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This was fine.
Peter was used to almost-life-threatening injuries, cuts and stab wounds and bullet holes and a whole host of other more bizarre, unlikely injuries.
Which meant that this was fine.
He’d spent plenty of time in pain, forcing shaky hands to stitch through his skin or more often, lying with tears running silently down his face. He struggled to quiet the voice in his head that said, “Real superheroes don’t cry like that. Real heroes aren’t babies like you.” He was used to pain, both physical and mental, and he told himself he had thick skin. He had to. He wouldn’t – couldn’t – let it get to him.
So all in all, he was completely, totally fine and okay in every way. Sure, it hurt but he could handle it.
He wasn’t even crying – he was proud of himself for that, in spite of how much keeping it in made it burn all the hotter. It was working, anyway; no one on the team seemed too concerned about the state he was in. That’s what he wanted: to not bother them with the embarrassing weakness that only he seemed to be guilty of.
He wasn’t an Avenger – yet? – but today all the stars had aligned and he’d ended up on a mission with Mr. Stark and several others he’d begun to see as friends. He’d never fought with all of them together before, only being around on the occasional “happened to be nearby” business. It had always been stuff at Peter's scale.
But the Avengers usually stuck to the big challenges, at times traveling far outside of New York to take down things Peter couldn’t dream of. Today, though, they’d been in regular old NYC. There had been a small HYDRA base still operating in the city, and when FRIDAY had given Mr. Stark the relevant information Peter had been there to overhear it.
Peter had complained about potentially being left behind, trying not to sound like a whiny toddler while he did it. He was ready for this – he knew he was and surely by now Mr. Stark knew it too! Eventually Mr. Stark seemed to gather that Peter would be following him there no matter how much he tried to stop him, so he sighed, connected Peter’s comms, and over his own told the team "the kid" would be coming with.
The team knew, now, that Spider-Man and 16 year high school student Peter Parker were the same person. They’d met him now and then as Peter the intern, occasionally saw Spider-Man out in the field, but it took a stupid, accidental slip of his tongue to connect the two identities into one whole.
When practically everyone on the team had clambered over themselves to argue with Mr. Stark about bringing a child into this (“He’s a kid, we can’t make him deal with this stuff,” Captain America argued, the hypocrite), Peter’s hurt at being viewed as lesser had filled him with the stubborn conviction to prove otherwise.
He'd ended up taking a couple stab wounds to the torso, and, well. At least it wasn’t bullets, so he’d survived far worse. The minute the fight was wrapped up he'd been whisked through the air in Mr. Stark’s arms, trying to argue against that indignity over the loud rush of wind around them.
Peter’s injuries were the worst of the team’s – the HYDRA cell contained only a handful of active members, likely due to the Avengers' prior work of rooting out the organization. He tried to silence the part of his brain that said, “See? You could never belong here. They were right about you. You’ll never be half the hero they are.”
So it only made sense to grit his teeth and bear it, sit through the scans that showed no serious internal damage. “This is fine this is fine this is fine,” Peter told himself ad nauseum, knowing from experience that keeping himself calm would marginally help with his physical and mental suffering. At the very least it couldn't make things worse.
Being caught up in his head meant that Peter unfortunately missed the first couple of times Mr. Stark tried to get his attention. He only knew he’d missed it by the emphasis and edge of worry in his voice as he said, “Pete! Kid! You with me buddy?”
Peter blinked through the haze of pain and shot Mr. Stark a weak smile. The man gave him a smile in return – a relieved one. “You think the drugs are working, Underoos?” he asked, clearly still needing a bit of reassurance; Peter could give him that, he thought, so he nodded in response.
It would be fine.
Yeah, maybe he'd discovered pretty soon after the spider bite that no matter how many pills of over the counter medication he washed down, nothing ever came of it. He supposed he shouldn’t be so surprised that even an opioid couldn’t do much of anything for him.
But this was about Mr. Stark’s anxiety, not him. This was about the other Avengers milling about, sharing concerned looks with each other and clearly doing their best not to crowd him. Their caution wasn’t helping as much as they were probably expecting it to.
