Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Thanks for the save, kid.” 

Peter nods shortly, setting Sam down on the gravel floor, bearing in mind the large gash tearing across the man’s thigh. It oozed steadily, crimson smearing across Peter’s suit and pooling on the ground below them. 

Sam winces as Peter kneels beside him and presses his hands into the laceration. The battle ebbs and flows behind them, the final waves of this week’s aliens smashed to bits by the Avengers. 

Pulling out large pieces of gauze from Sam’s utility belt, Peter packs it into the wound, sending sympathetic looks towards the man writhing slightly on the ground. He reaches his free hand up to his comm, “Sam’s down, I need med-evac.” 

He gets a confirmation from Steve and returns his attention to the injured man. 

Sam looks up at him strangely, “You seem weirdly calm about all this, Pete.” 

Peter shrugs, “I’ve been around blood before.” 

“You’re too young to be able to say that.” Sam sighs, propping himself up on his elbows to watch Peter finish up wrapping the wound. 

Peter just shrugs again, not entirely sure how to respond. They all know his backstory™, but they seem to be consistently surprised by how desensitized he is to the bloodshed of a battle. To be fair, they don’t know exactly what he does with his vigilante work. Sam and Bucky love to tease him about helping old ladies cross the street and helping cats out of trees.

He’s given up explaining the horrors he sees nearly every night.

The sound of repulsors behind him has Peter perking up. The iron suit lands with a clank and Tony saunters out, the crease in his forehead betraying his worry. He claps Peter on the shoulder, his eyes roving over the boy’s form before turning to Sam.

“What is this,” Tony says, “the tenth time the spider-kid has saved you?”

Sam rolls his eyes, “He was closest.” 

“That always seems to be the case, hm?” Tony hums.

“Yeah, yeah,” Sam says, taking Tony’s offered hand and heaving himself up with a grunt, “the kid is amazing and perfect and the best of us all, yada, yada.”

Peter can feel his chest tightening at the words. He should feel flattered, really, because the annoyance in Sam’s tone indicates that he’s heard those phrases so often it automatically leaves his mouth when Tony goes to defend him. 

But those words are loaded with expectations, and expectations mean that there is a certain way Peter needs to act to meet them. Since he became an Avenger- or, junior Avenger, whatever- there isn’t a day that goes by where Peter isn’t told that he’ll be the next leader. That not only is he the heir to Stark industries, he’s the legacy of the original six, and he’ll be the next to lead the team once they all retire. 

There is a bar Peter needs to reach, but it’s invisible and also nobody will tell him when the deadline to reach it is. 

The remaining aliens are taken down relatively quickly and they rendezvous with Sam, Peter, and Tony. Peter steps back as they all check in on one another, taking stock of his own body. He’s done pretty well for himself, aside from a few cuts and bruises that will heal within the day and a small rip near his left eye. 

He tunes back into the conversation when his name is called. Sam is waving off worries about his leg, leaning heavily on Bucky’s metal shoulder. 

“No, the spider-kid patched me up.” He says with obvious reluctance. 

Steve nods approvingly, turning to Peter, “Good work, son. Looks clean.” 

A genuine smile appears on Peter’s face, not that they can see it. His childhood hero is telling him he did a good job, sue him. “Thank you, Captain America sir!” He says cheerfully.

The man shakes his head with a small smile. Tony walks up to him, lifting his hand to thumb at the rip on Peter’s mask. He tuts disapprovingly, “I need to get some better fabric if it’s ripping this easily.”

Peter lifts his mask up to his nose, smiling at Tony, “I bet you could synthesize something super strong!”

Tony chuckles, “I’m gonna have to, aren’t I? Can’t have my spider-kid’s identity being revealed ‘cause of flimsy material.” 

Peter nods in agreement. The pair turns towards the rest of the group who are gearing up to leave. 

“Good work, today,” Steve says with a smile, “Go eat and rest, we’ll debrief tomorrow morning.” 

Tony rolls his eyes at Steve’s professional tone, turning once more to Peter, “You come by later so I can patch up your suit, alright?”

Peter gives them his cheesiest smile, “You got it, Mr. Stark!” 

It gets him a few fond eye rolls and chuckles. The Avengers begin to leave the scene one by one to do their respective cool-downs. Peter gets a few hair ruffles, shoulder-clasps, and small smirks as they leave. Tony pats his cheek gently, walking back to his suit and launching into the air.

Nobody looks close enough to see Peter’s smile drop.

—----

Giving is easy.

Since he knew what the concept meant, Peter’s been a giver. May tells him that when he was a toddler, he’d pick up sticks and rocks and gift them to whoever was closest. He’d use the last of his water bottle to hydrate a dried out worm on the sidewalk. 

He’d let Josie Marie copy his math homework for the entirety of fourth grade, even after she pulled his hair on the playground one time.

