Archive of Our Own

Peter looked at the pill bottle laying on his nightstand and sighed. He shook out the one pill he’d been prescribed and popped it in his mouth, swallowing it dry. He didn’t know why he still bothered to take it. It hadn’t done anything for him since the bite boosted his metabolism. Peter still held out a useless amount of hope that maybe a small amount of the chemical the pills were laden with made it to his brain. Logically, he knew they weren’t. If he needed super-strength painkillers then surely his anti-depressants and anti-anxiety meds wouldn’t be any different. 

Peter could tell they weren’t working as well. He knew the minute they stopped working when a week after Ben, a week after the bite, he had a panic attack on the subway from how overstimulated he was. His hands shook as he wrestled with his backpack for a benadryl, he took a pill, and waited for it to calm him. He waited the whole rest of the ride to Midtown, the entirety of his first class, and all the way to lunch hour before he realized it had never kicked in. He’d calmed down on his own by then, but still felt jumpy and on the verge of another attack for the rest of the day. 

The loss of his antidepressants really hit him a month later as he found himself alone in the apartment, May was working a double, and he couldn’t force himself to move off the couch. He stayed there for hours, ignoring the rumbling of his stomach, and just kept staring at the ceiling into nothing. His body felt heavy and immovable, yet his mind was frantic as it flitted from one thought to another. Peter doesn’t remember how, but he came back to himself standing in the bathroom perched on the toilet. His hand held an exacto knife an inch from his thigh. He hadn’t cut, but the possibility of starting again scared him deeply. It’d been years that he’d been clean at that point, and he’d almost thrown it all away in an instant. He threw the knife away from him and stayed curled up in the tub for the rest of the night.

He knew he should be proud of himself for stopping. The fact he didn’t relapse and was able to control the urge should be seen as a victory and not a failure, but Peter couldn’t stop seeing the knife hovering above his thigh. He couldn’t stop imagining a thousand little lines joining the neat rows of white that had already been placed there. He bet they wouldn’t scar now, none of his injuries as Spider-Man had scarred yet. The cuts themselves would probably heal within minutes. No one would ever know unless he told them. It wouldn’t be like last time, when Ben had held him so tenderly and cried as he looked at the thin red lines on Peter’s arms. It would be different if he started this time. If he started this time, he didn’t think he’d stop.

Peter placed all his exacto knives, and pencil sharpeners in a drawer in the kitchen and made it so he could lock it. May saw the lock on one of her days off and smiled sadly at him. She didn’t say anything at all, but when Peter was making himself breakfast the next day, all the steak and larger cooking knives had been moved to a place he couldn’t find. May left the number of a therapist they couldn’t afford on Peter’s pillow, and Peter tried his best not to cry himself to sleep that night. He didn’t succeed. 

Things only really got worse from there. May was gone all the time, so she really wasn’t around enough to see the backwards slide of his recovery. His panic attacks went from biweekly, to weekly, to daily occurrences. Ned had resumed the position of bathroom lookout, something he’d been able to stop doing when Peter had gotten medication in seventh grade. He’d had a panic attack during decathlon practice once and MJ had just quietly pulled him aside, making it so he could leave the room without drawing any attention. He was so grateful for his friends, but Peter could see how his downward spiral was draining them.

He didn’t want to be spiraling. He really didn’t. He tried every coping mechanism his former therapist had taught him, and they worked sometimes. Sometimes, Peter could calm himself down from an attack. Sometimes, he could convince himself to get off the couch and eat. Sometimes, he was able to stop the intrusive thoughts before they really got going, but he just wasn’t able to do it consistently. 

While Peter had hated the thought of medication when Ben and May and his therapist had first suggested it to him, he could now comfortably admit that the medication was one of the main reasons he’d been able to function during daily life. It’d helped his moods level out and his anxiety had still been noticeable, but he’d been able to work through it. Peter didn’t think he’d have gotten into Midtown without them. The meds, the coping skills his therapist had taught him, and his support system were the only reasons he’d pulled his grades back up during middle school. They helped him feel a bit more confident, a bit more energetic, a bit more Peter. And now they weren’t working, and Peter felt like he was losing himself all over again.

Peter struggled to get through the school day. He was so tired. Peter felt pulled thin, stretched in too many directions. He’d kept patrolling, despite his worsening mental health, and it had been fine for a while but lately his sleep was restless, full of nightmares, and fleeting. Most nights he could hardly get two hours. It was starting to affect his reflexes as Spider-Man and he’d almost gotten shot the night previous. Ned tapped him on the shoulder every time he almost fell asleep in their English class, but left him alone during study hall. He saw both MJ and Ned exchanging looks before he’d passed out for the hour, but there was nothing he could do. He was trying his best, and his best wasn’t good enough. 

“Hey man, do you wanna come over to my house today and work on that new lego set we got?” Ned asked him on the way out the door, and Peter nodded. He’d planned to patrol but with the close shave from the night before he thought it might be best to take some time off. Besides, he could really do with getting out of the apartment for something other than school or Spider-Man.

“Yeah, that sounds great.” Peter smiled back at Ned, and felt a bit bad at just how much his confirmation seemed to cheer up his friend.

“Awesome! It’s got so many pieces, but I’m sure we can get through a decent chunk of it tonight if we get started as soon as we get home.”

“I still don’t know how you managed to snag an Avengers Tower set.” Peter replied as they made their way to the subway station. “I thought they were all sold out?”

“You have no idea,” Ned groaned and threw his head back, before launching into the arduous tale of a supposedly legendary ebay war he’d been involved in for the tower. Peter just smiled and nodded, letting Ned talk, and allowing himself to focus on his friend’s voice so he didn’t get too overwhelmed as they moved underground. Despite his tiredness, today had been a relatively good day so far, so he wanted to do his best to keep his sensory overloads to a minimum. 

Ned didn’t bring up Peter’s mental health until after they’d constructed almost a quarter of the tower and had eaten dinner made by one of Ned’s moms.

