Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The city never really slept, but Peter was getting good at pretending he could.

His alarm Blared at 6:30 a.m., sharp and merciless, cutting through the fog of a night that had offered him little rest. He rolled onto his side, smacking at the phone until it stopped making the wretched noise, and blinked against the dull grey light seeping in through the blinds. His room looked like a battlefield-dirty clothes in a pile on the floor, a half finished physics worksheet on his desk, textbooks stacked like leaning towers.

But none of it looked as messy as he felt.

His body ached from patrol, shoulders stiff, thighs sore. That wasn't unusual. The problem was the heaviness in his chest, the kind that made breathing feel like dragging air through wet cement. He'd had it for weeks now. At first, he told himself it was just exhaustion from balancing Spider-Man and school. But lately, he wasn't so sure.

The ceiling fan whirred overhead. He counted the rotations. One. Two. Three. Anything to stall the moment when he'd have to get up.

Finally, he forced himself upright.

A shower helped him feel human again, sort of, though his reflection in the mirror told another story: shadows under his eyes, skin paler than it should be, lips pressed tight like he was holding something in. he practiced a smile. It didn't reach his eyes, so he tried again. That one was better. Passable.

He'd learned a long time ago that the right expression could keep people from asking questions.

Breakfast was quiet. May had left for an early shift, scrawling a note on the counter:

Left some money for lunch. Be safe today, honey. Love you

Peter pocketed the cash and ignored the cold cereal box sitting on the counter. He didn't have the stomach for food. His nerves were already chewing at him from the inside.

The subway ride to Midtown was a blur. He crammed himself between strangers, earbuds in but no music playing, letting the drone of the city wash over him. His thoughts tangled, one bleeding into another. Last night's patrol hadn't gone well-he'd stopped a robbery, but not before one of the hostages got hurt. Nothing life threatening, but Peter kept replaying it anyway, each time convinced there was a way he could've moved faster, hit harder, saved them before the damage was done.

By the time he shuffled into school, the weight of failure had already settled onto his shoulders.

"Peter!"

Ned waved him over by their lockers, face bright with energy. Peter tried to mirror it.

“Hey, man.” His voice cracked. He coughed to cover it up.

“You finish the chem homework?”

Peter’s stomach twisted. He’d forgotten. Again. He mumbled something about leaving it at home and promised to send it to Ned later. The lie left a sour taste in his mouth.

The first bell rang, and they split for class. Peter moved through the halls like a ghost, half-listening to teachers, half-scribbling notes he’d probably never study. Every tick of the clock was an echo in his skull. His leg bounced under the desk, restless energy buzzing with nowhere to go.

By lunch, the cafeteria noise was unbearable. He sat with Ned and MJ, nodding along to their chatter but barely touching the sandwich May had packed. The bread stuck to his throat like glue. He excused himself early, saying he had to talk to a teacher, but really he just slipped into the bathroom and locked himself in a stall.

He pressed his forehead against the cool metal and let out a shaky breath.

Nobody saw him here. Nobody expected anything.

The silence was a relief.

That night, Spider-Man swung through the city like always. Peter thought maybe the rush of air would clear his head, maybe the rhythm of web, swing, land would quiet the noise inside. For a while, it did. The city glittered under him, alive and endless.

But the illusion cracked when he chased down a carjacker and froze at the sight of a kid in the backseat. Just a toddler, screaming through the window.

Panic ripped through Peter’s chest.

He yanked the driver out, webbed him to the streetlight, and pulled the car door open. The kid was fine—crying but unharmed—but Peter’s hands wouldn’t stop shaking. He couldn’t stop imagining all the ways it could’ve gone wrong. If he’d been one second slower. If the driver had crashed. If-

If, if, if.

He handed the kid back to their frantic parent, nodded stiffly at the thanks, and disappeared before they could ask questions.

By the time he dragged himself through his bedroom window, it was almost 3 a.m. His body screamed for rest, but his mind kept racing.

You should’ve been faster.

You should’ve known.

You’re a liability.

He lay awake until dawn, staring at the ceiling fan again.

The day’s blurred together after that.

Missed assignments piled up. He skipped meals. Patrols turned into a form of punishment—swing harder, fight longer, make up for every mistake. May noticed the dark circles, the way he flinched when she asked if he was okay. She tried to press him once, and he’d brushed it off with a quick joke. She’d frowned, but let it go.

Tony texted him too, random check-ins that should’ve made him feel better.

Tony: You still alive, Underoos?

Tony: Don’t forget, Friday’s movie night. You’re coming. No excuses.

Tony: Eat something that isn’t sugar, please.

