed to. Swinging through the city helps me think. It helps me calm down.” He paused. Wringing his hands and staring out the office window. “And New York needs Spider-Man. The crime doesn’t stop just because I’m not out there catching criminals.”

“Peter.” She said, sounding a little exasperated. “The city can wait a little longer. Let the police do their jobs while you work on getting better. Okay?”

Biting at his lower lip, Peter nodded. He didn’t completely agree with Mira’s words, and wondered for the millionth time when the actual getting better would start.

“Now, you said swinging helps you calm down. Can we think of some things to use in the meantime instead? You won’t always be able to put on your suit and swing through the city. You need some coping mechanisms that will be available to you while sitting in class or spending time with your friends or doing your homework.”

“I’ve tried distracting myself in other ways, but it doesn’t work.” Peter said, thinking back to the panic attack he had in Mr. Stark’s lab a few weeks ago.

Mira looked up from the notes she was typing on her computer, her intense gaze meeting his eyes. “Distraction is the wrong way to look at it. It is important to face your anxiety and discomfort head-on. If you can look it in the eyes, per se, before it gets uncontrollable, you can stop it in its tracks.”

“Really?”

“Yes.” Mira said, eyes never leaving Peter’s. “Although it won’t be in every situation. Sometimes you’ll find something that catches you off-guard, maybe a new or unexpected trigger. But most of the time you’ll know what kinds of things increase your symptoms and you will be able to react to them accordingly.”

“So…” Peter began, gathering his thoughts. “There are like, signs when I’m going to have a big panic attack?”

“Exactly!” She exclaimed. “The types of signs depend on the person, but once you are cognizant of yours, you’ll be able to decrease the amount of panic attacks you have without defaulting to dissociation. Which I know you’ve been working on.” She finished, giving Peter one of her over-confident smiles that he hated.

As Mira began looking for something in one of her desk drawers, Peter wondered if all this would really work. He was bound and determined to try, but Mira made it sound so easy, and Peter wasn’t naïve enough to think it would be.

But he had to try. He had to try, and it had to work because he couldn’t keep living like this. He couldn’t keep living with the constant threat of panic attacks and dissociation. And he wasn’t stupid. He knew May couldn’t continue to live like this either. He knew she couldn’t constantly be worried he was going to freak out at school or get stabbed in a grimy alley just because the fear of death overwhelmed him.

Suddenly, he was pulled from his thoughts by Mira standing directly in front of him, holding out a blank piece of paper and a pen.

“I want you to list the thoughts and feelings you have before a panic attack. As many as you can think of.” She said. “And then we’ll go from there.”

“Okay.” Peter said simply, taking the items from her hands.

After getting himself situated on the floor in front of the coffee table, he found that he didn’t know what to write. Peter wasn’t exactly sure what types of things he felt before a panic attack. He tapped the pen Mira gave him on the table as he tried to think. To come up with something. Anything. So he wouldn’t be sitting here like an idiot for the remainder of the session.

Maybe it was his imagination, but he felt like Mira was staring at him. Willing him to put the pen to the paper and write words. Think, think, think, think, think! But the harder he thought, the more he felt like he couldn’t think of anything, all his thoughts leaving him, even those that had nothing to do with the task at hand.

Eventually, Peter decided to admit his defeat. Setting the pen atop the blank paper, he looked at Mira and confessed he couldn’t think of anything.

“That’s alright.” She said understandingly. “It can be hard to notice the little things if you aren’t paying attention to them.”

“Yeah.” Peter said, nodding in agreement.

“For homework, I want you to pay close attention to your thoughts and feelings. Take that piece of paper with you and write them down so we can discuss them next time.” Mira said, gesturing to the blank sheet in front of him. “Once we know what kind of things are happening in that big brain of yours, we can work on techniques to recognize and stop oncoming panic attacks. Does that sound like a plan?”

Peter nodded, glancing timidly at the clock.

Mira seemed to notice where his gaze was, and announced that, yes, it was the end of their session.

“Do you have any more questions or final thoughts you want to share?” She asked gently. Peter noted she used the same phrasing to close out the session every time.

Did he? He sometimes wondered if any of this was helping him at all. And a part of him wanted her to confirm that he’d been improving. It was a good thing to voice his concerns, right? He wanted to get better, and he knew that Mira just wanted to help him. But if he didn’t say anything she wouldn’t know.

On the other hand, he felt almost… leery to voice his concerns. He probably just needed to wait it out. He was being suspicious and overly cautious about this whole thing, and he needed to figure out why he was feeling that way.