“How has everything been going?” Ned's voice was tentative, like he was afraid Peter would break apart at the slightest questioning of his mental state. Peter knew that his friend meant well, but he was still annoyed at being handled with kiddy gloves, even if that was what he needed some days.

Peter sighed and leaned back, closing his eyes against the bright light coming from the fixture on the ceiling of Ned’s room. “It’s been rough. My medication stopped working after the bite and I’m just struggling to level out. It’s been better recently.”

“You’ve only had two attacks this week.” Ned said, nodding along as he clicked together some more parts of the tower. “But you quadrupled that last week.”

“Like I said, I can’t seem to level out. I’m doing everything my last therapist told me to, and I’ve been talking to you about it too. I’ve talked to May about it too, but she’s so busy lately we hardly see each other.” Peter grimaced and clicked two more bricks together and attached them to the next section of the tower. “I appreciate you being there for me, man. I know this isn’t easy.”

“Peter, I’m your friend!” Ned leaned forward, offering his hand, and Peter chuckled as the two quickly moved through their secret handshake. “I know you’d do the same for me.”

They lapsed into silence for a bit with only the clicking of lego bricks and Ned’s Spotify playlist to break the quiet ambience. Ned didn’t stay quiet for long though.

“Have you thought about asking Mr. Stark if he knows ways to make super strong versions of your meds, or maybe just even getting into therapy again?”

“No, I don’t really want to talk about this with him.” Peter ran his hands through his hair, his heart already beating quicker at the thought of sharing something this personal with his mentor. “I mean, he just started letting me into his lab after this whole vulture thing and the last thing I need is him thinking I can’t handle being Spider-Man. What if he takes away the suit again?” Ned opened his mouth as if to interrupt and Peter put up his hand to stop him, and Ned nodded letting him continue. “Besides, this isn’t a new thing for me. This is, like, years worth of baggage that’s tied up in my depression and anxiety, you know. Mr. Stark is nice now, and I really respect him, but I don’t really know him well enough to talk about any of this with him. I just…” Peter blew out a breath, “It’s nice to have the lab days and not have to talk about all this stuff. I already get check-ins from you and May, and while I appreciate it, I don’t really want to put that on Mr. Stark. I think it’d just be really awkward, especially because I don’t know if he’ll really understand it.”

“Peter,” Ned crept forward a bit and pulled Peter into a side hug. “I’m pretty sure Mr. Stark might be one of the only people that could possibly understand you. He’s a superhero, so you have to have seen similar stuff. He got kidnapped for, like, three months. Plus, you know, there’s the whole losing your parents traumatically thing.” Ned shifted back and smiled up at Peter before rummaging in his bag for some paper. “You guys should start a club!”

Peter couldn’t help himself, the laughter just burst right out of his chest, a bright joyous sound that momentarily lifted the heavy fog hanging about his shoulders. Ned joined in and the two didn’t stop giggling for a long while.

“Ned, I am not starting a dead parents club with Mr. Stark.” Peter managed to get out, once he’d calmed down from his hysterics. “I don’t think our situations are really the same anyway.”

“I mean, they kind of are.” Ned responded, having calmed down from his own laughing fit. “You didn’t know your parents were SHIELD agents till the data dump, wasn’t the plane crash related to a mission or something?”

“Or something, basically all of the information was redacted.” Peter sighed and shook his head at the memory of trawling through thousands of documents in the middle of the night for even a speck of information. “I was never able to find anything more out.”

“That sucks.” Ned replied, sharing a solemn look with his friend. “Frickin’ secrets.”

Peter laughed again, although this one was a little watery sounding compared to his last one. Ned pretended he didn’t see Peter wiping at his eyes.

“Frickin’ secrets.”

All Peter could think about now was that conversation he’d had with Ned barely a week ago as he sat, stock still in the middle of Mr. Stark’s lab having a full blown panic attack. He wanted to say it was nothing major that had caused the attack this time, just some basic overstimulation, or a minor trigger that had already been bugging him the whole day, but that wasn’t even close to this. This was big, this was major. Peter didn’t know how to process this. 

Peter hadn’t been able to find any useful information on his parents when he’d trawled through the data dump, but he knew Friday and Mr. Stark might have access to the unredacted versions of documents he couldn’t access. So, when Mr.Stark had stepped out for a meeting, Peter asked Friday expecting to be denied, but Friday had just hummed while she’d checked for him. 

He knew his parents were SHIELD agents. Their names were Richard and Mary Parker and they were scientists and they loved him, and they left him with Aunt May and Uncle Ben before they’d left for their last mission. Their plane crashed and their bodies had never been recovered. Peter regularly visits two gravestones, one for both his parents, and one for Ben and there is only ever one body in the ground. He knows this all, he knows this.

He didn’t know that his parents had never even gotten on that plane. He didn’t know they were studying spiders, specifically ways to cure diseases, muscular disorders, via fusion of human and arachnid DNA. He didn’t know about the short and simple document that declared his parents KIA in a secret lab in a secret part of Washington DC. 

He didn’t want to see the crime scene photos of his father’s brains scattered across white tile, his mother’s limp wrist wrapped in a ring of bruises, her neck bearing an ugly necklace of bruises to match. She had a black eye. Peter doesn’t know why that bothers him the most, why that is what his brain chooses to stick on. He didn’t want to see the grainy surveillance footage that showed an unfortunately familiar metal arm he caught at an airport only a year ago. He didn’t want to think about how he called it cool, how he had bantered with his parents' murderer like it was all a game. He didn’t want to think about anything at all.

He doesn’t know what happened to his parents' bodies. He doesn’t know if his powers are a cruel accident or an intentional outcome. He doesn’t remember his mother’s smile, his father’s eyes, he doesn’t remember much of them at all. He knows it is because they died when he was so young, but a part of his brain doubts. A part of his brain whispers everything he can remember about childhood trauma affecting memory.  He wants that part of his brain to shut up.

He wants to believe they were good people. He wants to believe they loved him. He doesn’t want to see the autopsy photos and declines hoarsely when Friday asks. He asks if she knows where their bodies are, if she knows what happened to them in the immediate aftermath. She doesn’t know. There are no documents other than death certificates, but no trail to tell him where they ended up. They were there and gone. The method changed but the outcome was still the same. Peter was here and his parents weren’t.