Peter answered with emojis, a thumbs-up, or the occasional “yeah.” He didn’t have the energy for more.

When Tony called, Peter let it ring out.

On Friday night, he sat in the compound lounge, staring at the flicker of Star Wars on the massive screen while the others laughed around him. He didn’t laugh. Didn’t even register the jokes. His chest felt tight, too small for his lungs.

Tony nudged him once. “You good, kid?”

Peter forced a smile. “Yeah. Just tired.”

Tony didn’t buy it—Peter saw the crease between his brows—but he didn’t push.

And Peter wished he had.

It was getting harder to pretend. The mask was slipping.

In school, MJ’s sharp eyes lingered on him longer than usual. “You look like hell, Watson,” she said bluntly.

He shrugged. “Yeah, well, hell looks good on me.”

She didn’t laugh.

Ned cornered him later. “Seriously, dude, what’s going on? You’ve been… I don’t know. Distant.”

Peter opened his mouth to lie, to say everything’s fine. But the words stuck. He just shook his head and said, “I’m just tired.”

The truth burned his tongue, begging to come out. But if he said it—if he admitted he was drowning—what then? They’d worry. They’d hover. And he couldn’t be the reason people hurt more.

So he stayed quiet.

The breaking point came on a Tuesday.

It was supposed to be a normal patrol. Quiet night, light traffic, nothing major. Peter perched on a rooftop, mask pulled up to let the cold air hit his face.

From here, Manhattan glittered the way it always did—neon signs, streams of headlights, skyscrapers piercing the clouds.

But tonight, it didn’t look alive. It looked… far away. Untouchable. Like he was already gone.

His chest felt hollow.

He stood, stepping closer to the edge. The wind tugged at his hoodie, cool against damp skin.

One step forward. That was all it would take.

One step, and the pressure would be gone. No more guilt. No more fear. No more pretending.

His knees wobbled. He closed his eyes.

The city murmured beneath him, a lullaby of car horns and distant sirens.

And for the first time, the thought didn’t terrify him.

It brought comfort.

Chapter Text

From the rooftop, the world stretched forever. Rivers of headlights winding through avenues. Neon signs flickering. The low hum of millions of lives carried on without him.

He stood near the ledge, hoodie pulled tight, wind cutting through his hair. His stomach clenched, but he ignored it. His hands trembled, but he curled them into fists until they stilled.

This wasn’t about fear. He wasn’t afraid.

It was about silence. About finally shutting everything up.

The decision wasn’t sudden. It had been building for weeks—months, maybe—like water leaking into the cracks of his bones, freezing, splitting him apart.

He had thought of Skip Westcott again. Not a memory, not really. Just fragments. The smell of cologne. A hand on his shoulder that stayed too long. A whisper that coiled around his spine like wire.

Don’t tell anyone. No one will believe you anyway.

The words had stuck like tar. They never went away.

And when he’d tried to push them down, to bury them beneath Spider-Man’s mask, the guilt had only gotten heavier. Every mistake in a fight, every late assignment, every time May looked at him with that small crease of worry between her brows-All of it whispered the same thing: you don’t deserve to be here.

He stepped closer, shoes slightly going over the edge of the roof.

The drop wasn’t that far. Not really. It would be fast. Easier than fighting. Easier than telling anyone the truth.

Easier than looking Tony in the eye and admitting what had been done to him.

Peter squeezed his eyes shut. His throat ached, but no tears came. His body felt wrung dry.

He took a breath. One step forward, and it would all be-

“Peter?”

The voice wasn’t in his head this time.

His eyes snapped open. He staggered, nearly losing balance, heart lurching painfully against his ribs.

“Kid- stop. Don’t move.”

Tony’s voice. Real. Desperate.

FRIDAY’s projection flickered faintly in the air beside him, glowing blue in the dark. “Mr. Stark, I’ve located him. Rooftop, 43rd and Lexington.”

Peter’s breath hitched. He turned his head slightly.

Tony was there, suit panels unfolding as he landed hard on the rooftop, repulsors whining. The mask peeled back, and Peter saw his face—pale, terrified, frantic in a way he’d never seen before.

“Hey. Hey, Bambino. Step back, okay?”

Peter’s mouth opened, but no sound came out.

Tony raised both hands, palms out like he was approaching a wild animal. “It’s alright. I’m here. Just… just step away from the edge.”

The numbness cracked, just slightly, enough for Peter to feel the burn of shame flood his chest. His throat closed up. He turned his face away.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he whispered.

Tony’s breath caught. He shook his head. “The hell I shouldn’t. You think I’m gonna let you—” His voice broke, just for a second, before he steadied it again. “C’mon, kid. Just take one step back. Please.”