“No.” Peter answered, deciding he needed to work out the mixed bag of emotions he had on his own.

“Are you sure?” Mira asked, giving Peter a look that seemed to stare straight into his soul.

Was he sure?

“Yes.”

--

Today was different. Peter woke up well rested for once. The constant nightmares he’d had after everything hadn’t woken him the night before. He hoped this was the beginning of some real improvement in that area, but with his ridiculous Parker Luck, he doubted it. It was probably some strange sort of fluke and he’d probably wake May up with his screaming again tonight.

Yet, despite the feelings of discouragement Peter had been feeling about his mental health, he made his way to decathlon practice with a spring in his step. For today, he was going to bask in the glory of his first Really Good Day in a long time.

Practice went without a hitch, and Peter was excited to find they had a meet coming up. Despite having returned to the living world over three months ago now, the team hadn’t had a single meet. He supposed it was because the world was still trying to get back on track, but he felt relieved this bit of normalcy was finally returning.

Normal. Things somehow felt normal today. The word felt strange to him. Things hadn’t been normal in so, so long. The cynical part of him knew it wouldn’t last forever, but the more emotional side desperately wished it could. He felt like an average kid having an average day and the relief at that thought was palpable, visceral and real.

Peter half-listened as Mr. Harrington explained the meet would be held at Midtown and passed out flyers. But most of his attention was glued to thoughts about his appointment with Mira a few days prior. Maybe he was right to keep his concerns about therapy to himself. He was doing great today, and maybe that was a sign the things he’d been working on were helping.

“Now, make sure to invite your family and friends.” Mr. Harrington interrupted, setting one of the flyers in front of Peter on the desk. “It’s a rare opportunity to host a meet here at Midtown, and I’m sure everyone’s folks would appreciate being able to see what academic decathlon is all about.”

Looking down at the flyer placed in front of him, Peter frowned. It was three weeks from today, and Peter knew it was one of the rare Fridays where May worked the night shift. He would ask her anyway. She always wanted to come, and sometimes expressed her regret that she couldn’t be a chaperone when they had meets in other places. Maybe she could get it off or switch with someone else. He thought hopefully. And not even the thought of having no one at the meet to support him could tamper with his high spirits.

After being dismissed by Mr. Harrington, he stuffed the flyer haphazardly into one of the pockets of his backpack and stood to leave, but not before he heard a familiar voice.

“What’s the matter, Penis?” Flash taunted, making his way towards Peter. “Family can’t come to the meet?”

Peter wasn’t sure how Flash came to that conclusion when he hadn’t said anything, but he didn’t really care either. He was honestly just relieved that Flash decided it was a good time to start back on the insults again, stupid nickname and all.

Normal.

He smiled genuinely in response, turned his back and walked out the door, pretending not to notice the look of shock on Flash’s face.

Things were getting back to normal.

--

Peter looked at the digital clock perched on his bedroom desk. It was six-thirty-two and May still wasn’t home from work yet. Despite the text she’d sent assuring him she would be home no later than five-thirty. But that was hours ago. While he was still at decathlon practice. And now it was an hour past the time she said she’d be home and he hadn’t heard from her.

He erratically tapped his pencil against his calculus worksheets, making little marks on the pages when the tip of his pencil hit them. A strange sort of agitation that could only come from losing too many people he cared about settled in his bones. Bringing with it a heavy and corrosive weight that gripped him in a type of panic he was all too familiar with.

Was she okay? Had something bad happened? Why hadn’t she texted him yet?

He’d always had abandonment issues. Ever since his parents died. Four-year-olds didn’t understand why mommy and daddy couldn’t come home. Death wasn’t something most children understood and for a long time, Peter thought his parents didn’t want him anymore. He thought they gave him to Uncle Ben and Aunt May. He hadn’t understood they were unable to come get him.

He didn’t remember the funeral. Maybe he’d unwittingly erased the memory. Because seeing your parents’ caskets lowered into the ground wasn’t something the four-year-old brain knew how to process.

Regardless, he had never been able to shake the irrational fear that those he cared about would always disappear. And times like this, when May didn’t come home when she said she would, bothered him much more often since his uncle’s death.

Peter looked down at his calculus sheets and noticed the marks he’d unknowingly made there. For some reason, this seemed to cause him more agitation. Tapping his pencil with more urgency and shaking his leg, he frantically looked around his room for something to focus on. He needed to calm down and get back on his homework. May was probably fine.