He stands up against Flash when the boy antagonizes small freshman boys, shielding them from Flash’s anger, his fists and harsh words.

And now, now that he’s Spider-man, now that he’s a certified genius, now that he’s built this narrative for himself, he gives more.

Night after night, he gives his time, energy, and innocence to save the people on Queens’ streets who can’t save themselves. He stands in front of vulnerable men, women, and children and takes everything the criminals want to hand out to those who don’t deserve it. 

He’s seen women struggling against men twice their size and three times their weight, half-naked and sobbing, unable to even scream for help because a meaty hand is pressed against their mouths. 

(He’s well aware of the protocol now: Knock the lights out of the man, help the woman through a breathing technique, call the police- make sure that it’s a female officer.)

Spider-man has crashed trafficking rings, ignoring the broken, crying, bleeding children in favor of nearly killing the sick people who decided to destroy their innocence, their livelihoods, their freedom.

(He knows this protocol too: Call the police first, gather- and clothe- any and all children, soothe and sing and sympathize until the adults, the real adults, can take over.)

Spider-man stands up and fights for those who can’t. He takes punches, stabs, and gunshots so that these innocent people can live another day. 

And Peter Parker is a genius. He skipped sixth grade, he’s top of his class, he interns under Tony fucking Stark. 

Peter tutors a third of his grade in both chemistry and biology. Even a few of Flash’s goons, whose mothers forced them to so they could stay on the football team. Peter takes the whispered insults in stride, letting their grades speak for themselves. And hey, he gets an extra 200 bucks per week, what’s a few remarks sent his way?

He spends hours of his day holed up in the lab Tony cleared out for him a few months ago. The Avengers walk in sheepishly, handing him their broken tools, asking him to fix them.

And he does. He always does.

He gives them a blinding smile, a teasing scolding, and sends them on their way with a shiny, new, upgraded version of whatever they broke. 

Peter pretends like it’s not a problem, like his eyes aren’t stinging from lack of sleep, like the pounding headache in his brain isn’t from the hours of staring intensely at miniscule parts of metal, like he wouldn’t give any part of his body for even a moment of rest. 

He doesn’t even want the rest, not really. Because resting would mean letting his brain stop, and that would mean letting it wander aimlessly. And nobody wants that to happen, especially not him. 

Peter stuffs his day so full, there’s not a single second where he’s left alone with his thoughts. He’s at school until 2, in the lab until Tony kicks him out (anywhere from 8-10, depending on the man’s mood), and then he patrols until his limbs physically can’t go any further. 

He averages 2-3 hours of sleep a night, and only reluctantly. Only when his brain is completely fried, when his entire body is one big sandbag, does he collapse against whatever flat surface he can find. Then he wakes up, and the cycle restarts. 

And the cycle restarts.

And the cycle restarts. 

Peter gives and gives and gives and when there’s nothing left he squeezes his heart like May does with the last bit of toothpaste and gives more.

He does it with a smile. 

He wonders how long this façade will last. 

—----

Peter woke up this morning and he knew from the very second his eyes opened that it would be a tough day. There was a hollowness in his chest that sucked all of Peter’s will to do anything from his body.

He knew that getting up would require a certain amount of effort that he couldn’t quite muster at the moment, so Peter just laid there, staring at his white ceiling, wishing to be unconscious again. 

Eventually, he peels the blankets off of his body, swinging his heavy legs over the side of the bed. Peter stares blankly at a small scuff on the floor, wondering when the heaviness in his chest will crush him to death.

These days aren’t as few and far between as he’d like them to be. He’s not new to this grief, he’s well aware that it’s normal for people going through loss, but it’s been years. Three years since his uncle, ten since his parents. Isn’t that long enough for the grief to become less pungent?

But it’s only been ten hours since that man on 2nd. And a week since that little girl in that warehouse, surrounded by six other kids with haunted gazes and bloodied fingers. 

He wonders some days, the rare days where he’s left alone with his thoughts, if he deserves this grief. He may not have chosen to be bitten by a radioactive spider, but he did choose to become a vigilante. He chose this life, knowing exactly what he’d be getting himself into. 

Peter gets up slowly, trudging over to the side bathroom. The lights make him squint painfully, tripping over pieces of bloody gauze laying on the linoleum. He braces himself against the sink, staring at his reflection in the mirror.

He looks awful. His hair is sticking up in gravity defying ways, there’s a dangerous looking pallor to his face, the dark circles under his eyes could rival a raccoon. He hasn’t been eating well, and it’s obvious in the way his collar bone juts out against his skin, the too sharp edges to his body pressing against his clothes.

It disgusts him. Peter feels disgusted with himself. But he can’t quite look away.