Peter knew that if he was the only person in this room who couldn’t avoid getting literally stabbed on a simple mission – or worse, who would go so far as to cry and whine about it – well. He wouldn’t be getting more invites any time soon, not even the reluctant, resistant capitulation he’d gotten today.
They would know that he’d never belong with them, never be the kind of hero they were. He wasn’t rough or rugged or even naturally athletically inclined. He was a scrawny kid with lean muscle – and yeah, there was a seemingly impossible strength beneath that build, but he would never be anything other than Peter Parker. Spider-Man was inspiring when you couldn’t see the stupid, weak kid hidden behind the mask.
Peter snapped back to attention, noticing suddenly that Mr. Stark had stepped back and Dr. Banner was now standing right at his bedside. He was adjusting the IV bag, and speaking to Mr. Stark as he worked.
“I think this dosage isn’t enough. He's too tense, he should be out of it by now,” Dr. Banner said.
Mr. Stark snorted. “So staring into the middle distance doesn’t count as ‘out of it’?” he replied, and Peter was too overwhelmed to really be able to interpret the tone of his words.
All he could think was, “Fuck, I’m such an embarrassment.”
“No, I don’t need- don’t need-“ he stuttered out, and within what felt like a fraction of a second Mr. Stark was standing right at the edge of the bed again.
“Shh, you're okay,” Mr. Stark said softly, but Peter just shook his head fiercely, hard and fast enough to trigger a wave of dizziness.
Maybe the lung-burning, no-oxygen feeling was contributing to that, actually.
“He’s panicking. What do we do?” Peter heard Mr. Stark demand, and it sounded like the voice was coming from a great distance away instead of right next to him.
Now, Peter sensed three things.
One, Mr. Stark was holding one of his hands.
Two, Dr. Banner was trying to get him through breathing exercises that he was barely cognizant enough to hear, and not nearly mentally present enough to actually follow.
And three, his face was wet, and he had no way of knowing when or why the crying had started.
He needed to prove he was fine, that he could shake it off the way everyone else always seemed to be able to. That thought was somewhere in between a sharp impulse and a deep conviction, and he managed to raise his upper body a couple inches off the bed. His stomach screamed. When Tony pushed him down onto his back again it screamed more, more than he thought it should have for such a minor injury.
"Banner, what's wrong with him?!” exploded from Mr. Stark, worry turned frantic, before it was immediately followed by reassurances. “Pete, Petey, look at me. You’re okay. You’re gonna be okay,” he said, gentleness edged with panic, but Peter wasn’t looking at him. Maybe it was shame, or maybe it was just because he felt so completely confused about what was going on or what direction he should be looking in to start with.
Up, up. He remembered that. He just had to get up.
“Stupid. Stupid Parker. Fucking it up like always. Embarrassing. Get up get up GET UP."
Peter managed to shove Mr. Stark away from him; at not even a tenth of his strength, following a year and a half of almost constant suppression and feigned normalcy, the action still held enough strength to send Mr. Stark stumbling back several steps.
“Banner, sedatives!” Mr. Stark ordered, and he didn’t really know what the man was talking about at the moment but he was yelling and that meant he was angry.
“Sorry,” he gasped out desperately. “Sorry sorry sorry. Sorry Mr. Stark,” he repeated at barely more than a whisper.
Tony was close to him again, softly running a hand through his hair and shushing him lightly. There was a brief moment of peace before Peter abruptly redoubled his efforts.
“Rogers! Before he hurts himself!” Tony shouted, and when did the Avengers get so close to him?
“No no no no ‘m fine,” he muttered out as he resisted, Tony moving away from his uncoordinated pushes and kicks and Steve taking his place.
Steve got onto the bed, holding Peter’s legs down with his lower body and pushing his wrists solidly against the bed with his hands. Peter wasn’t the only biologically enhanced hero in the room.
He didn’t calm down, not even a little bit, but he couldn’t move either and that realization only increased his panic. He hardly noticed the reassuring smile Captain Rogers gave him, the “Just until it kicks in, okay Queens? We don’t want you to hurt yourself,” as Peter shook his head from side to side against the pillow.