Vaguely, Peter knew Mr. Stark had stepped out around half an hour ago for a meeting and wouldn’t be back for at least another half hour, so logically, he knew he had time to calm down. Logically, he was thinking of all the possible ways he could calm down, the coping strategies, May on speed dial, or Ned, but his hands were shaking too much, and his brain was going too fast for him to even begin to choose one.

Peter thought he heard Friday trying to talk to him, and he tried to respond, tried to reassure her, if only to buy himself more time, but his voice only came out as a dull croak when he opened his mouth. His breathing was too fast, too short, and he felt lightheaded. He reached down fumbled for his bag to pull out the benadryl he still kept there out of habit, but it slips out of his fingers before he can quite grasp it.

Suddenly, he was on the floor. He didn’t know how he got there. His elbow hurt. His ribs hurt. His eyes burned as they stared up at the bright LEDs of the lab. The pills are a foot in front of his face. He can’t convince his arms to move. He clenched his eyes shut and pressed his fingernails into his hand. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, he just wanted everything to stop for a minute. 

Peter doesn’t know how long he laid there with his eyes shut and hands clenched. He thinks he hears a faucet dripping somewhere. It sounds close and far away all at once. He doesn’t know why he focuses on that. He doesn’t know how he focuses on anything.

All at once hands are touching him, and he flinches back, banging his leg on a tipped over stool, hard. Foggily, he realizes he must have fallen off the stool and onto the floor. 

Someone is talking to him, but the voice is too loud, and the lights are too bright and too loud, and Peter wants everything to stop. He just wants everything to stop.

Abruptly, the lights dim and whoever’s holding him backs up a bit though Peter can still hear their breathing. The awkward skip hop of their heart that ticks and hums with a purely mechanical rhythm.

Mr. Stark.

Carefully, Peter opens his eyes and looks around making eye contact with Mr. Stark who is seated a few feet away from him. Mr. Stark’s hands are held palm up and out toward Peter like he’s a scared animal, although Peter supposes that is the most accurate descriptor for him at the moment. 

Mr. Stark doesn’t talk when he notices Peter finally focuses on him, instead he holds up one finger and stands, making his way over to the main lab table. Peter watches him rifle through a drawer for a moment before he comes back over to Peter, offering a pair of wireless earbuds and a pair of sunglasses.

Peter takes them. It takes him three tries to slip the earbuds in. His hands are shaking too much to situate them properly. Mr. Stark gently takes the sunglasses back and slips them on Peter’s face without asking. Peter is grateful. He thinks he might have poked himself in the eye if he’d tried. 

He is tired. His breathing has slowed a bit, but not enough to be classified as not hyperventilating. Belatedly, Peter realizes he is having a panic attack in front of his mentor, in front of Iron Man. Peter is going to get his suit taken away. Mr. Stark is never going to respect him again. Peter’s breathing picks back up.

Mr. Stark, who had been creeping closer to Peter, stops as he notices Peter’s increasing distress.

“I’m sorry.” Peter’s voice is garbled, and teary, and rough. He is so sorry. “I’m sorry, Mr. Stark. Please–” A sob cuts Peter off before he can continue his plea. “Please–”

Mr. Stark is suddenly right there, tucking Peter’s face into his chest and stroking his hair. Peter goes limp at the touch. All the energy leaving his body in one fell swoop. Mr. Stark pulls back enough to tuck Peter’s chin on his shoulder, so Peter’s face is no longer buried in his suit jacket. He never stops stroking his hair. It makes it just the slightest bit easier to breathe.

“What’s five things you can see, kiddo.” Mr. Stark’s voice is a deep rumble against Peter’s head. It reminds Peter of the rumble of the engine from when Ben would drive him around at night when Peter couldn’t sleep. 

Mr. Stark pulls Peter back a bit more, stopping the soothing ministrations and Peter whines at the loss. Mr. Stark’s smile is small, tenuous, like he’s not quite sure what to do.

“Five things, kid. Five things you can see.” 

“You, couch,” Peter’s voice leaves him for a moment and Mr. Stark starts up the gentle strokes again. He doesn’t speak, just waits for Peter to continue. “Lights, stool, Dum-e.”

Mr. Stark chuckles and moves Peter’s legs, so he’s no longer kneeling and instead sitting as comfortably as he can on a concrete floor, “Yeah, is old dumbo hanging around? Let’s keep going, four things you can touch.”

“Floor, you, jeans,” Peter’s brain stalls out again. It’s like he forgets every word in the English language in that one moment. His breathing picks up again, and Mr. Stark somehow seems to know the exact problem. He moves one of Peter’s hands from the floor to his suit jacket. The difference in texture jolts Peter’s brain. “Jacket.”

“Good.” Mr. Stark’s voice is soft and clear, despite the earbuds muffling everything. “You’re super smart, Underoos. Got another for you, three things you can hear.”

Peter’s answer comes faster this time, “You, Friday, Ms. Potts.”

“Pepper? You can hear Pepper, still. Damn, kid, we really need to check your hearing, not important.” Mr. Stark cuts himself off, and Peter holds back a whine again. The rambling is soothing, grounding. “Two things you can smell, bambino.”

“Sandalwood and oil.” Peter’s breathing is almost level now. Mr. Stark’s uneven heartbeat is as much of a comfort as the hand in his hair. Peter wants to be embarrassed, but he is so tired.

“Great job, bambino. We’re getting close, one more now, what’s one thing you can taste?”

“Chocolate, had oreos earlier.” Peter points, just a tad shaikly now compared the tremors from earlier, over to his desk where the empty packet sits.

“Absolutely scandalous, Mr. Parker. Do you still have any laying around? I won’t tell Pepper if you won’t.”