Peter’s sneakers wobbled on the ledge. He tightened his grip on the stone, nails digging into the rough surface.

“It’s not—” His voice cracked. He swallowed hard. “It’s not supposed to matter. Me. Spider-Man. None of it.”

Tony took one slow step closer. “It matters to me.”

Peter flinched at that. His chest seized, and suddenly the tears came, hot and choking. He shook his head violently, hoodie slipping off his shoulder.

“You don’t understand.”

“Then tell me,” Tony said, voice sharp with desperation. “Make me understand. But not like this. Not with you gone.”

Peter’s vision blurred. The city below swam into streaks of light. His knees buckled.

Tony lunged forward, catching him by the arm before he tipped too far. The contact sent a bolt of panic through Peter’s body- memory flashing, a grip too tight, too much pressure on his wrist-

He gasped, fighting against it, until Tony instantly loosened his hold. “Easy, kid. Easy. I’ve got you, I’m not gonna hurt you. I swear.”

Peter’s chest heaved. His whole body shook. But he let himself be pulled back, inch by inch, until his sneakers hit solid rooftop again.

And then he collapsed.

Tony dropped with him, arms braced awkwardly, like he was afraid Peter would vanish if he let go. His own chest rose and fell in ragged bursts.

“Jesus, kid,” Tony whispered, voice hoarse. “You scared the hell out of me.”

Peter buried his face in his hoodie, sobs tearing loose in a way he couldn’t control anymore. His words muffled, broken: “You should’ve let me.”

Tony froze, every muscle in his body going rigid. Then he shook his head, fierce.

“Not a chance. You’re not getting rid of me that easy, Pete.”

He pulled the hoodie tighter around Peter’s shoulders, held him close despite the trembling. The repulsors dimmed, leaving only the sound of the city below and the harsh, uneven rhythm of their breathing.

For a long time, neither of them moved.

Peter’s sobs eventually softened into hiccups, his body limp with exhaustion. Tony kept one hand steady on his shoulder, rubbing small circles, grounding him.

Finally, Tony leaned down, pressing his forehead briefly to the crown of Peter’s hair. His voice cracked as he spoke.

“You’re not alone, kid. Not anymore. I promise.”

Chapter Text

Getting him off the rooftop was a nightmare.

Peter barely moved, half-conscious, trembling in Tony’s arms. Every few seconds his body jerked like he wanted to pull away, but didn’t have the strength.

“Engage med protocol,” Tony snapped. The suit shifted, armor folding into a carrying configuration, stabilizers boosting as they lifted into the air.

He hated flying like this—awkward, clumsy, Peter’s head lolling against his shoulder as the city lights blurred beneath them. Every gust of wind felt like a threat.

What if I was too late? What if he tries again? What if I didn’t notice until now?

The questions pounded harder than the roar of the repulsors.

They landed hard on the compound’s balcony. FRIDAY had already cleared the medbay. Panels slid open, machines humming to life, sterile lights flooding the space.

Tony lowered Peter onto the exam table. The kid winced, curling in on himself like he expected pain. Tony’s chest cracked open another inch.

“It’s just me, Pete,” he murmured. “Nothing’s gonna hurt you. I swear.”

FRIDAY’s scanners flickered over Peter’s body. “Multiple contusions consistent with impact stress. No internal bleeding. Oxygen levels unstable. Psychological distress indicators: extreme.”

Tony raked a hand through his hair. “Yeah, no kidding.”

He pulled up the interface, but for once the data swam uselessly in front of him. Numbers, readouts, medical charts—none of it mattered when the kid on the table was trembling like a leaf.

“Hey. Look at me.”

Peter’s eyes cracked open, glazed with tears.

“You’re safe,” Tony said firmly. “You’re in the compound. I’ve got you. You’re not alone.”

Peter’s lips parted, but the words came out jagged. “You… shouldn’t have…”

Tony’s stomach dropped. He leaned closer, voice breaking. “Don’t say it. Don’t you dare. I’m not letting you go that easy, kid. You hear me?”

Peter’s throat worked. A sob slipped through, raw and painful. He turned his face away, ashamed.

Tony sat down on the edge of the table, lowering himself to Peter’s level. Slowly, carefully, he reached out and brushed damp hair from Peter’s forehead. When the kid didn’t flinch, Tony let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

The next hour blurred.

Tony moved through the motions: oxygen mask adjusted, IV line set up, vitals stabilized. His hands didn’t shake—years of practice in crisis—but inside, he was unraveling.

Every beep of the monitors sounded like a countdown. Every twitch of Peter’s fingers made him jump.