Sometimes it feels like grief is all Peter knows. There’s never been a time in his conscious life where there hasn’t been multiple aching holes in his heart that will never be filled. He knows the stages of grief- or, well, he knows the first four. 

And, in his expert opinion, he thinks it’s bullshit. The stages aren’t… stages, not in the kind of way where you can move on from one to the next. He finds himself shifting between the first four, never quite landing on one or fully moving on.

Denial, he hardly touches anymore. It’s real. They’re dead. Nothing he can deny about that.

Depression, he knows intimately. He hides away in his room, physically incapable of moving or blinking or even breathing. He knows it in the hollow of his chest and the heaviness of his bones.

Bargaining, Peter only goes to at his most desperate. Rainy days that remind him of his uncle walking in the house, shaking off the water like a wet dog. The croon of a radio that echoes the soft lullaby of his mother. A gruff hand on his shoulder that mimics the protectiveness of his father.

On those days, he kneels by his bed. The Parker’s are not religious by any means but if Peter can pretend for a second that someone is out there watching over him, he’ll take it over the soul-crushing loneliness of grief.

And anger, well, that’s all Peter is nowadays. A byproduct of all the emotions swirling in his chest, begging to be let out. Like a boiling pot of water, it bubbles in his chest, making Peter clench his jaw, squeeze his fists. He tamps it down every time, forcing it into the crevices of his body where it can’t be reached or escape. 

The anger writhes and screeches inside his mind, incandescent with its own rage of not being able to be let out. And by God, does Peter want to let it out. 

He wants to shriek and rage, he wants to punch the glass mirror in front of him and watch himself shatter as the pieces embed in his knuckles. Peter wants to scream himself hoarse, wants to turn red with the force of his anger. He wants to curse his parents, his uncle, aunt May, the Avengers, the gods who’ve fucked up his life all these years.

But he can’t. He won’t.

Because Spider-man is a symbol of hope. He sits atop a sparkly glass pedestal, bringing justice and light to those looking up to him.

And Peter is the picture of childlike innocence. He’s the bright spot in everybody’s day, the embodiment of perseverance, of strength, of will.

If he dares to let the white hot rage even spit , the rose colored lenses in which everybody sees him will all but shatter. There will be shock and fear, there will be disappointment and confusion. 

So the lid stays on.

And the rage simmers.

—---

“I don’t understand it.” Sam says.

Tony turns from where he’s been staring at Peter laughing with Ned on the floor of the common room. They’d been working on a lego set for the past few hours, but they’d become distracted by something on Peter’s phone.

“Don’t understand what?” Natasha asks. They’re all sitting around the bar, watching the boys interact with fondness. Tony’s chest tightens with affection at the sight of his friends looking at Peter so adoringly. Even a year ago, he never thought this is where they’d end up.

Sam shakes his head, his eyes still focused on the brown-haired boy, “Peter. I don’t understand how he’s still so…” he trails off.

“Innocent?” Steve asks, picking apart grapes from the stems and flicking them at Bucky’s face.

“No, no,” Sam says, “I don’t understand how he’s still so happy.” 

Clint furrows his brow, “What do you mean?” 

“I mean, after everything he’s been through, I don’t think I’ve ever seen the kid, like, sad.” Sam explains.

Bucky rolls his eyes, “I’m sure the kid gets sad, he’s still human, you know.” 

“I know, but you’d think after everything with his uncle, he’d, like, react more to people getting hurt in the field.” Sam says. 

“I think we’re just lucky the kid is the way he is,” Clint says, “He’s turned that kind of trauma into something positive.” 

Steve nods in agreement, “Peter does good work. Clint’s right, he works hard, saves people, and smiles while doing it.”

“Too much, though, don’t you think?” Sam asks quietly, glancing at Peter with an unreadable expression on his face.

Clint chuckles, lifting his glass to his mouth, “I think you’re over analyzing this Sam, turn off that therapist brain of yours, yeah?”

Sam rolls his eyes, a scathing retort on his tongue, but Tony tunes out of the conversation to hear it. He returns his gaze back to Peter. If he’s honest, he worries about the boy. The other Avengers may not be aware, but Tony knows exactly what Peter does every night on patrol. 

He doesn’t know the gory details, but he knows that Peter is constantly exposed to the worst humanity has to offer. 

And he hates it. Tony wishes he could shield the kid from everything bad in the world, but he knows he could never make Peter stop. So, he worries. Like a parent watching their kid enter the real-world, bright-eyed and bushy tailed, wanting so badly to take their hand and guide them through hardships, but knowing he can’t. 

Sometimes, late at night, Tony will enter Peter’s lab and just observe the boy. The kid is actually pretty quiet when he’s not with company. Normally, Peter’s just tinkering with tools, fixing up whatever Avenger destroyed Tony’s supposed-to-be-indestructible weapons.