His eyes fell on the crumpled decathlon flyer teetering precariously on the edge of his desk. And for some reason his first thought was that if something happened to May, she definitely wouldn’t be coming to his meet.

The sudden morose turn in his thoughts surprised him.

Shaking his head and decidedly staring back at his homework, Peter was surprised when his phone chimed. Whipping his head around to look at the device resting on his mattress, he lunged out of his seat when he saw the screen light up, displaying May’s name.

im so sorry honey. i got held up at work. be home soon. xoxo.

After a quick text back, Peter slumped onto his mattress, draping his arm over his eyes. May was okay. She was coming home, and everything was going to be okay. But for some reason, he felt even more anxious and agitated than he did before.

Peter realized that for the first time in a while, he could hear everything. Everything. There was a fly stuck in the pantry, wings buzzing as it tried to escape. The people who lived seven floors up were moving their furniture again. Someone who lived in the building next door was arguing with their insurance company on the phone. Mr. and Mrs. Kim were fighting about their finances again. A car five blocks over just got rear-ended.

Ugh. Peter hated living in New York City in these moments.

As he tried desperately to tune out the cacophony of sound around him, he sullenly wondered where this day had gone so wrong. Everything was going so well. He slept through the night. School was less boring than usual. Flash sent jibes his way… and he didn’t realize he could be happy about that until this very moment.

What happened to normal?

Suddenly, a shrill scream cut into his thoughts. It was a woman’s voice. Down on the streets below. Apparently, he hadn’t been able to block out the sound as well as he thought he could.

Moving quickly to his window and pulling it open, he stuck his head out and looked down. He couldn’t see any problems from his fifth-floor view. But that didn’t mean they weren’t there. He was Spider-Man. He was supposed to be out there stopping the criminals at this time of night. Not sitting in his bedroom unable to do his homework because of his weird abandonment issues. His senses had alerted him to this woman’s plight for a reason. He was supposed to help people.

He needed to put on his suit and have Karen track the lady’s whereabouts. That was the best and most logical way to approach the situation.

But where was his suit? It wasn’t in its usual location, tucked away in between the supportive panels of his backpack, keeping it well hidden from anyone who might look through his stuff. He frantically began pulling all his clothes out of his dresser drawers, strewing them haphazardly across the floor in his haste.

His hands were shaking. In fact, his whole body seemed to be vibrating with an urgency he didn’t know how to define. Everyone had been telling him not to go out as Spider-Man until he could get his PTSD under control. But the city needed him. Queens needed him. The woman who was currently calling for help needed him.  

His room was completely torn apart.

“Peter?” A concerned voice questioned.

Peter spun on his heel, finding a concerned-looking May standing in his doorway. He wasn’t sure when she got home, and the fact that he hadn’t heard her come in unnerved him a little bit.

“May, where’s my suit? Where did you put my suit?” He frantically asked, once he recovered from the shock of his aunt’s sudden appearance.

“Honey, you—”

“I can’t find it!” He cut her off. “There’s a lady out there calling for help, and I can’t find my suit!” He began to tear through his belongings again, ripping through the clothes strewn about the floor, wondering if he’d missed something.

“Peter. Peter. Look at me.” May said, rushing to his side and putting her hands on his cheeks, forcing him to at least face her. “Calm down, okay? You are having a panic attack.”

“But the city needs me! Where did you put my suit?!”

“Peter.” She said, voice hard and almost stern, trying to get him to understand. “Your suit isn’t here. It’s at the compound, remember? You left it there last weekend because you are fixing it with Tony.”

What? How had he forgotten that? What was his problem? Things seemed to be moving in slow motion, as if everything was suddenly put on pause. And yet, May’s words finally began to make sense where things connect. They finally began to register in the harbors of his mind. He was having a panic attack. He was shaking. Tiny tremors making their way through his body. He slumped against the frame of his bed in defeat, the realization of what was happening inside his head causing his body to give out.

As he sunk to the floor, he found that tears began to leak unbidden from his eyes. He stubbornly tried to blink them back, not wanting to cry over something so stupid, but he couldn’t seem to control it. Now that he realized he was having a panic attack, it seemed that he couldn’t control his tear ducts.

“You can’t go out when you’re like this, baby.” She said calmly, moving to sit beside him on the floor and running a calming hand through his curls. “You can’t help the city if you can’t help yourself first.”