Tony adjusted the oxygen mask again, tightening the strap just enough to keep it secure without cutting into Peter’s cheek. The kid twitched at the pressure, a sharp flinch that nearly had him tearing the mask back off.

“Easy, easy—just air, nothing else,” Tony soothed, though his throat was sandpaper. “Just breathe, kid. That’s it. In, out. You don’t have to do anything else.”

Peter’s breaths rasped shallow and uneven against the plastic. Every rise of his chest looked wrong—too thin, too weak, like the effort cost him more than the fight with Thanos ever had.

Tony wanted to curse. Wanted to smash the glass screen that insisted on showing him red flags he already knew: low O₂ saturation, pulse erratic, stress hormones through the roof. It all screamed the same thing—he was losing him.

Not physically, not right now. But something in Peter was breaking, deeper than bones or lungs, and Tony didn’t know how to reach it.

He clipped the IV line into place. Peter jerked the second the needle pricked. His whole body recoiled, a violent shudder that sent monitors shrilling.

Tony froze, both hands raised instantly. “Okay, okay, I’m not touching you. Not unless you let me, you got that? No one’s here to hurt you.”

Peter’s chest heaved, eyes darting wide and glassy beneath heavy lids. His hands twitched at his sides like he wanted to fight the tubing, the mask, everything tying him down.

It was like his body remembered pain his mind couldn’t voice.

Tony sat back in the chair beside the bed, armor peeling away until he was just in the undersuit, exhausted and raw. He wanted to do more, fix more, but every time he moved, Peter startled like a wild animal bracing for a trap.

So he forced himself to sit still.

Minutes bled into an hour. The monitors finally steadied into something close to normal. Peter’s breathing evened under the mask, though every now and then a muffled whimper broke through.

Tony pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes, dragging a ragged breath of his own.

Genius. Billionaire. Hero. None of it mattered here.

The kid he’d pulled into this life was curled on a medbay table, afraid of being touched. Afraid of being alive.

And Tony Stark had never felt more helpless.

Peter’s mind drifted between reality and fragments of the past.

The smell of disinfectant flickered into the smell of a locker room—Skip Westcott leaning close, voice slick and low. Peter shivered, curling tighter under the blanket. His fists clenched, trying to grab nothing and strike back at the memories.

Tony’s hand hovered near his shoulder, careful, patient. “It’s okay, Pete… it’s just me.”

Peter’s eyes flickered to him, glazed, haunted. “It’s not…” He stopped, throat tight. The words couldn’t come.

Not safe. Not ever.

Another fragment hit—gym class, a lingering grip on his wrist, laughter he hated. Peter flinched violently, shoving himself against the med bay mattress.

“Whoa, easy,” Tony said, leaning closer but keeping his hands visible, flat. “I’m not going anywhere. Not for a second. You’re not alone, Pete. Hear me?”

The kid’s lips quivered, and a quiet, broken sound came out—a mixture of sob and plea.

Tony’s chest ached, but he held steady, speaking in a calm cadence. “I’m right here. Nothing can touch you while I’m here.”

Peter wanted to argue. Wanted to vanish. Wanted to leap from the rooftop and leave this world behind. But the strength to move, to speak, to even cry… it was all gone.

Tony watched him, heart breaking in slow, jagged pieces. He had trained for saving lives, for building suits, for facing alien invasions. But nothing had prepared him for this: saving Peter from himself.

Peter’s body betrayed him constantly. Every time Tony adjusted a pillow, every light touch to brush hair back, his muscles stiffened, breath hitched, and tiny panic shivers ran down his spine.

His throat worked. His lips parted, forming words he hadn’t thought he could say.

“You.. should’ve..”

Tony froze.

“Don’t,” he said firmly, though his own voice trembled. “Don’t even finish that. You hear me? You are not letting go, not while I’m here.”

Peter’s eyes squeezed shut, and a fresh wave of tears slipped down his cheeks. Tony didn’t reach out yet, letting him collapse into his own misery, waiting until he gave permission.

Finally, Peter whispered the words, so soft Tony could barely hear them:

“You should’ve let me go.”

The medbay stilled. Machines hummed steadily, but Tony felt like the floor dropped from under him.

"No," Tony rasped. "No. Not now, not ever. You hear me? I am not letting you go. You are going to live, Peter Parker. You are going to fight. You are not alone."

Peter's body sagged in exhaustion, trembling from the effort of just existing. Tony leaned close, voice breaking, holding onto the fragile thread of connection.

"I got you, kid. I've got you. I'm not letting you do this alone. Not for a second."

And slowly-almost imperceptibly-Peter relaxed enough to allow a hand to rest on the blanket near his own. A tiny act, but monumental.