“Backpack.” Mr. Stark nods and helps Peter to his feet and over to the couch. Once he’s sure Peter is situated, he walks over to dig through Peter’s bag for the snack. Peter sees him stall at the sight of the pill packet on the floor, but Dum-e rushes over, blanket clutched in his claw, and attempts to lay it over Peter before Peter can begin to overanalyze it. The robot is unsuccessful in his attempts to form a formidable blanket burrito around Peter before Mr. Stark comes back over and shoos him away. The pills are gone when Peter looks again.

“Get out of here, you absolute mother hen. You have work to do, I know you still haven’t cleaned up the mess from this morning.”

Dum-e beeps indignantly and Mr. Stark and him continue to bicker good naturedly until Peter manages to wriggle an arm out of his blanket cocoon and pat Dum-e lightly on his claw.

“I’m okay, Dum-e. Thank you for the blanket.” The helper bot beeps and whirls in a circle and Peter can’t help the little smile that graces his face at the bot’s antics. Mr. Stark rolls his eyes and ushers the bot away again, and seemingly satisfied by Peter’s assurance, the bot listens and rushes off to a faraway corner of the lab.

“I get no respect.” Mr. Stark sighs, but the smile on his face is obvious as he offers Peter the sleeve of oreos. “Feeling better, kid?”

Peter tenses, pausing his hands from completing their twist to open the oreo. “I’m fine, Mr. Stark. Sorry to interrupt your meeting.”

Mr. Stark does a double take and Peter shrinks back into the couch. “Underoos, Friday told me you were in distress, the meeting was the absolute last thing on my mind.” Mr. Stark narrows his eyes and his lip corners tug down into a slight frown. “You...you know what was just happening to you right?”

Peter furrows his brow and doesn’t answer for a moment, choosing to lick the cream from the cookie completely first. He ignores Mr. Stark’s heavy gaze until it becomes uncomfortable.

“I know what panic attacks are, Mr. Stark.”

“And was this, do you…” Mr. Stark trails off. Neither of them speak for a minute. Mr. Stark grabs his own oreo and begins opening it up. Peter takes the time to finish his cookie.

“I’ve had them before, pretty often honestly.” Peter sighs then, burrowing further into his blanket. It is a flannel, worn soft from a multitude of washes. It is Peter’s favorite. Peter doesn’t know if he is ever going to be tucked under this blanket again, not after this conversation. “I know you saw the pills, they’re just benadryl but they’d help when I got attacks before, calmed me down a bit, you know.” Peter takes another deep breath and shoves his hands back under the blanket to hide their shaking. “I take antidepressants too and those helped, but um, they haven’t done anything since the bite. I think my metabolism cancels them out.”

“Kid,” Mr. Stark’s voice is weary and heavy. Peter is proud that he doesn’t flinch at the obvious disappointment from his mentor, who he’d just started getting close too. He knows it’s over now. No way Mr. Stark will ever trust him as Spider-Man again. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Peter expected that question. He doesn’t expect the anger that rises in him at it, because honestly, how dare Mr. Stark act like Peter should have trusted him with this. They hardly know each other. The man took away his suit, rightfully so but still, Peter had been pretty much ignored up to that point and not really given any indication anyone was even listening to his concerns. Their lab days had really only started in earnest three months prior after May had sat him down and ironed out a schedule for them to meet, so Peter could have a legitimate internship. While the lab days had been great so far, and Mr. Stark had seemed to do a 180 on how attentive and invested he was in Peter, Peter wasn’t quite ready to do the same. Sure, he’d started to see Mr. Stark as a sort of father figure, but it was tenuous, shaky. He didn’t want it to hurt as bad when the rug was inevitably pulled out from under him again.

“I’m pretty sure I’ve been depressed as long as I can remember, anxious too for that matter. Having your parents die traumatically will do that to you. Seeing your uncle shot in front of you will do that to you.” Peter let an edge of steel bleed into his voice. “I was handling it. Just because I have panic attacks doesn’t mean I can’t be Spider-Man!” 

“No, bambino.” Mr. Stark leans forward a bit, hands hovering over the blanket like he wants to comfort Peter, but he drops them back into his lap when Peter doesn’t move forward to meet him. “I didn’t mean it that way, I just…” Mr. Stark sighs and runs a hand through his hair. “I just meant that I could have gotten you some help. I’m not–Peter, it’d be pretty hypocritical for me to say you can’t be Spider-Man when I still run around as Iron Man all the time.”

Peter sits up straight, “Wait, you?” Peter can’t get the rest of the question out, but Mr. Stark thankfully understands.

“Me, kid.” Mr. Stark sighs and leans back against the couch, spreading his arms across the back. He doesn’t look at Peter and instead directs his gaze to the ceiling. “Started after Afghanistan, but they really ramped up after New York. Almost dying in space will do that to you. Do you remember the Mandarin?”

Peter nods, “You gave your address out and your house got blown up, everyone thought you were dead.”

“Yeah, that about sums it up.” Mr. Stark grimaces. “I was having panic attacks all the time and could hardly deal with them, and I almost got everyone I loved killed. I got better afterwards, starting seeing a therapist, working on communicating more, and then…”

Mr. Stark is silent for a long moment, he’s still not looking at Peter. Peter shuffles closer to him on the couch, almost tucking himself into Mr. Stark’s side. “Then what, Mr. Stark?”

“Ultron.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah, kid.” Mr. Stark wraps an arm around Peter’s shoulders, and Peter allows himself to sink into the touch. He feels, he doesn’t know how he feels, but he’s definitely not angry anymore. At least, not at Mr. Stark. “Everything kind of went downhill from there and I’m still climbing my way back up, Pete. So, I can’t exactly begrudge you for doing the same.”

The two of them sit in silence for a long long time. Neither of them speak but they slowly work their way through the pack of oreos and watch Dum-e, U, and Butterfingers roll about the lab. At one point, Dum-e somehow got hold of a feather duster and is methodically cleaning one section of Peter’s desk over and over, while emitting a series of beeps that form a jaunty little tune. Peter smiles at the action, even though he hears Mr. Stark mumble another threat about sending the bot to a community college. 

