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He didn't really know why he stopped in front of the alcohol cellar in the basement of the Avenger Compound, staring at the bottles of alcohol that Tony had likely forgotten about, long since abandoned in his time of sobriety.
It had been a bad day, where everything seemed to go wrong. His patrol was shitty, leaving him with sore limbs and bruises. May was called in to work an extra shift, and his new design of web fluid didn’t work the way he wanted it to. It was a bad day on top of a bad week on top of a bad month, and perhaps Peter finally reached his breaking point.
But still, he didn’t know why he ended up staring at the bottles of alcohol with something like temptation burning in his throat.
“This is a bad idea. Tonys gonna kill you,” Peter whispered to himself. He was long past trying to mentally set himself straight, maybe it was time to start talking out loud and hope no one with enhanced hearing was nearby.
It was a bad idea, and yet he found himself opening the cellar door anyway, fingers curling around the cool neck of a bottle of whisky, a shaking hand pulling it closer to his chest. He closed the cellar quietly behind him, guilt dropping like a weight in his stomach, making him feel nauseous. He really doesn’t want to have to add throwing up on his long list of ways the world has wronged him today.
Somehow he made it back to his room, the bottle of whisky in his hand seeming to grow in weight with each step he took.
Peter sat on his bed, setting the bottle on the opposite side and staring at it as if the two of them were in a business meeting. Each second that ticked by was another second that Peter was paranoid that someone was going to walk in. Maybe Friday notified someone, or maybe Tony’s Peter Senses were tingling.
No one walked in though. Peter was disappointed. And also relieved.
“Alright, listen here buddy. You’re going to stay quiet and do as you're told and no one gets hurt.” The whisky bottle didn’t respond. Go figures.
Peter huffed and drew a frustrated hand down his face. He grabbed a cup from his bedside table and uncorked the whisky, looking around as if the sound or smell would summon someone. He knew that Steve couldn’t smell that well, but still he was a little on edge here. Anxiety was thrumming through his veins, so much so that he wondered if he was going to explode.
He poured a moderate amount of whisky into his cup that he had stashed on his bedside table. He wasn’t sure how much a shot was, or how much a normal person should drink in order to feel a little tipsy, but he knew that his tolerance would be a lot higher.
Getting drunk wasn’t really the goal. He just wanted to take the edge off. Wanted to forget his stress for a couple hours and be able to relax for the first time in who knows how long. Because it really has been so long that Peter has begun to forget what it felt like to have muscles that weren't constantly tense and a mind that wasn't always filled with the worst case scenario of any given situation.
Peter raised the cup to his lips and tilted his head back, instinctively swallowing the liquid before he could have any second thoughts or regrets. Because holy shit did he have regrets. It took multiple gulps to drink all of the liquid he poured into the cup, and he hated every last second of it.
Immediately after setting the cup down, Peter broke out into violent coughs that turned into gags, though thankfully nothing came up. It felt like his throat was getting burned from the inside out. It was awful.
He grabbed the water sitting on his bedside table and gulped it down greedily before heading to the bathroom that was connected to his bedroom and washing his mouth out to try and forget the awful taste.
It was so nasty. And yet-
Peter stopped when he splashed his face with water, staring up at his reflection in the mirror, hair dripping water into the sink and shadows looking like bruises beneath his eyes.
He felt a little better. In only a couple minutes his body seemed to have metabolized the alcohol enough for him to feel a slight buzz. It was nice. His thoughts felt quieted for the first time in a while, and it was like he had to manually queue the bad thoughts that would creep in. The song that was constnatly playing in the background of his mind.
His bed was softer, too. That was another thing Peter noticed when he laid down on the bed, stretching his limbs and looking up at the ceiling, relishing in the feeling of slight weightlessness that he was provided. It was enough of a relief for him to reach for the bottle and pour another drink for himself.
This time he prepped himself, though. He held his breath so that he couldn’t smell the foul whiskey, and also poured it further back on his tongue so he wouldn’t have to taste it as much as it went down. It was still disgusting, though. While Peter didn't realize it at the time, he poured himself a lot more liquid than last time, and it took several more gulps to get it all down. He still coughed and retched, but it was easier than last time, so that was a win.
“Mr. Parker, you seem to be getting sick. Shall I alert Mr. Stark?” Friday asked when Peter’s gagging finally subsided.
“Nah ‘m good. Just the alcohol,” Peter said calmly to the AI. He knew, deep in the back of his mind, that there was something panicked that should come up at the thought of Mr. Stark finding him like this. Of Friday alerting the man and him coming to check on him.
The anxiety was just far enough out of reach that he allowed himself to forget about it, which didn’t turn out to be the best idea.
Peter was floating on his bed for who knows how long, relishing in the quiet of his mind, when he heard rushed footsteps running up to his room.
The alcohol must have impacted his Peter Spidey Senses or whatever the hell he normally calls it because he didn’t hear the footsteps until they were right at the door. Huh, maybe he should open it for whoever that was. Then again, moving sounded like a lot of work right now, so Peter stayed in bed.
Thankfully, whoever was at the door let themselves in. A disheveled looking Tony Stark raced into his room, staring at Peter, and then the bottle of alcohol sitting next to his bed. There were so many emotions on his face; all of them negative.
Peter felt guilty. He didn’t know why. He didn't want to feel guilty, not when he was finally feeling alright. Even now, he could feel the affects slowly fading as his metabolism destroyed his fun. He would have to take another drink soon.
“What- what the hell am I looking at, Peter?” Tony asked, his voice shakier than it normally was. Or maybe that was just Peter.
Peter shrugged. “I dunno. Are you looking at me?”