“Don’t need it, don’t need it,” he muttered, not entirely conscious of the confused and concerned furrow of Captain Rogers’ brow.
“Don’t need what?” he asked at the same time Tony demanded, a visceral desperation in his voice, “Why isn’t it working? Shouldn’t it be working by now?!”
“I don’t know. I gave him the right dose for—shit!” Bruce exclaimed, that last word loud enough to be considered a shout. All eyes were on him now, even Peter’s hazed over, panicked ones.
“Banner! What the hell?!” Tony burst out, and Bruce shook his head quickly, somewhere between scared and angry at himself as he ran a hand roughly through his hair.
“I dosed his painkiller and sedative for a normal human, not an enhanced one. I should have figured this out months ago! Should have known what to give him before he ever got hurt. I can’t believe I-” he stopped when Clint’s hand landed firmly on his shoulder.
“It’s okay Bruce. What do we do now?” Clint said, deliberately calm and grounding.
“Okay. Yeah, yeah- okay,” Bruce replied, a hand running through his hair again before he visibly steeled himself. “Now isn’t a good time to experiment. His panic attack will probably pass soon, and I’m worried if I give him too much of the sedative we’ll be in for another problem,” he said.
“What kind of problem?” Tony demanded at the same time Natasha said, “His pain.”
All eyes turned to her, and she followed her statement with, “His anxiety will wear off but his pain could last at least several hours, even with his healing factor. Can you give him more for that?”
Bruce nodded quickly, apparently grasping onto that suggestion like a lifeline. “Opioids are dangerous to mess with so I’ll increase the dose a bit at a time and keep an eye out for any adverse effects. I’m not about to risk him overdosing,” he said, and despite being offered a game plan no one involved seemed to be much calmer than they’d been a minute ago.
Tension grew even more when Peter mumbled, “Don’t need it. Don’t need—not a baby.” Peter’s body had started to relax as the panic passed its crest and began its decline, but everyone else in the room tensed up at his words.
“God, kid,” Tony choked out, an edge of tears in his voice. He ran a hand through Peter’s hair, hoping to help Peter out of the last of his panic. “You’re the strongest person I’ve ever known. It’s okay if it hurts, Pete. We get hurt sometimes too," he said, but Peter just shook his head. It was unclear to everyone whether he was disagreeing or just confused – maybe both at this point.
“Tony’s right,” the Captain said softly, starting to loosen his hold when it was clear Peter had stopped trying to fight him. “Injuries like yours hurt me too, and I’m Captain America." Now was one of the few times where pulling the “I’m Captain America” card could sound reassuring and not arrogant. The man got off of the bed, and in spite of everything he couldn't help but breathe a sigh of relief.
“Hurts,” Peter mumbled, looking between the Avengers as he attempted to scour their faces for judgment or contempt. He didn’t see any but he knew his brain was still muddled – he could be missing something, or maybe that lecture would come later. The inevitable “you’re just a kid and shouldn’t be here” lecture.
“Not a kid,” he muttered with zero context, but Mr. Stark seemed to pick up on what he was getting at, both to Peter’s relief and mortification.
“You are a kid, but that’s okay. You know you don’t have to prove anything to us, right?” Mr. Stark said, and if Peter wasn’t so out of it he might have believed the part of his brain that judged his tone to be desperate, worried, scared. But Peter just turned his gaze as far away as he could, trying to avoid the eyes of everyone in the room.
“Jesus, Pete,” Mr. Stark muttered, and Peter instinctively tried to curl into a fetal position. This, predictably, went poorly and Peter cried out in pain. It hurt hurt hurt hurt.
Mr. Stark did his best to gently encourage him to turn onto his back again, and by going very slowly they thankfully managed it without too much additional pain.
“Progress?” Sam asked with a nod toward Bruce.
“Working on it,” Bruce replied. “I’ve upped the dose a couple times, but we may need more time to figure out where he’s at before increasing it again.”
“Hurry it up,” Mr. Stark said sharply, sounding almost mean; for reasons Peter couldn’t discern, no one called him on his attitude the way they normally would.