“Do you mind if I asked what caused the attack? Friday said you’d asked her something about your parents, but I didn’t really get to listen to her whole explanation before I got to the lab.” Peter stiffens again. He doesn’t feel ready to talk about it, doesn’t think he ever will, but he looks at Mr. Stark’s face, how open and earnest it is for once. He thinks of his conversation with Ned. How Mr. Stark might be one of the only people he knows who can completely relate to him. Peter takes a deep breath and starts to speak.

“My parents died when I was really little, a plane crash.” Mr. Stark nods like he already knows this information. Peter knows from some conversations he’s had with May that the two of them have been talking. He supposes it’s not a far stretch that Mr. Stark had asked about them and May had told him. “Well, I thought it was a business trip, but I found out that wasn’t entirely accurate when SHIELD fell and the whole data dump thing happened.”

“They were agents?” Mr. Stark asks, prompting Peter when he pauses for a moment too long. Peter is grateful for the help. He doesn’t know if he’ll be able to talk about this without breaking down again.

“Yeah, SHIELD agents, actual SHIELD agents, not...not HYDRA. They were scientists.” Peter takes another moment to gather himself. His voice is shivery and quiet when he speaks next. “They were trying to see if they could cure certain diseases by crossing human and spider DNA.”

“Jesus Christ, Peter.” Mr. Stark’s exclamation sums it up. “Do you think…” He trails off and Peter can’t blame him.

“I don’t know.” It’s as honest as Peter can be at this moment, at this time, with the information he has. “I hardly remember anything from when they were alive. I was four when they died, so I think that’s pretty normal. May and Ben never said anything and I wasn’t super before the bite, so I don’t think they did anything to me.” 

“There’s a chance--” Mr. Stark starts but Peter cuts him off before he can even begin to finish the thought.

“No, they wouldn’t. I don’t remember them well, but I remember being loved. I remember crying and crying when they left that day and I know my mom hugged me for a really long time, my dad too. They loved me and they wouldn’t do that to me.” His hands are shaking again and he’s shifted away from the comfort of Mr. Stark’s embrace. Mr. Stark gently pulls him back in and begins to run a hand through Peter’s hair again.

“Okay, Pete. I believe you, I do. I’m sorry that wasn’t very fair of me.” He pauses for a moment to let Peter calm down. “Do you want to keep going?”

“Yes.” Peter nods and closes his eyes to steady himself. “I, I need to tell someone and I think you might understand better than anyone else right now.”

“Alright, kiddo. Take your time.”

“It was supposed to be a short trip, three days at most.” Peter said, recounting something he barely remembers. “When I found out about them being agents through the dump I looked to see if there was any record of what they might have been doing, you know? I figure even super secret agencies have accidents, but I wanted to be sure. So, I looked online and absolutely everything was redacted other than the date, their names, basic job roles, and cause of death.”

“Suspicious.” Peter’s nuzzled a bit further into Mr. Stark’s side as he’s continued on. He knows what’s coming now, what he has to say. Mr. Stark doesn’t. Mr. Stark doesn’t push him though, doesn’t hurry him along. He lets Peter pause as long as he needs, take as many breaths as he needs. 

“I thought,” Peter starts and stops, and swallows the spit that accumulated in his mouth. It feels like a ball of glue sliding down his throat. “I thought Friday might have access to some non redacted documents, so I thought I should ask her. I thought she’d say I didn’t have access.” He turns to face Mr. Stark fully. “I promise, Mr. Stark, I thought she was going to say no. I didn’t think she’d actually tell me any information.”

“You didn’t do anything wrong, kid.” Mr. Stark assures him. His smile is soft, but sad as he brushes Peter’s bangs out of his eyes. “You deserve to know what happened to your parents. Everyone,” Mr. Stark stops then, he looks away from Peter before continuing. “Everyone deserves to know what happened to their parents.”

Peter doesn’t know much about what went down with Mr. Stark and Captain America after the airport. He knows that the Rouges went, well rouge, and that Mr. Stark was injured in a way he wasn’t when Peter saw him last, sitting in a car in front of his apartment building. Peter knows there is a shield and a severed metal arm sitting in a locked cabinet beneath the main lab table next to an old flip phone. He only knows this because he came into the lab once and Friday must not have announced him beforehand, because Mr. Stark was just staring at all three objects with a blank look on his face. Peter doesn’t want to push, but suddenly he has to know.

“Mr. Stark, did the Winter Soldier kill your parents?”

Mr. Stark jolts and the hand in Peter's hair stalls abruptly. His mentor draws in a shaky breath and lets it out slowly, then he does it again. Peter doesn’t say anything just carefully presses himself into Mr. Stark’s side. He grabs the hand that was fluttering uselessly in his hair and moves it to his chest. Peter exaggerates his breathing and eventually Peter hears the Mr. Stark’s race car of a heart settle into a slow idle. 

“Yes.” Mr. Stark doesn’t say anything more after that. Peter doesn’t push him on it either. 

“Mr. Stark,” Peter lowers Mr. Stark’s hand off his chest and clutches it between his hands. He nervously runs a finger over a thick callus on the side of Mr. Stark’s thumb. His eyes burn as he tries to hold back tears. “Mr. Stark, he killed my parents.”

Peter hears Mr. Stark’s sharp intake of breath, but Peter suddenly can’t stop talking. He needs to get it all out, talk about everything he saw.

“They didn’t even get out of the building, Mr. Stark. It was, it was so brutal. I don’t even know. Friday said there were photos and I don’t know why I looked at the photos, Mr. Stark, but I really really shouldn’t have. He, my dad, he...he shot my dad and I, I have photos of my dad in scrapbooks and I couldn’t even recognize him at all, but he was wearing this little bracelet around his wrist that I can kinda remember making him at the time, so I know it was him, but, but it didn’t look like him because his face was just gone, Mr. Stark, it was gone and I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything like that before.” Peter hardly pauses to take a breath and he can feel Mr. Stark staring at him as he continues to word vomit all these horrible things into the silence between them.