But there’s always a slump to Peter’s shoulders. There’s a tiredness in his eyes that goes further than a few nights of bad sleep. His movements are slow, robotic. 

And on those nights, Tony will saunter up to the boy, clapping him on the shoulder (and trying to ignore the slight flinch), and force Peter to go to sleep.

And Peter will give him a tired smile, he’ll protest a little before giving in, he’ll tuck himself under Tony’s shoulder as they walk up to the penthouse. Peter will blink adorably up at him, tell him goodnight, and shut the door behind him. 

That’s how it goes every time. There’s no reason Tony should be worried. But there’s a nagging in his mind that tells him differently. Something in the back of his brain is screaming at him to investigate because something is wrong.

But Peter would come to him if that were true, right? They’d had plenty of talks about the boy’s self-sacrificial tendencies and Peter has promised to let Tony know if he’s having any problems, big or small. 

So Tony ignores his brain, he ignores the warning signs, he ignores the concerned look Sam is currently giving Peter. If something is wrong, Peter will tell him. 

(And if Tony jolts up in the night, his ears pricking at the sound of muffled cries, he’ll chalk it up to his imagination. Peter’s always crying in his own nightmares, anyway.)

—----

Peter feels like he’s living a lie. 

His glass smiles are so utterly fake, he wonders how any of the Avengers could possibly fall for it. 

The ever present lilt to his voice grates his ears so intensely, he wonders how nobody keels to the floor at the sound.

When he waves off worries about the scabs on his knuckles and the bruises on his face, he wonders how nobody noticed that he’s been more violent than usual, taking more hits than usual. 

But it’s his own fault, isn’t it?

Peter is a pretender. He’s an actor. Even in front of the world’s best assassins, the ones most in tune with body language, he can get away with a forced chuckle. He never lets the mask drop until he knows he is alone.

Why is he asking for sympathy, for understanding, if nobody knows there’s anything wrong in the first place? 

Peter helps and supports and smiles and laughs. He solves problems, takes down bad guys, he takes care of experiments, and gets good grades. He does everything and more, never stopping, never thinking too hard, never letting himself feel. 

He goes about his days like there’s nothing wrong, like the anger isn’t threatening to force its way out of every pore of his body, like the sadness isn’t pressing down on his entire being. 

He’s walking into the penthouse, ready to raid the kitchen, when he spots Captain America sitting by the window, staring at the horizon. 

Despite the man having enhanced senses like him, Peter makes his footsteps louder so as to not spook the man. He sees Steve tilt his head slightly, indicating he hears Peter coming up behind him.

“Cap?” Peter asks, “You okay?”

Steve looks up at him with a small smile. It’s very obviously fake, making Peter a little worried. He eyes the chair across from Steve, who gestures for him to take the seat. Peter sits down, raising a soft eyebrow at the man.

Steve sighs, “I’m okay, Peter.”

Peter bites his lips, squinting suspiciously, “I don’t mean to pry, sir, but it doesn’t really seem that way.” 

 “You don’t have to call me sir, Pete.” Steve says.

Peter rolls his eyes, “Well now you’re making it obvious. Terrible deflecting attempt.”

Steve laughs, shaking his head and raising his hands in surrender, “Alright, alright, you’ve been hanging out with Sam too much.”

Peter shrugs at him with a sideways smile. He observes the man closely. Steve’s eyes are slightly red, stress lines creasing across his forehead. His shoulders are tense, as are the fingers that wrap around his mug of coffee. He’s obviously wound tight.

“So, I know I may not be a therapist, but I am a good listener.” Peter says, widening his eyes slightly. Tony tells him he’s like a siren, but if a siren could lure people in through big brown doe-eyes. 

Steve sighs, rubbing his face tiredly, “Just… stressed. I’m getting some flack from SHIELD about the way we handled the alien invasion three weeks ago.”

“Losers.” Peters mumbles, making Steve actually laugh, his eyes crinkling with amusement. 

“Right,” Steve says, his smile fading, “And…” he trails off.

“And?” Peter prompts.

The tortured look in the man’s eyes is hard to look at. Peter can’t even imagine the things Steve has seen, both in the forties and now. He really, truly feels horrible for the man, having to live in a world that isn’t his and he’s supposed to be okay with it.

“Bucky’s not doing well right now,” Steve says quietly, “His arm’s been flaring up and he’s been getting some more memories back.” 

Peter nods sympathetically. He’s not super close with Bucky, but the man has always been friendly towards him. Steve once told him that Bucky had three little siblings, so that must be where he gets it from. 

“That’s awful. He’s still going to therapy, right?” Peter asks.

Steve nods, “Yeah, he says it’s helping, but some days… it’s just harder.” 

“I’m sorry. Neither of you deserve that.” Peter says. 