“That’s what everyone keeps saying.” He grumbled, wiping the stubborn tears from his eyes. “You, Mr. Stark, Mira.”

“Maybe you should listen to the adults in your life. We’re pretty smart, you know.” May said, continuing to hold him there. On his messy bedroom floor.

A small smile graced Peter’s blotchy, red features. Relishing the comfort of being by his aunt’s side.

“It’s just hard.” He said after a few minutes. “I have a responsibly. I owe it to Ben. Its what he would have wanted.”

“Oh, Peter.” She said sadly. “All Ben would have wanted is for you to be safe and happy. And I know being Spider-Man makes you happy, but its not safe for you to be doing it right now. You need to focus on helping yourself. Spider-Man will return in time.”

Peter knew she was right. He couldn’t keep getting injured on patrol just because he didn’t have it together. He couldn’t help anyone that way. But would anyone help those people without him around? Would they hear their cries and understand it was someone’s child? Their sister? Their mother? Their aunt?

“I hope someone helped her. The woman I heard.” He whispered, leaning against his aunt’s shoulder. A pause hung in the air for a while. Until Peter gained the courage he needed to say what was on his mind. “That’s why I do this, May. Because no one helped me. When Ben… I called for help. I screamed for help. And no one came.”

He felt her stiffen beside him. Heard the sharp intake of her breath. “Why didn’t you ever tell me? All this time….”

“Because some things are hard to say. And because I knew knowing that would scare you.” Peter answered. Astounded at his own truthfulness. Astounded at the clarity he suddenly felt.

His aunt wrapped both her arms fiercely around him. Hugging him tight. “You are the bravest person I’ve ever known, Peter. And I love you so, so much.”

--

It was Friday again, and Peter was beginning to suspect this particular day of the week was cursed. After the rollercoaster of emotions that was last Friday, he didn’t think he’d be having a day like this again any time soon. But here he was, sitting on the steps outside of school, waiting for Happy to pick him up and stubbornly trying not to dissociate. Happy was late, and Peter wondered what held the man up. He was always punctual, almost too punctual.

The school was pretty deserted. The only students left lingering the campus were those who had extracurricular activities today. Peter wasn’t one of them. Decathlon practice had been cancelled for the past two days. Mr. Harrington had the flu.

Peter dug his fingernails into the fabric of his backpack as he began to feel the familiar pull inward. He was not going to do this today. He had to stay present. Mr. Stark was expecting him to work hard in the lab, and he couldn’t do that if he was dissociating.

Focus, Peter. Focus.

He vaguely realized he hadn’t said much today. Hadn’t been his usual self. All his energy was put into keeping his mind at school and not letting it wander to a place he wasn’t even sure how to define. It probably worried Ned and MJ, but he couldn’t find it in himself to explain what was going on, or at least apologize.

Sometimes Peter felt as if colors and sounds and emotions were muted. Not really there. As if they were behind a clear glass wall. One that he couldn’t pass. Couldn’t conquer. As if the inability to feel anything was a great wave from the ocean. One that pulled him under and drowned him in the abyss. He wanted so desperately to let it take him. Let it drag him under its pounding waves. Let it wash him to shore when it decided, not him.

The problem was that some days, Peter just woke up this way. And he wasn’t sure why. He hadn’t had any nightmares last night, and nothing particularly distressing happened to make him feel like this. It was just one of those days where he had to fight the dissociation extra hard. It made him anxious. On edge. He didn’t want to care today.

But he had to try. Peter Parker didn’t give up. Sure, he failed a lot, but giving up wasn’t in his nature.

Happy finally pulled up, face red and expression flustered. Peter looked at his watch. The man was thirty minutes late.

“What took you so long, Happy?” He asked quietly, trying desperately to put some emotion into his voice. He didn’t want to give away that something was wrong. It was his problem, not Happy’s.

“There was a crash on the highway. It was backed up for miles.” He grumbled, clearly upset with the inconvenience. “Get in. We’re gonna be late.”  

There was something about looking out the car windows as the world zipped past that made Peter want to succumb to his dissociation more and more. Maybe it was the peaceful lull he felt being in a vehicle as smooth sailing as Mr. Stark’s luxury Audi. Or maybe it was the familiar silence of existing alone in a space with only the sounds of Happy’s breathing as company.

Regardless, he had to stay present. He’d already made it this far today, without completely giving in. He wanted to be able lay his head on his pillow and fall asleep tonight with a major accomplishment in terms of his mental health under his belt. He could do this. Stubbornly forcing his mind to think back to his sessions with Mira, he remembered one of the first things she taught him. The countdown technique.