“My mom, she wasn’t as bad as him, but it was still bad. She looked like she’d been crying and she looked like she had died in pain and there was a lot of blood on her, but I think it was mostly my dad’s. He, the Winter Soldier, I, I can’t–”

“Peter,” Mr. Stark is holding both of Peter’s hands now, but he gently detaches one to turn Peter’s face towards him. His tone is urgent, but Peter feels like he can hardly hear him, like he’s underwater. “Peter, you need to breathe.”

Peter sucks in a breath, and then another, and another, and another, and it doesn’t feel like enough. He doesn’t have enough air and his face is wet and his hands are wet. Mr. Stark pulls him close and squeezes him, once, then twice, to ground him in the hug. He holds him tight, until Peter’s sobs die down into little whimpers, and his breaths only hitch every minute or so instead of every other second. He barely pulls back enough to look Peter in the eyes, once he’d calmed down again.

“You don’t have to keep going, il mio bambino. Not if you don’t want to.” Mr. Stark’s touch is so gentle and so kind, and Peter doesn’t know how he didn’t realize that Mr. Stark had been calling him baby, his child, in Italian this whole time. It comforts him, reminds him of May when he now so desperately needs something familiar to hold onto. 

“I need to tell you, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry, kiddo. Never be sorry for this.” Mr. Stark brings him back into a hug, and Peter must still be a bit hysterical because he can’t stop his mouth from saying,

“I guess we’re there?”

Mr. Stark stills and Peter feels awful instantly, but Mr. Stark somehow draws him impossibly closer and nods. “We’re there, bambino. I’m sorry I didn’t let you see that before now.”

Peter swallows hard and finally lets himself sink fully into the hug. He lets himself be held like he knows he needs, like he knows he’s been craving for the past three months. Eventually, Peter pulls back again and settles himself against the arm of the couch. He lets Mr. Stark keep a hold of his hands though. It grounds him, keeps him present. 

“He strangled my mother.” Is what Peter finally says into the heavy silence between them. The strangled laugh that leaves Mr. Stark pierces Peter as sharp and painful as any knife, and he goes to push away from the contact, but Mr. Stark reels him in.

“I’m sorry, Peter. I’m not making fun of you, or trying to make light of it, it’s just…” He trails off for a moment and Peter would be angry at his mentor for all the reasons he said if not for the obvious shine in his eyes. “It’s just a really shitty MO to have in common.”

“Was your mom--” 

“Yes.”

There is a long silence again. It isn’t comfortable, but it is neither as awkward or all consuming like the one earlier.

“I didn’t know about your parents, kid, I promise if I did I absolutely would have told you.”

Peter furrowed his brow and looked up at Mr. Stark, “I know, Mr. Stark.” Peter stops for a moment and shoots a tentative glance up at him. “Did Captain America know about your parents, is that why you guys fought?”

Mr. Stark lets out a heavy sigh and sinks back into the couch. “After the airport, I followed Rogers and Barnes to Siberia. There was supposed to be a cell of Winter Soldiers there and we needed to either make sure they stayed frozen or take them out before they could hurt anyone.” Peter drapes some of his blanket over Mr. Stark as he notices him shiver. Mr. Stark shoots him a small smile before he continues. “When we got there, they were all already dead. It was a set up. A trap designed to break apart the Avengers, and it all hinged on my teammates not telling me things.” 

“How long did he know?”

“Since the data dump, so about two years.” Mr. Stark takes a shaky breath and curls an arm around Peter again, bringing him into a half hug. “Zemo, that was the guy who did the bombing in Vienna and planned all this, had a video and I just...I looked at Rogers and I knew he knew, and I just lost it. I was so angry and I had just watched my mom be, be–” Mr. Stark cuts himself off there and Peter doesn’t need him to finish the sentence, not when they’ve already talked about it. “Anyway, I punched Rogers, he punched back and before I knew it we were in an all out brawl. It didn’t end well.”

“Who won?”

“No one really, no one really wins in a situation like that, bambino.”

“Do you regret it?” Peter asks. “Attacking the Winter Soldier, I mean, because, I, I don’t know what I’d do now if I saw him. I know he was brainwashed and everything, but I think I’m angry, and I know it happened when I was really young so I should be over it, but…”

“But it still hurts?” Mr. Stark situates the blanket a little bit more neatly over the two of them. “You’re allowed to be hurt by this, kiddo. This is really big. You just found out something that changed your whole world view. I would be concerned if you weren’t reacting like this. Honestly, you’re taking this a lot better than I did so I’d say you’re on the right track right now. Bottom line is you don’t have to decide on how you feel about it right now, and you don’t have to decide on what you want to do. Sometimes all you can do is just feel it and process it and just ride it out for a while.”

“You know, Ned said we should start a club.” Peter immediately blushed and scrambled back out of Mr. Stark’s hold. “Oh my god, Mr. Stark, I am so sorry. That was really insensitive, I can’t believe I told you that, I mean, we kind of had similar situations, but really they’re nothing alike. Well, not really, I found out my parents were SHIELD agents from the data dump and they’d died on a mission, and well the rest I found out now, but still that’s nothing like what happened to you at all when I think about it. Well, I mean minus the Winter Soldier apparently, but, oh my god, why am I still talking, Mr. Stark please you got to stop me, once I get started I can’t really stop--”

“I get the picture, Pete. You’re okay, I’m not mad.” Mr. Stark lets out a light laugh and Peter does too, both of them ignore how they sound a little wet. “If we’re going to start a club we at least need membership cards, keep it exclusive.”

“I was just joking, Mr. Stark.” Peter pouted when Mr. Stark rubbed his fingers through Peter’s hair vigorously, sweeping his curls into a tangled mess.

“I know, kid.”

“The thing you said earlier, about riding it out, sounded like something my therapist used to say.” Peter said and then yawned, the whole weight of the day hitting him all at once.

“Our therapists must be on the same wavelength, kid, because that’s something mine told me.”

Peter shot up and narrowly missed hitting the bottom of Mr. Stark’s chin with his head, “You see a therapist?”