Steve doesn’t respond, he just looks out the window at the city below them. His sketchbook is open on the table, the tall skyscrapers in front of them drawn beautifully on the pages.

“You ever think about taking a trip?” Peter asks.

Steve looks back at him questioningly, “A trip?”

“Yeah,” Peter nods, “A vacation.”

Steve sighs, “I wish. I’ve got responsibilities on all sides right now, I wouldn’t even have the time.” 

“I’m sure there’s people who can take over your work for even just a weekend, just so you can get away for a few hours.” Peter reasons. 

“I have work at SHIELD-” 

Peter cuts him off, “You know Miss. Romanoff and Mr. Barton would take care of it.” 

“But the Avengers-” Steve starts again.

“Mr. Stark. Mr. Rhodey. Me.” Peter says, raising his eyebrows. 

Steve hesitates for a second. “I can’t leave Bucky.” He says quietly.

Peter smiles, “Then take him with you. Isn’t there somewhere you always wanted to go? During the war, or even now?” 

Steve stares at him slack jawed. Peter only feels a little satisfied that he’s made the Captain America speechless. 

Eventually Steve lets out a small chuckle, “Bucky always wanted to see the beaches on the West Coast.” 

Peter nods, “You know Mr. Stark would let you take the jet. Take Bucky to the beach for a weekend, for a week, a month, who cares? Mr. Rogers, I don’t think you’ve taken a break since you were given that serum, don’t you think it’s time to rest?”

The captain doesn’t have a response. Peter pretends not to see his eyes glistening slightly in the light of the window. 

“Quite the speech.” A gruff voice from behind Peter calls.

Bucky Barnes stands behind him with a smirk on his face. He looks exhausted and pained, but he’s giving Peter the most thankful look he’s ever seen. 

“The kid’s right and you know it, Stevie.” Bucky turns to Steve.

Steve’s eyes rove over Bucky’s form, halfway out of his seat the second he noticed the man standing in the common room. He looks between Bucky and Peter a few times before slumping back in his seat.

“Maybe you’re right.” Steve mumbles.

Bucky lets out a hoarse chuckle, “Who knew it would only take the kid to get it through your skull.” 

Peter threads his fingers together against the table, “We’ve got things covered here, Cap, please take a break.” 

Bucky comes up behind Steve, placing his flesh hand on top of Steve’s head, “Take me to the beach, Stevie.”

Steve gives in embarrassingly quickly, groaning, “Okay, okay,” he says, a real smile growing on his face as he leans back against Bucky, “let’s go to the beach.” 

Peter lets out a little cheer, lifting his fist up in victory. It makes both the men laugh. 

Bucky pats Steve’s head, “You’ve got some magic about you, kid, everyone’s been trying to get this blockhead to take a vacation for months. ”

“It’s my charming and sparkling personality.” Peter says solemnly. 

Bucky smiles, “Well, thank you anyway.” 

“It’s what I’m here for.” Peter says, half-joking.

Steve sighs, “It’s certainly a perk about having you around, huh? God, Tony’s right, you’re the best of us.” 

Peter tries his best not to flinch as the words exit Steve’s mouth. Bucky chuckles again, wrapping his arm around Steve’s shoulder. They look lighter than they have in weeks and Peter knows he’s done his job. They’re going to be okay.

The men have gone quiet and Peter realizes he’s frowning at a smear of dirt on the window pane. Bucky tilts his head questioningly as Steve looks at him concernedly.

“Are you doing alright, son?” Steve asks gently.

Peter gives him a smile, “I’m great, captain.”

—---

Anger is… confusing.

Peter can’t quite pinpoint exactly what he’s angry at. Is it his parents? Has the 10 year long black mass of grief turned into something redder?

Is it Ben? For leaving Peter to watch as the slick, crimson liquid seeped out of the hole in his uncle’s chest? Leaving him with the parting words that have defined his entire life- led him down this path of fear and hope, teetering between both in a careful balance?

(The thought of his anger being directed at May is so shameful, he shoves it away before it can truly manifest.)

Or Tony? For forcing Peter to learn how to be a hero on his own. For ignoring him for months after using him as a pawn in a war that wasn’t his. For all the man has changed and grown, how he’s turned into a real father figure for Peter, there’s still a piece of him that wonders what would’ve happened if things had gone slightly different that night with Toomes.

Or maybe himself. It would make the most sense, really, that all of his anger is an amalgamation of his guilt, his fear, his grief, all directed internally. The guilt of not saving those who needed him, the fear of being left behind, the grief of everyone and everything he’s lost and will continue to lose.

But maybe all this blaming is for nothing. Maybe he was born angry. Born to be a fuse, but never safe enough to be given a lighter. Maybe he is the rage, the guilt, the sadness.