Tony didn't move, didn't speak. He just sat there, hands on his knees, wang over the kid who'd gone to the edge and back.

Hours passed like this. Peter dozed intermittently, caught between nightmare flashes and reality. Tony hovered, sometimes adjusting a pillow, sometimes just watching. Every whimper, every jerk, every shallow breath set his nerves on fire.

FRIDAY monitored vitals, offering quiet guidance, but Tony ignored the screens. The data didn't matter. Peter's tiny, fragile body, curled against the sterile white sheets, did.

At one point, Peter murmured something unintelligible in his sleep. A fragment of memory, a shadow from the past. Tony's stomach turned.

"Shh... not here. Not now. You're safe," Tony whispered, brushing damp hair back again.

And Peter, barely conscious, allowed the gesture.

A victory so small it felt like sunlight in a storm.

By morning, Peter was still fragile, still shaking, but stable. He hadn't eaten. He hadn't spoken more than whispers. But he hadn't moved to end his life again.

Tony sat beside him, exhausted, running a hand through his own hair. He didn't let go of the chair, didn't leave. Not yet. Not while the kid who had gone so close to the edge still needed him.

The med bay was quiet now. Even FRIDAY's gentle hum was softened. Tony finally allowed himself to exhale.

"You're not alone, Pete. Not ever. Not now. Not ever," he said again.

Peter blinked at him. The first hint of acknowledgment passed over his pale, exhausted face. Tiny. Fragile. But present.

And for the first time in hours, Tony allowed himself to hope.

Chapter Text

Not in water-water would've been kinder-but in something heavy, suffocating, pressing against his chest until his lungs seized. He clawed for air, and what reached him was filtered through plastic; a mask tight across his face, cool oxygen, forced down a throat that didn't want it.

He tried to shift, to push it away, but his body was bound. Not with ropes, not visibly, but in the way blankets pressed against his sides, in the way his muscles wouldn't listen, in the way memory blend into the present.

Locker room. Bright lights. The reek of sweat and disinfectant. A hand on his wrist, fingers squeezing just hard enough that he couldn't pull free. A laugh-low, sick, the kind that curled into his ears and wouldn't leave.

Peter flinched, eyes snapping open. Too much light. Too white. Too sterile. Not the rooftop, not the city, not school-he knew that-but his brain didn't care. His pulse thrashed, monitor matching the fast pace.

"Hey. Easy, Pete. You're okay."

The voice cut through the spiral. Familiar. Anchored. He blinked hard until the blur solidified into Tony Stark slumped beside the med-bay cot. His armor lay in pieces across the floor, like he shook them off in a hurry. His under-suit was wrinkled, hair wild, eyes bloodshot. A man stripped bare of polish, clinging to the chair like it was the only thing keeping him upright.

Peter's throat burned. Words scraped against it, unwanted but unstoppable.

"You... should've let me go."

He hadn't meant to say it. Not out loud at least.

Tony froze. His face cracked like glass struck with a hammer-shock, grief, fury all at once. "Don't. Don't you say that." His voice shook, louder than he meant. "Don't you dare put that on me, Kid."

Peter turned his head, shame searing through him. His eyes blurred with tears. He'd meant it in the quiet way, the safe way-words buried in silence where no one could reach them. Spoken aloud, they sounded selfish, cruel.

Tony surged up, pacing a tight, restless circle. His hands moved in frantic arcs, gesturing like he could build a defense out of air. "You think I could've just stood their? Watched you fall? Do you even-" His voice broke. He shook his head, pressing a hand to his mouth like he could shove the words back down. "No. No, I couldn't. I can't."

The mattress dipped when he sat again. Peter flinched slightly, muscles jerking before he could stop them.

Tony froze mid-motion, hand hovering above Peter's arm. Slowly, deliberately, he pulled back and rested it flat on the cot's edge instead. His voice softened. "I'm not going to touch you unless you tell me it's okay. You have my word."

Peter's chest hitched. Relief tangled with terror. He wanted the distance. He hated the distance. He couldn't ask for either.

The mask pressed cold against his face, suffocating him. He gasped, trying to pull air but choking instead. His breath came ragged, harsh, panicked.

Tony jolted forward. "Okay, okay-hang on." He eased the mask off, careful not to graze Peter's skin, and set it aside. "There. No mask. Just air. Breathe, kid. Just breathe."

Peter dragged in shallow gulps, each one a shutter. His ribs ached, throat raw.

And then-

Locker room. The slick sound of whispers too close to his ear. The press of the body blocking his way out. Fingers digging into his arm, not letting him move. Relax. Don't make this harder than it needs to be.

Peter curled violently on the cot, arms wrapping around himself, knees jerking up. The monitor spiked. His chest convulsed, sob catching in his throat.