“Is it really that surprising?” Mr. Stark responded, quirking an eyebrow, before clearing his throat a bit and looking away. “Pepper thought it would be good for me to start seeing someone again, and I agreed with her. I think I mentioned I started seeing someone after the Mandarin, but with everything going on I’d stopped. Therapy has been…” Mr. Stark looked back at Peter and shot him a smile. “It’s been good, really helpful.” Mr. Stark’s smile shifted into a more serious expression and he turned to face Peter directly, although his arm was still curled around Peter’s back. “Let me know if I’m overstepping, but are you seeing anyone right now, Underoos, because from what I’ve heard from you today it might do you some good.”

Peter dropped his eyes, avoiding Mr. Stark’s gaze. “I haven’t seen anyone since Ben died, and that was just for one emergency session. May hasn’t been able to afford it because our insurance changed their policy.”

“Peter,” Mr. Stark paused for a moment as if expecting Peter to look at him, but Peter stubbornly kept his eyes averted. “Bambino, you know May and I talk right?” Peter nodded and hazarded a quick glance back towards Mr. Stark. “May asked me a little while ago if I would talk to you about seeing a therapist again.”

“Mr. Stark, I already told you May can’t–” Peter turned back towards Mr. Stark and saw his mentor make a zipping motion across his lips and Peter promptly silenced himself.

“I would pay for your therapy, kiddo. I already got Aunt Hottie’s approval and everything.”

“You really don’t have to do that Mr. Stark.”

“You’re right, I don’t.” Peter flinched a bit at those words, fearing he’d already messed up the offer somehow. “I don’t have to pay for it, but I want to, bambino. I know that I haven’t been the best mentor to you. In fact, I’ve been pretty shitty.”

“No, Mr. Stark, you’ve been great.” Mr. Stark cut Peter off again before he could really get going.

“Ah, kiddo, zip it, the adult is talking.” Mr. Stark smiled when he said it this time though, so the familiar line didn’t sting like it had before. “I failed to communicate with you, I failed to properly protect you, and most importantly I failed to listen to you, and for that I am sorry, Peter.”

“It’s okay, Mr. Stark.” Peter replied and was surprised to find he meant it this time. 

“It’s really not, bambino, but we’re working on that.” Peter tried to interrupt again, to reassure, but Mr. Stark didn’t even let him get a word out. “If I hadn’t taken away your suit, and if I’d told you that I’d listened to you about the weapons on the ferry, do you think you would have trusted me enough to talk to me about your antidepressants not working.” Peter dropped his gaze again, a bit ashamed to meet Mr. Stark’s eyes and admit the answer was yes. Mr. Stark titled his chin up until they were looking at each other again. “It’s fine if the answer is yes, Pete. You’re not the only one who screwed the pooch, and now I’m going to do my best to make up for it, starting with a promise.”

Mr. Stark rose from the couch and pulled Peter up as well, leading him over to the main lab table, before pulling up a hologram. It was a set of rules.

“This is a list May and I came up with for when you go out as Spider-Man, but the rules on here don’t just apply to you. Can you tell me what rule number one is, bambino?”

“No taking away the Spider-suit for any reason.” Peter’s eyes bounced between the list and Mr. Stark as he tried to take it all in. “But Mr. Stark, I deserved--”

“No, Peter.” Mr. Stark placed his hands on Peter’s shoulders and waited for him to focus before he continued. “You didn’t deserve me taking away your suit, because that left you without protection. There were so many other ways I could have handled that situation and I chose the one that placed you in the most danger.” Mr. Stark sighed and looked away for a moment, before focusing back on Peter. He squeezed his shoulders once before letting go and gesturing back to the list. “Now, there might be times where May and I decide that you can’t go patrolling, but you’ll still have access to the suit. We’re working on a kind of honor system, kiddo. You trust us and we trust you. That’s why I wanted to get your input on what we have so far.”

“And you two will really listen to me, even if I disagree with a rule?” Peter asked a bit incredulously, which he thought was fair given that he’d been on the receiving end of punishments from both May and Mr. Stark at this point.

Mr. Stark nodded, “We might not change the rule, but we’ll be willing to hear you out and amend it if we think you make a good enough point.” Mr. Stark pulled Peter in for another half hug, and Peter melted into it just like he’d been doing the whole night. “You’re good at what you do, Underoos, and while May and I want you to be safe we also know there are aspects of being Spider-Man that we just don’t know about or understand, hence giving you input.” Mr. Stark swiped the hologram away, “I had Friday send it to your email, along with a list of therapists, give yourself a few days to look it all over and then get back to either me or May on what you want to do.”

“Thank you, Mr. Stark. I don’t really know what to say.” Peter was dumbstruck. The fact that May and Mr. Stark were choosing to trust him instead of blindly telling him what to do felt amazing, and terrifying all at once. Mr. Stark just waved off his thanks and gestured to the sunglasses and earbuds Peter was still wearing.

“Those good to come off now?” Peter nodded and slowly removed them to make sure he wasn’t immediately overwhelmed again. He handed them off to Mr. Stark who placed them in a drawer in Peter’s desk. “Feel free to use those anytime you’re getting overwhelmed in the lab. I'm working on a better set that you can use in school right now.”

“Mr. Stark, you really don’t have to do that. I mean I appreciate it a lot! I do, but I don’t want to take up your time, I’m sure you're really busy.” Mr. Stark held up a hand to stop Peter’s ramble again, and Peter sighed in relief that he’d been cut off before he really got going.

“I’m Tony Stark, Pete. I don’t do anything I don’t want to do, so if I want to make you a set of earbuds and sunglasses that will help with your senses then I’m going to do that. Besides, Pepper says I’m liable to keel over from boredom if I don’t have at least fifteen projects going at once.”

“Still, thank you.” 

“It’s no problem, kiddo.” Mr. Stark sat on one of the stools next to the lab bench and gestured for Peter to do the same. “You mentioned earlier your meds stopped working because of your metabolism.”

“Yeah,” Peter responded, taking his own seat. “Painkillers don’t work either. I tried just taking more than the recommended dose, but that didn’t really turn out well.” Peter grimaced when he thought of the intense nausea that had tied him to the toilet for a night when he’d taken one too many ibuprofen after he’d gotten stabbed just a bit by a mugger on patrol.