Maybe it’s something so deeply ingrained in his soul, not even a genetically enhanced spider could save him.

—----

The straw that breaks the camel’s back is so laughably insignificant, it’s practically microscopic. 

It’d been a long day. A really long fucking day. 

He woke up late, feeling like shit after a solid hour of sleep because he’d had to deal with a record number of muggings in one night. He missed the first subway to Manhattan and missed first period, getting a lengthy lecture from his second period math teacher. 

Flash must have caught on to his bad mood because he was more annoying then he had been all month, taunting him about his uncle and his living situation. 

Happy wasn’t able to pick him up because he was too busy puking his guts out at the tower- food poisoning, apparently- and so he had to take the subway again. It started raining on the walk from the station to the tower, soaking him to the bone. 

And when he walked into his lab, on the bench were five different weapons in various states of disrepair. He feels the anger begin to rise. Tony was home all fucking day , he couldn’t taken a few seconds to fix these? He was hoping to upgrade his web shooters, but now he has to take more time out of his day to fix the goddamn weapons that these supersoldiers and assassins should know damn well how to use.

The straw is this: Peter looks to his right in an attempt to calm himself down. He finds the homework he placed on the table last night on the floor, waterlogged and ripped at the corners. 

He walks towards the paper with clenched teeth, hanging on to the last dredges of his sanity. The words he wrote on the paper are illegible. 

Now reasonably, Peter knows he can redo the paper. It wasn’t a particularly difficult assignment, and in all honesty it wouldn’t have taken more than twenty minutes to rewrite it.

But Peter isn’t feeling reasonable. In fact, the rage that has been forced to be tucked away has slithered out of its crevices, settling in a ball against his chest.

He picks up the page and stalks out of the lab, up to the penthouse. 

When he exits the elevator, he catalogs that every single Avenger is lying around on the couches or by the bar. Tony notices his entrance first.

“Hey Pete! God, kid, you forget your umbrella or something? You’re soaked.”

Peter ignores him, turning to the group and holding up the wet paper.

“Who did this?” He asks, his voice dangerously low.

It stops everyone in their tracks. In all their time of knowing Peter, he’s never spoken to them that way. 

“What is it?” Steve asks.

“It’s my homework. That I left on my lab bench. And it was dry when I left last night. Which means not only did someone go into my lab, they spilled liquid all over my homework and didn’t even think to clean it up or apologize.” Peter says harshly, pointing the wet paper emphatically as he speaks.

“Hey, it was an accident, Peter.” Tony says.

“No, I don’t care, there shouldn’t have been any liquid in the lab!” Peter says firmly, waving his hand violently in their direction.

The anger bubbles dangerously, popping and spitting.

“Peter-” Tony starts, his tone scolding.

“God, whatever!” Peter shouts, throwing his hands in the air, blinking to stop his eyes from stinging. 

“Pete, bud, you need to calm down.” Tony says again, in that stupid, placating tone.

“Calm down?” Peter asks through gritted teeth, “I am always fucking calm, I am always obedient and nice and friendly. God forbid I feel a negative emotion once! ” 

The anger rises higher.

“Hey, hey” Tony says, “Where is all this coming from?”

“No, no!” Peter says sarcastically, “Peter is doing fine ! No need to worry or care about kind, helpful, perfect Peter!”

Sam stands up, “Why don’t we all just take a breath-“

The rage boils over.

“No! I deserve this! I deserve to be angry!” Peter yells, forcing Tony and Sam to take a step back, “Because I do everything for everyone all the goddamn time and now my homework is ruined and nobody ever acknowledges that I could be having a hard time too!”

He barely takes in the shocked gazes of the Avengers in front of him, his eyesight blurring in a mix of tears and blind rage. 

“Nobody ever fucking notices! I let a girl die in my arms last week and nobody even knew !” Peter’s voice cracks, and he ignores the gasp from his left. 

“Just like Ben! And my parents ! They all leave! Everyone leaves ‘cause I wasn’t quick enough or good enough to stay!” Peter screams, spittle flying from his mouth. 

He rips the homework paper in his hand, throwing it to the floor before turning on his heel and slamming his fist into the wall beside him. Peter doesn’t even feel his knuckles crack as they make contact with the metal. 

He feels more than sees the people behind him jump in surprise. 

“And they’re gone! They won’t come back! And it’s all my fault! It’s always my fault!” Peter continues, turning his wet eyes towards Tony, who looks horrified at the situation in front of him. 

“Kid-” Tony says, his eyes too understanding, too empathetic as he walks closer to Peter, his arms out in a placating gesture. Peter lets out another shriek-sob, banging his fist into Tony’s chest.

“No, fuck you!” He yells, slamming the sides of his fists into Tony, the clang of the arc reactor reverberating off the walls.