Peter inhaled, letting his lungs slowly take in air. In and out. In and out. He could do this. Cataloging his surroundings, he thought of the first step in the technique.

Five things you can see.

His backpack. Happy. The cars they were sharing the road with.

Inward. Go inward. Forget. Don’t feel. No! Two more things, Peter. Just two more. You can do this. His thoughts were all over the place and nonexistent all at once. His mind warred with himself. A part of him wanted to just shut down and let himself dissociate, yet another part wanted to continue to fight. To desperately claw with sanity. Just two more things.

Green highway signs. A Virginia license plate.

Four things you can touch.

The posh leather seats. His sweater. The seatbelt. His hair.

The incessant grip of dissociation was still urgently trying to cling to him, but it was a little easier that time. A little easier to focus. To orient himself.

Three things you can hear.

Happy’s steady heartbeat. Music on someone’s radio a few cars over. The persistent tick of a turn signal.

Two things you can smell.

Gasoline. The residual scent of Happy’s morning coffee.

One emotion you can feel.

Uncomfortable? Peter wasn’t sure. He didn’t like dissociating. It made him feel….

He could still feel a faint pull to give in. To let the nothingness consume him. Do it again. Do the technique again. Five things. Five things. Five things.

Suddenly, the panic slammed into him all at once. That’s what he felt. Panic. Panic. Panic. He hadn’t expected to ward the dissociation off so quickly. And a part of him hadn’t expected to ward it off at all. Panic. Panic. Panic. That’s the emotion he felt. Its icy tendrils gripping him roughly. Forcing him to feel something. He was having a panic attack!

No, no, no. He didn’t want this to happen. Not here. Not now. Why didn’t he account for this? Why didn’t he realize once he forced himself to feel things, this would be the first thing he felt?

Breathe in. Breathe out. Out. In. Out, out, out. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale, exhale, exhale.

As if from a great distance, a long tunnel he was standing at the edge of, he could hear Happy calling his name. Asking if he was okay. He knew he was panting. Gasping for air. But he couldn’t do anything about it. He couldn’t answer the man. He couldn’t breathe!

Think, Peter. Think!

He didn’t know how his panicked mind supplied him with the answer, he didn’t know how he remembered it in the wake of his frantic, discombobulated thoughts, but he was glad he did. He needed his anxiety medicine. The one he used for emergencies. For panic attacks.

Reaching for his backpack with trembling hands and jarring, twitchy movements, he pulled out the small bottle of Xanax. Maybe it was a stupid idea to keep prescription drugs in his backpack, but his habit of losing his school things had long since fizzled out. And besides, he took his backpack almost everywhere. He didn’t know when he would need the little bottle of pills.

After forcing his trembling limbs to cooperate so he could open the bottle, he swallowed the small, blue pill dry. He didn’t have anything to drink with him, and he was more than desperate enough to force it down his throat without a beverage. He tried to control his breathing. Taking deep, measured breaths. It would work in soon. It would make him feel better.

When given his prescription, Peter was told the dose was adjusted to fit his crazy metabolism. He was told the medication was addictive, and he was only to use it in emergencies. Well, this sure felt like an emergency. He was still shaking all over, and his awareness was just beginning to filter back in.

His hands were tingling. Mira told him that would happen if he hyperventilated, but it still unnerved him. He felt tired. Exhausted. And to his dismay, he felt a wetness on his cheeks. Looking down at his darkened, cracked phone screen, Peter noticed his blotchy, red features staring back at him through the reflection.  

Ugh. Why did he always have to cry in these situations? It made him feel even more embarrassed.

“You okay, Peter?” Happy asked, meeting his eyes in the rear-view mirror, concern etched in his face and lacing his voice.  

“I’ll be fine.” He answered truthfully, voice wobbling only just a little.

And he would be.

It was over. It was over. It was over.

--

By the time they arrived at the compound, Peter had calmed down significantly. The medication made him feel heavy and tired, but he welcomed it. The contrast from feeling light and breathless was almost soothing. Happy hadn’t made a big deal of his freak out and hadn’t said much the rest of the way there. Peter was immensely grateful for it.  

Once they stepped through the doors and met Mr. Stark in the entryway however, Happy pulled the man aside for a moment. Peter stubbornly refused to let himself listen in, but he had no doubt Happy was alerting Mr. Stark to his panic attack on the way here.