“Don’t need it. Don’t- don’t worry 'bout me. ‘ll be fine,” he mumbled, and when he briefly glanced over at Mr. Stark he didn’t miss the disbelieving look on the man's face. Peter turned his gaze away again in shame.
“No no, Pete. Look at me,” Mr. Stark said, and to Peter’s confusion it sounded both like an order and a desperate plea. “Please, kid,” he begged in a softer voice, and Peter didn’t even have the energy left to argue with the moniker.
He looked over and was shocked to see the way disbelief had faded into pure distress. “If it was up to me you’d never feel pain again,” Mr. Stark said in a choked voice.
“It’s not about your age, or your- your strength, or any of that bullshit I know you’re thinking. We all just want you to be safe. Because we love you, kiddo. Not as Spider-Man, as you. And I’m sorry – we’re all sorry – if us trying to protect you came across the wrong way. We just want to do right by you,” Mr. Stark said, and to Peter’s deep humiliation he found sobs pushing out of his body against his own will.
“I’m- ‘m sorry,” he gasped out, and Mr. Stark gave him the most fond and gentle look he’d ever seen the man direct at him – or at anyone, really.
“Don’t, Pete. You’re okay. Can I hold your hand again?” Mr. Stark asked with the care of someone who would be okay with either permission or denial. Some part of that kindness almost seemed suspicious, like it was too good to be true (or too good for Peter).
But Peter just gave a silent nod and held out a shaky, heavy hand, noting the look of pure relief on Mr. Stark’s face as he took the hand in his.
Dr. Banner cut in, seemingly doing his best to stay in a calm, composed "doctor mode". “Peter, if you can remember can you give me a number on the 1-10 pain scale from when we first got here, and another for right now?” he asked, and with that new professional tone Peter was reminded of how stressed the man had sounded in the glimpses he seen during his panic attack. He found himself cringing at the realization of how much he must have scared everybody.
Peter mentally steadied himself, and answered the best he could. “Um, a 10 would be like a gunshot, I guess. That's not that common for me. I think this was at like- a 9 before. It's maybe a 4 or 5 now,” he said, and he didn’t miss the sharp intake of breath that came from Mr. Stark.
Why did I mention gunshots? God, I really am messing everything up.
The second he opened his mouth to speak again, Mr. Stark read his mind, hitting him with a plea and a squeeze to his hand. “Don’t apologize, kid. Please don’t. I can’t take it anymore,” he begged. After whatever upset look must have crossed Peter’s face, he clarified quickly. “You’re not bothering me. I just don’t want you to feel like you have something to apologize for. You didn’t do anything wrong. Anything, you hear me?”
Peter heard him loud and clear – but believing it was another thing entirely. The look on Mr. Stark’s face made him feel like the man saw every bit of the doubt and resistance going on in his brain, and Peter’s heart sank hearing the defeated sigh he let out in response.
Peter knew he was nothing more than a kid who wanted to play in the big leagues. Who wanted to hang out with his older siblings who knew they were too cool for him. Who wanted to make his dad proud… well, the "dad" part wasn’t something he could really unpack right then. It was all so pathetic but he felt like he should say something to explain his behavior.
“I just-“ Peter choked out, then swallowed around his dry throat and forced his cracking voice into submission. “I just- ever since you guys found out who I am it seems like you treat me differently and like- like maybe the things I think about myself are right.”
He took a deep, ragged breath. “I know I can’t be like you, I’m not like you guys and I probably never will be, it’s just- I want to be like you, y’know? I want to be like my heroes, and- and my friends. I want you to like me,” Peter admitted, deeply embarrassed when his voice cracked more and a couple tears slid down his face.
“Oh, Pete,” Mr. Stark said, and one glance at his face expressed a sorrow he’d never seen on the man.
“Queens,” Captain Rogers started from where he stood by his bed, and Peter looked over at him for the first time since the man had released the restraint. He was giving Peter a watery smile. “You should’ve seen me at your age. I had this outer shell of bravado and courage but there was nothing there to back it up. I was sickly and couldn’t walk up a flight of stairs without getting out of breath. I wasn’t a genius, I didn’t know how to fight, and you know how hard I had to push to get into the military at all.”
Peter listened to this apparent motivational speech with rapt attention.