And Tony just takes it. He looks down at Peter with an anguished look on his face, holding the boy by his shoulders as he breaks apart.

Peter’s not even yelling words anymore, just animalistic shouts escaping his throat as he hits harder. Years of grief, months of giving and hurting and trying and failing finally making themselves clear. Tears are rolling down his cheeks in waves, exacerbated by the humiliation of this meltdown happening with a crowd to see it.

In the corner of his eye, in the midst of his hysteria, he can see the Avengers staring at him in horror. Bruce has a hand covering his mouth, Clint’s eyes wide and shocked. Steve and Bucky stare at him, jaws dropped and eyes filled with regret. Natasha’s eyes are furrowed, her lips pressed tight. 

Sam only stares at him sympathetically, his gaze knowing and sorrowful.

The pounding of his fists slow as his voice finally gives out. Hoarse gasps for breath accompanied by dry sobs are all that can be heard in the cavernous room.

Tony takes his hand gently, holding them tightly in his own as he forcibly wraps Peter’s arms around his waist. Peter takes in the scent of cinnamon and motor oil and the anger is swept out under his feet, replaced swiftly by overwhelming anguish.

His wails echo around the room, unhinged and unrestrained. Tony’s arms wrap tightly around his shoulders and head like he’s trying to physically hold Peter together. 

Peter’s legs give out under the weight of his grief and Tony brings them to the ground. The man rocks Peter back and forth, soft reassurances and coos escaping his mouth. Peter weeps, his cries so forceful he curls around himself. 

The crowd behind them is silent, shock and misery filling the air, mixing with the sound of Peter’s sobs. 

Peter’s anger and sadness, on clear display for everybody he loves to see. Something he’s tried to hide for months, for years, shoved right into the faces of those whose opinions he cares about the most. His grief is a shadow that follows him around, and now it’s taken up every inch of space in the tower, latching onto his friends and family and gripping tight.

The façade is up.

The mask has dropped.

The truth is out.

And now everybody knows.

Chapter Text

Peter wakes to the sound of bickering. 

“ -ake him up-”

“No, I told you all something was wrong and-”

“Not now Sam-”

“-be quiet!” 

A voice rumbles underneath him and immediately, Peter clocks it as Tony because of the odd heartbeat next to his ear. 

“Shhh!” Tony says, “He’s waking up.”

The voices around him quiet and his eyes flutter open. Tony looks down at him with a soft smile on his face. He runs a large hand through Peter’s curly brown hair, smoothing back the tangles in a repetitive motion. 

“Hey bud,” Tony says quietly, “How’re you feelin’?”

Peter smacks his lips, working double time to get his tongue to form actual words. His eyes move to the others, who are gathered around on the couches next to them, looking at him with worried eyes.

He’s a little confused as to why everyone’s staring at him until his memories slam back into his head. Oh god, how embarrassing. Peter had an entire breakdown with all of the Avengers to see. He can feel his face begin to heat up with all the eyes turned his way.

Peter swallows, “Pretty embarrassed, if I’m honest.” 

His voice is hoarse and crackly, prompting Sam to jog to the kitchen to grab a water bottle and hand it to him. Peter sits up, taking gulps of it greedily before Tony takes it away with a knowing look. He cried an entire river, sue him for wanting water. 

“There’s no need to be embarrassed, son.” Steve says gently from his spot just adjacent to Peter. The rest of his family nods in agreement, giving him soft, encouraging smiles. 

“I freaked out over nothing.” Peter says, shaking his head.

Sam scoffs, “I have a feeling this is something that was building for a long time, Pete.”

Peter looks around at the Avengers, knowing this isn’t something he can fake or get out of. He spent so long hiding this part of himself, and now he’s reaping the consequences. 

He sighs, “Yeah, well, you guys didn’t deserve to be yelled at.”

Tony grips the back of his neck gently, thumbing the base of his skull, “Well, we did get water all over your homework.”

“And I punched your wall in response.” Peter says, rolling his eyes.

Tony laughs, “Yeah, you did put a decent dent in it, huh? No skin off my back, bud, you’re alright.” 

The tension in the room hasn’t lessened, but the casual conversation is putting people more at ease. Sam walks around the room, settling on the table right in front of Peter and lifting his chin so they make eye contact.

Peter gives him a small smile, “Are you about to therapize me?”

That gets a few chuckles, but they feel forced. Sam smiles at him, raising his eyebrow, “You bet. Do you want everyone here, or no? I’ll kick ‘em out if you need.” 

Peter shakes his head, “No, no, you guys deserve to know. It might just take me a while to get it out.” 

“Don’t worry, kid,” Sam says, “we have all the time in the world.” 

Peter looks back at the floor. God, where does he even start? How does he explain to these people that he’s a liar? That he’s been fooling them all this time? There’s no real way for him to articulate this nicely, so he just starts.