Tony's voice cut through, steady, determined, breaking at the edges. "I've got you Pete. It's me. You're here, not there. Nothing's gunna hurt you. Not while I'm here."

But Peter couldn't unclench. He squeezed his eyes shut against the sterile lights, and Skip's face burned behind his eyelids anyway. The memory wasn't whole-never whole, never orderly-but broken shards of sensations: the scrape of lockers at his back, the smell of deodorant and sweat, the laugh that followed him for days after.

Not safe. Not ever.

Tears spilled hot down his temples.

"I don't deserve... you saving me."

Tony tensed. He leaned closer, lowering his voice until it was gavel and grief. "That's not up for debate. That's not your call. You're worth saving. Every time. Every second."

Peter shuttered, a full body quake. He wanted to argue. He wanted to disappear. He wanted to tell the truth, but the words welded themselves to his ribs.

Instead, he let the sobs flow free.

Tony didn't move to touch him. He just sat there, hands braced on his knees, speaking in low, steady rhythms. "In. Out. That's all you have to do. I've got you. You're not alone."

Not alone.

But the memory said otherwise-Skip leaning in, whispering things Peter could never repeat, his hand tightening until Peter stopped struggling.

Peter curled tighter, but this time he didn't fight when Tony set a hand gently-carefully-on top of the blanket near his wrist. Not touching skin. Not restraining. Just present.

A fragile allowance.

Tony's breath shuddered out like he'd been holding it in for hours.

"Whatever this is, whatever's chewing you up-I don't need answers tonight. I just need you to stay. That's it, Pete. Stay."

Peter cracked his eyes open. Through the blur of tears, Tony's face hovered-raw, terrified, relentless. For the first time, Peter didn't look away.

It wasn't trust. Not yet. But it wasn't rejection either.

And maybe, for Tony, that was enough.

Chapter Text

The med-bay had settled into a fragile rhythm.

Machines hummed softly. The air smelled like antiseptic and ozone. Tony had given up trying to sit properly in the chair and now half-slouched, half-hung over the edge of Peter's cot, head heavy in his palm. He hadn't left all night. Not even to shower.

Every time Peter stirred, Tony's eyes snapped open. Every hitch in breath, every twitch of fingers, every soft murmur had his nerves fraying raw. But Peter hadn't spoken again. Not after those whispered words: you should've let me go.

Tony hadn't let go of that sentence either. It ran on a loop in his head, an audio file he couldn't mute, couldn't delete.

He rubbed his eyes with the heel of his hand and muttered, "Kid, you're killing me here.”

As if summoned by those words, FRIDAY's voice broke in gently.

"Mr. Stark. May Parker has arrived at the compound entrance. Shall I let her in?"

Tony's stomach dropped. Right. He'd called her hours ago, during the frantic flight back, when he wasn't even sure Peter would make it through the night. She must've driven here half-dead with worry.

"Yeah. Send her through.” His voice cracked, and he coughed into his fist. “Uh, bring her down here."

Minutes later, footsteps echoed down the corridor-hurried, uneven Then the door slid open.

"Peter?"

Her voice-raw, cracked, desperate-hit like a blade.

Peter stirred faintly under the blanket, eyelids twitching, but didn't open them. Tony rose automatically, intercepting May before she could fling herself onto the cot.

"Wait- he's stable, but he's..." Tony exhaled, searching for words. None of them worked. He tried to jump. He almost died. I almost lost him. All of it sounded obscene.

May shoved past him anyway, rushing to Peter's side. She sank to the floor beside the cot, clutching his hand in both of hers. Her breath hitched, tears already spilling hot down her face.

"Oh, baby. Oh, my sweet boy.”

Peter flinched faintly at the touch. A twitch, small but undeniable. May didn't notice. Tony did. His chest constricted.

May pressed her forehead to the back of Peter's hand, whispering apologies, prayers, fragments of sentences broken by sobs. "I should've seen. I should've known. You were slipping and I- God, I was blind."

Tony turned away, staring hard at the blank wall. His throat burned.

Minutes stretched, filled with May's whispered grief and Peter's shallow breaths.

Then she stood abruptly, swiping furiously at her eyes, and turned on Tony.

"You." Her voice was sharp enough to cut. "This is on you."

Tony stiffened. “May—”

"No." She jabbed a finger toward his chest.

"Don't you dare soften it. Don't you dare try to spin it. You dragged him into this world. You put him in a suit, pushed him into battles, paraded him around like some-some little soldier. He's fifteen!"

Tony flinched. The number still gutted him. Fifteen. Barely more than a kid.