“I was just a kid, and I wasn’t nearly as smart or talented as you,” Captain Rogers said, and Peter felt his face flush red. “And I ended up like this. I like to think it wasn’t just the serum - I grew up. I mean, no one who knew me back then could have ever imagined I’d be a hero. At least, besides- you know,” he cut himself off at the thought of an old friend, quickly clearing his throat. “You have the potential to be better than me, better than any of us. You just need time to grow up, too.”
He sighed, and another weak but reassuring smile crossed his face. “Hell, kid, you’re at our level already. You don’t have as much experience – and that’s okay, that’s only natural – but you could kick all our asses any day of the week if you wanted to,” he said, and the playfulness of the comment made him seem much less weary.
“So if you ever had anything to prove, you’ve already done it. And Tony’s right. We love you as Peter just as much as we love Spider-Man. We want you to be happy, and healthy, and everything else we all have trouble being. That’s why we complain when Tony drags you around.” There was a little smirk on his face, and between that and the "kick our asses" comment Peter couldn’t help the small smile that slipped out on his own face.
“You know,” another voice cut in from behind the Captain. It was Colonel Rhodes, lightly pushing around the other man to get closer to Peter. “I may not be as eloquent as this guy is-“ he nudged Captain Rogers’ shoulder with his own, “-but I was there for the first time Tones broke a bone and believe me, he was a mess. An absolute nightmare to be around.” Belying his insult – and the annoyance on Tony’s face as he exclaimed, “Hey!” – was the fond look he directed at the man.
He turned his gaze back to Peter. “I didn’t dump my friend when he whined about his arm for weeks. You’ve got nothing to worry about, okay Peter?”
Peter nodded, swallowing around the lump in his throat. “Thanks Mr. War Machine Iron Patriot, sir. And Mr. Captain America, sir. I… I appreciate that a lot,” he said, trying not to feel self-conscious about the way his voice cracked on “a lot”.
Both men were visibly amused. “I think at this point you’re just doing that as a comedy bit,” Rhodey said with a genuine smile, and at the sight of Peter’s confusion he clarified, “the name thing.”
Peter couldn’t help but grin, despite how awful he felt. At least whatever Dr. Banner had done had brought his pain down a few notches, into fully tolerable territory.
“I plead the fifth,” Peter replied with an audible edge of self-satisfaction, reveling in the abrupt laugh that burst out of Mr. Stark. At this point he wasn’t even sure why he was doing it – respect, the look on their faces every time, tradition? But he appreciated Colonel Rhodes for the obvious attempt to lighten the mood.
It was then Peter noticed that Mr. Stark and Dr. Banner had turned to each other and were talking quietly. Of course, given their proximity with his enhanced hearing he could pick up on the words easily.
“-talk to him alone.”
“Yeah, we need to work this out for next time.”
“We can’t let that happen again, I don’t want the kid to go through that a second time.”
“Who knows how many times it’s actually been. He never speaks up when he needs something.”
Peter felt a sinking feeling in his stomach – is this when the other shoe finally dropped? Apparently spotting the look on his face, the Captain softly said, “You’re not in trouble. They just want to make sure you’ll be okay in the future. If I had to guess, it’s about the meds. No one’s mad at you, okay?” At those words about half of the tension slumped off of Peter's shoulders. “Okay,” he said quietly, and Captain Rogers gave him a final smile.
After a couple minutes it became clear that the Captain was trying to politely and inconspicuously herd everyone out of the room. Everyone except for Mr. Stark and Dr. Banner. Despite Captain Rogers' reassurance he still felt anxiety settle in his stomach, and he swallowed around the lump in his throat.
“Hey, Underoos,” Mr. Stark said softly, gently. “We just wanted to talk to you for a sec. Banner'll be increasing the pain meds and it’ll knock you out soon. I thought before that happened we could have a conversation. Just a talk without a whole crowd staring at you.”
Peter stared silently for a moment before eventually nodding his head mutely. Mr. Stark was smiling at him, and it was such a relief to see a less dire look on his face.
Dr. Banner spoke after a moment of silence. “Do you usually take pain meds when you get hurt?” he asked, serious and neutral like a proper medical doctor.