“I think I have this… duty to be a certain way in front of people.” Peter says, snorting slightly when everyone in the room perks up. 

“Like, when I’m Spider-man, I’m this figurehead. People expect Spider-man to be a beacon of hope, y’know? And if I’m not strong, if I’m not brave and kind and witty all the time, people start to lose their trust in Spider-man.” He says.

Peter sighs, “And then there’s me. Peter-me. I think you guys… have this expectation of me, y’kmow? The heir of Stark industries and the Avengers. I’m ‘the best of us all’” he says in quotations, chucking when Steve winces, “I’m a genius, I’m perfect .” 

The room is silent. He has everyone’s undivided attention. Peter can feel the lump in his throat growing as he gets to the more emotional parts of his story. Tony returns his hand to his hair, combing through the strands comfortingly. 

“But the truth is… I’m a liar. It’s all fake. I’m tired of smiling and laughing when all I want to do is curl up in a ball and never see the light of day again. I don’t remember the last time I was actually happy.” He says quietly. 

A lone tear exits his eye as he lets out a small sniffle. Bucky passes a box of tissues his way and he nods thankfully.

“What do you feel, Peter?” Sam asks gently. 

Peter’s face crumples, “Grief. All the time. It’s never ending. It swallows me whole.” 

“But I can’t show it,” he continues, “so I keep it to myself.”

Sam nods, reaching out to squeeze Peter’s knee. Tears begin falling down his cheeks in slow rivulets. He pulls out a tissue and presses it to his eyes.

“And how long have you been doing that?” Sam asks again.

Peter’s voice breaks, “All my life.” 

“Since my parents. Since Ben. And everyone that I couldn’t save since I started Spider-man.” he says. 

Bucky speaks up softly, “How often do people die while you’re on patrol, kid?” 

Peter shrugs, “Not super often. More than I’d like.” 

He doesn’t really want to open up about what he sees during his night time activities. That’s something he’d prefer to talk about with Sam in private. He looks up at the man pleadingly, and immediately Sam understands. 

“You’ve been grieving for a long time, Peter. It’s bound to manifest in ugly ways.” He says soothingly. 

Peter nods, wiping his cheeks with the back of his hands, “I’m so fucking angry all the time, and sad.” 

Sam curls his lips sorrowfully, obviously trying to reign back emotions. Around him, the Avengers are in various states of sympathy. Tony wraps an arm around Peter, pressing him close to his side. 

“I get that.” Steve speaks up for the first time. Peter looks up at him questioningly, taken aback by the pure understanding in his gaze.

“The anger,” Steve clears up, “I felt it too… it was all I felt.” 

Peter tilts his head, silently asking the man to go on. He wants so badly to be able to relate to someone, anyone. 

“I woke up seventy years in the future, right after losing my best friend, and I was just supposed to… adjust. Just like that,” Steve says, glancing to his left at Bucky who had tensed up.

“People expected Captain America, super soldier and war hero, righteous and bringer of justice. Nobody cared about Steve Rogers, nobody knew that I was ripping my knuckles bloody slamming them into punching bags or drowning myself in alcohol that never even worked on me.” Steve says gently. 

The man sighs, looking up at Peter, “You and I are similar that way. There’s an expectation, and image to uphold, but it’s impossible when the grief of your entire world crumbling around you threatens to crush you to death.”

Steve reaches out to grab Peter’s hand, squeezing it tight, “I’m so sorry I didn’t see it sooner.” 

The dam opens and tears flood down Peter’s cheeks. He squeezes Steve’s hand back, nodding violently. He feels thumbs softly rubbing the streaks away from his cheeks and he’s suddenly faced with Tony. 

“I’m sorry too, kiddo,” he says softly, “I’m sorry we’ve made you feel like you need to act a certain way around us.” 

“You don’t need to be happy all the time, паучок” Natasha adds, “None of us are.” 

Peter nods, giving her a small smile. He feels lighter, now that he’s spilled his guts. He doesn’t have to lie anymore, at least, which is a relief.

“You don’t need to act around us anymore, Pete,” Sam says, “You’ve grown and changed, and you’ve been through a hell of a lot more than most kids your age. You’re constantly exposed to danger and crime, nobody would be happy-go-lucky all the time after that.” 

Peter nods again, sniffling, “Thank you, Sam.”

“Of course, kid. Anytime you need help, you call one of us, yeah?” Sam says.

Tony brings Peter closer, squeezing him tightly, “We’re all on your side Pete, and we love you no matter what.” 

The anger and sadness still swirl inside him, and maybe they always will, but there’s something about having people to share the burden with that makes the idea of moving on a little easier.

“Okay,” Peter says, looking up at his family, “I’ll call.”

Peter’s not better, not by any means.

 But he will be.