“Kid!” Mr. Stark slammed his hands down on the worktop and leaned toward Peter, swiping away the hologram he’d just pulled up. “You can’t just do that, that’s how you overdose.”

Peter shrugged and looked away, “I thought my metabolism could handle it.”

“Promise me you won’t do that again, I got a weak heart bambino. I won’t be able to handle it. Call me next time that you're in a situation like that.” Mr. Stark pulled up another hologram and shoved it over in Peter’s direction once Peter had nodded in agreement. “This is Doctor Helen Cho, she normally works with regenerating tissue, but she’s been the go to doctor for the Avengers before, and she was one of the people who synthesized pain meds for Cap.”

“I’ve read some of her papers, the Cradle is brilliant.” Peter flicked through the information on the hologram, and saw that it was mostly contact information. “Why are you showing this to me?”

“Should be pretty obvious, Underoos. I’d like your permission to contact her so we can get to work on some drugs that will actually work on you.”

Peter smiled and rocked back in his chair in his excitement, laughing when he saw Mr. Stark reach out abruptly to steady him. “You’d really do that for me?” 

“You're really making me talk about my emotions a lot today, Pete.” Peter went to apologize, but Mr. Stark waved him off again. “It’s fine, Pepper says it’s good for me anyway.” Mr. Stark took a deep breath and closed out the hologram in front of them, giving Peter his full attention. “If I’m being completely honest, kid, I see you as my kid. I mean, me calling you bambino isn’t exactly subtle. You’re just so good, Pete, and I lied when I said I wanted you to be better than me because you already are. I’m honestly scared shitless of messing you up anymore than I already have, but your Aunt already kicked my ass about that, so you don’t need to worry about it.”

“You didn’t mess me up, Mr. Stark. I mean, it hurt when I thought you didn’t listen to me, but you’ve been trying now and I really appreciate that, but not to sound totally unoriginal, I don’t think I’m quite there yet Mr. Stark.” Peter waved his hands around a bit frantically as if that could soften the blow. “I mean I kind of think of you in a father figure ish way, but I also don’t know you that well, but I’d like to get there!”

Mr. Stark laughed and ruffled Peter’s hair and Peter let out a sigh of relief at the action.

“It’s fine, kiddo. I’m not expecting you to be off the deep end about me, hell, if you never get there that’s fine. We didn’t exactly have the best start.”

“I think we’re kinda making up for it now though.” Peter scooted his chair a bit closer, and bumped their shoulders together. “Although, I think letting me fly an Iron Man suit would make us completely even.”

It was Mr. Stark’s turn to laugh then. It broke the formally heavy atmosphere of the lab. He pointed a screwdriver at Peter, but he was smiling as his shoulders shook with laughter. “Kiddo, I saw you almost drink motor oil the other day, no way am I letting you anywhere near the suit yet.”

“You said yet!” Peter beamed. “Which implies that you will eventually.”

“Maybe when you can finally tell me the difference between AC/DC and Black Sabbath, or when I finally get you to call me Tony.” Peter groaned and grumbled something about old man music, and Mr. Stark almost pushed him off his chair in retaliation.

The rest of their lab day was spent in relative quiet with Peter occasionally looking up from a project to yell his guess on what band was playing, and Mr. Stark laughing every time he got it wrong.

Peter didn’t think much of their conversation in the lab over the week he had in between his lab sessions, other than to confirm when he was available to meet Dr. Cho, but Mr. Stark clearly had because Dum-e rushed over to Peter as soon as he stepped foot into the lab with a small card clutched in his claw.

Peter gently extracted it and took a moment to admire the shiny gold text before actually reading it. In careful script the words, ‘My Parents were Killed by the Winter Soldier and all I got was this Stupid Club Card’ were embossed clearly across the front.

Mr. Stark just smiled and flashed Peter a matching card that rested in his wallet, “Told you we needed cards, bambino, gotta keep it exclusive.”

Peter couldn’t help the laughter that burst out of him as he carefully tucked his own card into his wallet, “Did you get these professionally printed?”

Mr. Stark nodded and smiled, gesturing for Peter to come closer as he pulled him into a quick hug before motioning him to move over to his work station. “Yes, and let me tell you Pepper did not think it was nearly as funny as you did.”

Peter didn’t move to his chair yet and instead waited for Mr. Stark to turn back towards him before he drew him into a proper hug, burying his face briefly into Mr. Stark’s shoulder.

“Thanks, Tony.” They both ignored the shimmery wetness in both their eyes when they pulled back.

“Still not letting you anywhere near the suit, kid.” 

Peter laughed, loud and long and happy, despite the tears that still rolled down his cheeks. Peter felt happy there, standing in the lab, joking around with Mr. Stark, receiving hugs from his maybe future father figure, and ignoring the jabs Tony sent towards his side with a screwdriver to herd him back to work. His chest felt light and airy, a brief respite from the normally heavy fog. His cheeks hurt from smiling and laughing at Friday and the bots' antics. He rocked back on his seat and ignored the semi-panicked look Tony always gave him as he started up another lecture about how Peter was going to tip over one of these days. Peter decided that this was good. He wasn’t better by any means and he knew he’d still have bad days, but for now he felt good, like he was a hop skip and a jump from happiness instead of a grand canyon away. 

Mr. Stark turned on some music and Peter laughed at the faux glare his mentor gave him when Peter purposely got the band wrong. He dodged the headlock Tony tried to trap him in and laughed when the gauntlet Mr. Stark was working on sparked and Dum-e rushed over, dousing Tony with the fire extinguisher.

“You think this is funny, bambino?” Tony said standing up from his workbench. “Let’s see how funny you think it is when I catch you.”

Peter’s eyes widened and he jumped off his chair and onto the ceiling just in time to dodge Mr. Stark’s tackle. He laughed and laughed from his upside down view of the world as Tony grumbled about unfair advantages, and community colleges.

Yeah, this was good.