Peter chewed his lip. “I used to. I tried taking Tylenol and Advil when I needed it, but it seemed like it didn’t do anything. I kept getting desperate and taking more, but it still didn’t really work and I didn’t have the kind of money to take a whole bottle of pills every time I got stabbed or shot or something.” Peter did his best to avoid eye contact, not sure he could handle seeing whatever was on their faces.
In a deeply strained voice, Mr. Stark asked, “What helps? You’ve surely done something to get through it. Right?” He sounded almost like he was tentatively grasping at hope.
Peter squeezed his eyes shut before saying, “I kinda just cry through it and eventually it gets better. Handy dandy healing factor and all that.” He tried and failed to inject some levity into his tone but it fell disastrously flat.
“Fuck!” Mr. Stark exclaimed, the hand holding his tightening, and Peter hated the full-body flinch it triggered. He was such a child, so damn weak – how did he even manage to do what he’d been doing for all these months? He might have felt proud of his efforts if it weren’t for the crushing imposter syndrome that always hit him when he thought too hard about it.
“Pete. I’m sorry for yelling. Just, please, look at me?” Mr. Stark said. Peter didn’t have the willpower or the usual stubbornness needed to defy the man. So with great reluctance, he looked over at him. Mr. Stark looked like he had been put through the wringer, wan face and dark circles under his eyes and messy hair from running his hands through it.
Peter couldn’t help it when he murmured, “’m sorry.”
Heartbreak crossed Tony’s face, and Peter froze in shock when the man leaned and pressed a soft kiss to his forehead. Mr. Stark had never done something like that to him before, and Peter felt tears sting the corners of his eyes.
“We meant it, you know,” he murmured. “We all love you.” Peter nodded, using all the strength he could manage to avoid sobbing a second time. He may have been cared about by these people but he still had a sense of pride. When he pulled back Mr. Stark was giving him a soft, cracked open look that wasn’t helping with Peter’s self-control at all.
“You’re like a son to me, you know that?” Mr. Stark whispered so quietly that someone without enhanced hearing might not have understood his words. But Peter did, and his shocked face flushed with something shy and embarrassed.
“If that’s too far, I’ll never bring it up again. I’m sorry, I just wanted you to know. I don’t wanna make you uncomfortable, Pete,” Mr. Stark said, and the look on his face was so painfully uncertain and insecure that it made Peter’s heart hurt. He could no longer hold back the few tears that slipped down his face.
“Okay, Dad,” Peter murmured softly, testing the waters, and if he thought Mr. Stark looked emotional before, it was entirely eclipsed by how he looked now. Something like overwhelming joy, and relief, and even love if Peter dared to use that word himself.
“Does that mean you’re finally retiring ‘Mr. Stark’?” Mr. Stark asked, an edge of humor to his tone that made even Peter’s lips quirk up.
“Well, I don’t know about that. I'd try not to your hopes up Mr. Stark,” he replied with an attempt at a proper smile, trying to force some levity through his rough voice.
Mr. Stark laughed, and then a throat cleared and they looked behind him to where Bruce stood. Peter had forgotten that Dr. Banner was even there, and judging by his reaction it seemed like his mentor – dad? – had forgotten it too.
“I don’t mean to interrupt,” Dr. Banner said with a wry smile.
“You say as you totally interrupt,” Mr. Stark replied, his annoyed voice not nearly as bothered as he was clearly trying to make it seem.
“Yeah, well, we need to go over a game plan with Peter, remember?” Dr. Banner replied. Peter stiffened up at the same time Mr. Stark straightened his back and suddenly looked all business, giving him a “go on" nod.
“Well, it’s going to take me a bit of time and some tests – nothing invasive, Peter, nothing for you to worry about. But I should be able to synthesize a painkiller that works with your biology better. I have one for Steve already that I can use as a point of reference,” he said.
Peter nodded, holding back his desire to argue that he didn’t really need it. Mr. Stark seemed to recognize where his thoughts were going anyway.
“You better use the stuff, Underoos. I won’t have you panicking and crying in pain on my watch,” Mr. Stark said, and Peter couldn’t help but flinch at the reminder of the past hour or so.