"He was happy," May pressed, voice shaking with rage. "He was happy before you, Tony. He was- he was safe. And now? Look at him!"

Tony's jaw clenched. "You think I don't know that? You think I haven’t been replaying every damn moment since I met him, wondering where I screwed up? You think I wanted this?" His voice cracked, raw and unpolished.

"Yes!" May shouted. "You wanted a protégé. You wanted to play dad without ever asking what it would cost him."

The words sliced deep. Tony staggered back a step. He had no defense. Not really.

Silence crashed down.

Peter's eyes cracked open a sliver.

He hadn't meant to eavesdrop. His body still felt like lead, every limb foreign, but their voices dragged him back from the fog. He blinked blearily through the blur, vision swimming until shapes solidified-May's tear-streaked face, Tony's drawn, wrecked one. Both aimed at each other like weapons.

And all of it was because of him.

Guilt knifed through his chest. He curled tighter under the blanket, wishing he could vanish into the mattress.

They're right.

He was the common denominator. The failure.

The kid who couldn't even hold it together long enough not to break the people who loved him.

"...he's not your son," May was spitting, voice trembling. "You don't get to gamble with his life just because you miss the one you lost."

Tony's mouth opened, then closed. His face went pale.

Peter's stomach flipped. He didn't understand all of it, but enough to piece together the jagged edges. May was blaming Tony. Tony was blaming himself. Both of them upset-because of him.

He squeezed his eyes shut again, forcing his breath slow, pretending to sleep.

May collapsed back into the chair, hands over her face. Her sobs filled the sterile room, raw and unfiltered.

Tony stood stiff as stone, hands fisted at his sides, gaze locked on the floor.

Neither of them noticed the boy curled on the cot, drowning silently in shame.

Hours crawled.

May refused to leave Peter's side. She stroked his hair when she thought he was asleep, whispered apologies, prayers. Her hand never let go of his, no matter how stiffly his fingers curled in response.

Tony hovered at the edges, restless, pacing, unable to sit still. He wanted to work, to build, to do something, but the thought of leaving the room was unbearable. Every time Peter twitched, his chest seized with panic.

The silence between May and Tony thickened, sharp enough to choke on.

At one point, May broke it. Her voice was low, almost calm, but laced with venom. "You're not taking him back out there. Not ever again. No more rooftops, no more patrols. He's done."

Tony stared at her. His first instinct was to argue.

To say Peter wouldn't want to quit, that taking Spider-Man away from him would be like ripping out half his soul. But he looked at the boy on the cot-pale, trembling, drowning—and the words died in his throat.

"Fine,” he rasped. "Whatever it takes."

Peter heard that too. His chest clenched so hard it hurt.

He's giving up everything because of me.

Tears burned hot behind his eyes, but he didn't move, didn't make a sound. Just let the shame crush him deeper into the mattress.

By late evening, May had dozed in the chair, still gripping Peter's hand.

Tony sat across from her, elbows braced on his knees, staring at the floor like it held answers. His hands shook when he finally reached for his phone, typing furiously, sending a message to Bruce about trauma specialists, to FRIDAY about adjusting the compound's security protocols, to Pepper about- God, he didn't even know.

Peter cracked his eyes open again, caught between dream and waking, and saw Tony hunched over, face hollowed, shoulders bowed under a weight Peter had put there.

It gutted him.

He wanted to speak, to tell them both he was sorry, that he didn't mean to hurt them like this. But his throat locked. Words dissolved before they could form.

So he lay still, drowning in silence, letting their grief and anger wrap tighter around him like chains.

And for the first time in his life, Peter Parker wished he had never been Spider-Man.

Wished he had never been at all.

Chapter Text

The first morning after May went home to rest, the compound felt like a cage.

Peter hadn't moved from the bed, but the sterile hum of the medbay made his skin itch. He stared at the ceiling until the white panels blurred. Even blinking felt heavy.

Every so often, the door whispered open and Tony slipped in. Never with fanfare, never with noise. Just a plate of food, a glass of water, a few muttered words that landed soft as feathers.

"Breakfast."

“Try this one—it's lighter."

"You don't have to finish it, just... try."

Peter nodded sometimes. Most times he didn't. He didn't eat much either. He couldn't. Food turned to dust in his mouth.

But Tony never scolded. He only picked up the tray later, sighing under his breath.

By the third day, Peter realized what was happening: Tony wasn't going to let him go home.

"Compound's better for recovery," Tony said casually one evening, leaning against the doorframe. He wasn't wearing the suit, just a hoodie and sweatpants, but his presence filled the room anyway. "We've got the med-bay, the labs, FRIDAY monitoring. All the bells and whistles. Safer here."