Tony sighed. “Yes. What are you doing?”
Peter gestured towards the bottle of whisky. “Calming down. Relaxing,” he responded. His words were slightly slurred, and he was slowly becoming aware enough to know that they shouldn’t be. It sent a spark of anxiety running through him.
“You’re drunk,” Mr. Stark said, his words sounding horrified and final.
“I’m relaxed, Mr. Stark. ‘S been a rough day,” Peter murmured, his brow furrowing when he thought about all the days his day has gone wrong. It then led to him thinking about all the ways the week had gone wrong. Then the month. Then his life.
“So what? You thought drinking was the way to handle this? You’re supposed to be better than this, Parker. This is something I would do.” There was something hurt in Tony’s words that sent a dagger through Peter’s chest. He felt like he was bleeding out.
“Just wanted it all to go away,” Peter admitted.
Tony’s expression softened as he sat down on the bed next to Peter, who was still sprawled out. Tony’s hand found its way into Peter’s hair, and he leaned up into the contact.
Tony’s hand was shaking.
“This isn’t the way to go about it, kiddo. Wanna tell me why you thought this was a good idea?” Tony asked.
Peter sighed, sitting up. The world was blurry enough that he had to lean against his mentor to keep himself sitting upright. Thankfully, Tony didn’t push him off.
“‘S been a really hard couple of weeks, Mr. Stark. Each time I think it’s going to get easier it just doesn’t and I was done.” There were tears streaking down Peter’s cheeks now, and he couldn’t do anything to stop them. “I know it’s wrong. But wanted it to go away for a little bit. I'm really tired.”
The guilty feeling in his stomach turned into something more like nausea, and Peter drifted a hand to his stomach, breathing through the pain as the world became more real around him.
Tony made a sad noise, wiping the tears from Peter’s eyes with his calloused fingertips. “I wish you would’ve talked to me, Underoos. Or anyone, for that matter. We didn’t know you were struggling.”
Peter shrugged. “I’m a superhero. I’m supposed to be strong. I have a good life compared to so many people. Didn’t think it would be right to complain.”
“Kid, a superhero life is a hard life. You’re constantly facing danger and saving the world without anyone knowing that it’s you. You’re also living a normal life on top of that. It’s a lot of pressure.”
And boy, wasn’t that true. Tears started falling from Peter’s eyes anew, and he turned his face into Tony’s shoulder out of shame.
“I just wanted it to go away for a little bit. I wanted to try.”
Tony sighed sadly. “I know, kid. I know the feeling. I promise you this won’t do anything though.”
Peter let out a pathetic sounding laugh. “I’m starting to realize that,” he said with a groan while he clutched his upset stomach.
Tony seemed to know what he meant. Without asking, Tony stood up from the bed. Peter got sad for a second, thinking Tony was done with him, until he returned shortly with an empty trashcan in his hand.
When met with a confused look, Tony chuckled. “Trust me. You just had almost half a bottle of alcohol and you have insane metabolism. You’re gonna need a trash can.”
“I’m so sorry.” His stomach lurched, and Peter clutched the trash can close to himself as he emptied his stomach into it, the taste of alcohol and stomach acid burning on the way back up. When he was done, Tony took the trash can away and handed him a bottle of water, letting Peter wash out his mouth.
“Still need this?” Tony asked, gesturing to the trash can.
Peter shook his head. His stomach felt more settled. So long as he didn’t move much. Tony set the trashcan on the ground, returning to Peter’s side in no time at all.
“You don’t need to be sorry. If anything, I’m sorry for not noticing this sooner. You’ve had a lot on your plate recently, and I never thought to check in to see how you were doing with all of it. You’re still a kid.”
Peter shook his head. “It’s not your fault. Not at all. I’m a superhero before I’m a kid. I should be better at handling this.”
Tony let out a small laugh. “You’ve only gotten drunk once at sixteen. You’re already doing better than me.”
“You wanted me to be,” Peter said. Tony’s face dropped.
“Yeah. I do want you to be better than me. You’re doing a great job of it so far. You’re amazing, Peter. You do amazing things for so many people.”
Peter choked on a sob. Tony’s hand returned to his hair, his other hand rubbing small patterns into his shoulder.
“How about we get you talking to someone? We’re going to lower your patrols to three or four days a week and I want daily check ins with me and May.”
Peter groaned. “Any chance we don’t have to tell May about all of this?”
Tony laughed without any humor to the sound. “Yeah, nice try. She’s going to be the first person I call.”
“I’m sorry you have to do all of this,” Peter said, feeling bad.
“I’d do so much more for you. I don’t say shit like this a lot, but uh, you mean a lot to me, kid,” Tony said, sounding awkward. Peter almost laughed if it didn’t feel like his heart was on fire. “Besides, it was about time I get rid of that cellar in the basement. I’ve been holding onto it because I was too scared to get rid of it all, but I think it’s for the best of everyone,” Tony continued.
Peter yawned, and Tony let out a soft sounding laugh. “How about you get some sleep, and then we’ll set up a course of action tomorrow. We’ll get you set up with a therapist, tell your loved ones, and work on making patrol a bit easier.”
Peter wanted to protest about his patrols getting limited, but in the end knew it was a good idea. Patrols have always been fun, but recently they’ve become something that he’s been dreading. His muscles always feel sore, and it seems like no matter what he does, he always gets hurt on patrol.
“That sounds good.” Is what he said instead, curling up closer to Tony, basking in the warmth. Tony sighed out a breath of relief, and Peter closed his eyes to get some sleep. And to stave off the beginnings of a migraine forming behind his eyes.