“Hey, hey,” the man murmured, softer this time. He ran a hand through Peter’s hair again, before saying, “No one’s judging you, okay? Not me or Banner or anyone else on the team. If it wasn’t so self-destructive we’d be impressed with your pain tolerance, but you don’t have to impress us. I hope you get that now, Pete,” he said gently.
Peter nodded, a little reluctantly. He was feeling a mixture of relieved, cared for, and filled with a conviction that somewhere along the way he’d tricked all of these people into caring about him. They weren’t like Aunt May, who was biologically tied to and essentially stuck with him – if anything, his presence probably inconvenienced them.
Mr. Stark had this sad, pensive look on his face as he met his eye, and it made Peter wonder whether the man had mind-reading powers all of a sudden.
“Once it’s synthesized I’ll let you take some home to your aunt’s, for emergencies. But we’d prefer you come to the Med-bay if you get seriously injured again,” Dr. Banner said. Peter gave him a small, silent nod.
“And you better let us know if you ever run out,” Mr. Stark added firmly, giving Peter a threatening glare – well, a very unimpressive attempt at one.
“’Kay, Dad,” he mumbled, before finding himself yawning.
Tony smiled oh so softly before he said, “Get some rest.” Turning to Dr. Banner he added, “The meds will knock him out for a while, right?”
“Probably,” Dr. Banner replied. “I can’t completely predict how the medication will affect Peter’s unique biology. But after everything, I think he could use some sleep.”
Peter’s face flushed at the uncomfortable reminder that this so-called “everything” included crying, having a very public panic attack, and lashing out physically at everyone around him. It occurred to him suddenly that he could have actually hurt someone, and he felt that deep feeling of shame settle in his bones.
“I’m sorry,” Peter said for perhaps the hundredth time, meeting Mr. Stark’s eyes intently before making a quick glance over to Dr. Banner. When he made eye contact with Mr. Stark again, the man’s expression wasn’t annoyed at having to put up with him – it was nothing but concerned.
“What are you apologizing for this time, kid?” he said, seeming like he was trying to make his tone sound lighter than it actually was.
With a tsunami of regret, sorrow, and humiliation rising up in him, Peter choked out, “for pushing you,” and looked away.
Mr. Stark chuckled, and while the reaction didn’t seem truly happy it also didn’t seem angry or bad in any other way he might have feared. “Hey, look at me,” he said softly, the words starting to feel very worn out after an hour of Peter’s frequent avoidance of the man’s gaze. Despite his reservations, Peter looked over at Mr. Stark and felt relieved at the complete lack of negative emotion on his face.
“I get beat up on the daily, kid. It kind of comes with the job description. Super strength or not I don’t even think you bruised me. Now that you mention it, I do appreciate you pulling your punches,” Mr. Stark said.
“He’ll be mad I told you this-” Mr. Stark continued, ignoring the confusion that probably showed on Peter’s face, “-but Wilson has always been the worst with needles. Years of near-death experiences have mellowed him out a little, but it doesn’t change the fact that the last time Banner tried to give him a shot he punched him in the face. By accident, supposedly,” he said. Peter couldn’t help the grin that sprawled out on his face.
“He’s lucky the big guy didn’t see him as a threat,” Banner admitted, voice serious but an obvious smirk on his lips when Peter looked over at him. “He would’ve had a lot more than a shot to worry about if he had.”
“You’d think if he could handle getting shot and stabbed and concussed he could deal with a needle, but brain stuff doesn’t always make sense. I think everyone on the team’s punched someone else for some reason or another - I can handle a measly shove,” Mr. Stark said.
Peter shot him a glare that he didn’t actually mean. “Measly?” he repeated in mock offense, and both Mr. Stark and Dr. Banner chuckled. “Don’t worry kid, I know you could knock me flat if you actually tried,” Mr. Stark said like that was supposed to make him feel better. In a weird way, it kind of did. Peter was just so tired of feeling underestimated.
The medication, stress, and pain suddenly caught up to Peter. “M’kay,” he slurred out.
“Sleep,” Tony said softly, and Peter Parker was out like a light.