Putting a comforting hand on his shoulder and leading him through the hallways to the lab, Mr. Stark began babbling about fixing Dum-E and U, as if nothing happened. As if things were normal. Peter was so glad the man wasn’t questioning him. So glad he was acting normal.

They worked in companionable silence. Peter fixing the suit and Mr. Stark messing with the bots. Peter felt comfortable and at ease. He was so thankful nothing had to be said. Thankful nothing had to be explained.

He didn’t know how long they worked together like that, but after a while Peter finally felt comfortable enough to break the silence. He had something on his mind. Something important he needed to say.

“Hey, Mr. Stark?” He asked.

The man hummed in response, still firmly focused on Dum-E’s inner workings.

“Do you…” Peter trailed off, wondering what the best way to word his question would be. “Do you think I’m getting better?” Even Peter was surprised with the forwardness he was able to exude in that moment.  

Mr. Stark looked up from his work, meeting Peter’s eyes. He almost looked surprised. “Where’s this coming from, Pete?”

“I don’t know…” Peter shifted uncomfortably on his stool and fiddled with the tools in his hands. Decidedly not looking Mr. Stark in the eye. “I guess I sometimes wonder because it seems like I’m not improving.” He didn’t know why he decided to dance around the issue and not just tell Mr. Stark about the panic attack he most likely already knew about.     

After a moment of contemplation, the man spoke. “Happy told me you had a panic attack in the car. But you took care of it yourself, without any help. If that isn’t improvement, kid, I don’t know what is.”

And there is was. Mr. Stark apparently had no qualms about mentioning the elephant in the room.    

“But I still had to take my anxiety medication.” Peter countered.

Mr. Stark stood, looking at Peter with an intense gaze that told the boy he didn’t approve of his line of thinking.

“Come on, kid.” The man said, gesturing to the side with a twitch of his head. “Let’s go sit on the couch.”

Once they sat facing each other on the old, beat-up sectional in the corner of the lab, Peter at one end, Mr. Stark at the other, the man began to speak. “We have to have a serious conversation here, Pete. You have to give yourself credit for the good things you do, or you’ll never be happy. And maybe that’s hypocritical coming from me, but I mean it, kid. It doesn’t matter that you had to take those meds. What matters is you took them by yourself. You remembered, despite having a panic attack, that that’s what you needed to do.”

Peter opened his mouth, about to argue, but his mentor cut him off.

“Nuh-uh. Let me finish.” Mr. Stark interrupted, holding a finger up to stop him. “I’ve been regularly talking to May, you know. I know this was the first time you took them by yourself. That’s a huge accomplishment, Peter. You need to realize that.”

“But I still had a panic attack in the first place!” Peter blurted out before the man could stop him. He didn’t understand why Mr. Stark was so adamant about this. He wasn’t getting better. He continued to have panic attacks almost every day. So what if he could get his brain in order enough to take a pill? He was still having panic attacks. None of this felt anything like an accomplishment to him.

Mr. Stark pinched the bridge of his nose. “Kid. Your panic attacks won’t go away overnight. And let me tell you, they won’t ever completely go away. But being able to know what to do all on your own? That’s huge. You are making progress. You are getting better. I don’t know how else to spell it out for you.”

Peter didn’t know what to say. Maybe Mr. Stark was right. Maybe he’d been getting better all along. Little by little. And he just hadn’t seen it yet. He thought about the day at decathlon practice. The day he’d felt pretty normal. How elated and excited it made him feel. The reason he’d sent himself into a panic later that evening was because he’d worried something bad had happened to May. It didn’t have anything to do with his PTSD. Maybe he could reason with himself. Maybe he could notice the progress he’d been making too.

He realized, for the first time, with startling clarity, that he’d been getting better from the moment he asked May for help all those months ago. He’d taken the first step on the road to recovery. And the second. And the third. He could continue to do this. He could get better.

And for the first time, Peter realized he felt hopeful. Hopeful in a way he hadn’t ever felt about all this before.   

After a while, Mr. Stark spoke, interrupting his thoughts. “I don’t want to hear you talk so negatively about yourself and your recovery anymore. It’s not good for you, and it definitely won’t help you in the long run. So stop it, okay?” The man said, leveling him with a gaze that begged to not be messed with.

Yeah. Mr. Stark was right. It wasn’t good for him.

“Okay.” Peter said, a genuine smile taking up residence on his face.

He was healing.

It just took Mr. Stark to help him realize it.

He was healing.