Peter stared at the blanket pulled over his knees.

Safer. The word tasted wrong.

The compound wasn't safe-it was too big, too sharp, too alive with cameras and voices. Every wall had eyes. Every shadow whispered. He felt them all, pressing down until he could barely breathe.

But he didn't argue. He didn't have the strength.

Tony took his silence as agreement.

"Good," he said briskly. "I'll have FRIDAY set up one of the guest suites. Bigger bed, less... hospital-y." He waved vaguely at the sterile monitors. "We'll get you settled."

Peter's stomach twisted. A suite sounded worse than the medbay. More space for the shadows to follow him.

But he just nodded, eyes fixed on his hands.

The routine formed quickly.

Morning: Tony left breakfast on the nightstand.

Afternoon: a tray with something lighter- sandwich, soup, crackers.

Evening: dinner, always with water, sometimes juice.

Sometimes Tony lingered in the doorway, rambling about projects in the lab. Other times he hovered silently until Peter picked up the fork, watching like a hawk even when pretending not to.

At night, the silence grew heavy again. Peter lay awake long after Tony's footsteps faded. The compound hummed with mechanical life, FRIDAY's sensors hidden in every wall. He felt them even when he couldn’t see them.

He wasn't alone. Not ever.

It should have been comforting. It wasn't.

It was suffocating.

The flashbacks crept in when the silence stretched too long.

He'd close his eyes and suddenly he wasn't in the compound anymore.

He was in the school locker room, fluorescent lights buzzing, the stench of sweat and old sneakers clinging to the air.

"Relax, Parker. You're too wound up."

Skip's voice. Smooth, calm, like he was doing Peter a favor.

A hand on his wrist. Strong. Too strong.

Peter's lungs seized. He curled tighter in the bed, fists clenched in the blanket.

The grip in the memory never loosened. It dug deep, burning like a shackle. He remembered trying to yank away, trying to laugh it off, but Skip's fingers only tightened, and his voice dipped low, meant for Peter's ears alone.

"You're always running. What are you so afraid of?"

Peter's heart slammed against his ribs. Even now, even years later, the echo made his breath stutter.

He opened his eyes, desperate to drown the memory in the sterile glow of the medbay. But the weight stayed. His wrist tingled, phantom pressure bruising skin that wasn't bruised.

He pulled his hand under the blanket, gripping it until his knuckles went white.

Tony noticed.

Of course he noticed.

One evening, he came in with dinner and stopped short, eyes flicking to Peter's clenched fists under the blanket.

"You hurting somewhere?" Tony asked carefully.

Not pushy, but not casual either.

Peter shook his head quickly.

“Then why-" Tony cut himself off, exhaling. He set the tray down, rubbed a hand over his face. "Right. Not my business unless you make it my business. Got it."

Peter stared at him, wide-eyed, throat tight.

Tony's gaze softened. "But... you don't have to do this alone, kid. Whatever it is. You don't."

Peter turned his face away. His chest burned with words he couldn't say.

You don't want to know. If you knew, you'd hate me.

Tony left the food. He didn't push further.

But Peter saw the way his shoulders slumped as he walked out.

By the fifth night, the compound felt smaller than his bedroom back in Queens.

Every corner hummed with surveillance. Every footstep echoed too loud. Every plate of food left on his nightstand screamed that Tony was watching, waiting, hovering.

Peter couldn't breathe.

But he also couldn't ask to leave. He couldn't risk May seeing through him, couldn't risk her knowing how broken he really was.

So he stayed.

He stayed, and the shadows followed him everywhere.

That night, the flashback came sharper.

Skip had cornered him by the lockers. A hand clamped down on his wrist again, dragging him back when he tried to step away.

"Relax, Parker." Smooth, calm. Too calm. "You think anyone's watching you this close? They're not."

The grin. The heat of breath too close to his ear. The slow realization that no one was coming, no one was going to help.

Peter's body reacted before his mind caught up. He shoved himself upright in bed, gasping, clutching his wrist like he could scrub the memory off his skin.

The door hissed open. Tony was there in seconds.

"Pete?” His voice was low, urgent. “Talk to me. What is it?"

Peter shook his head violently, breath stuttering.

Tony hesitated, hands twitching like he wanted to reach out but forcing himself still. "Nightmare again?"

Peter's throat worked. He nodded once.

Tony exhaled, shoulders loosening slightly.

"Okay. Okay, you're here now. You're in the compound. No one can touch you here. Not a soul."

The words hit too close. Peter swallowed hard, vision blurring.

But someone already did.

He couldn't say it. He couldn't even hint at it.

So he just curled back into the bed, pulling the blanket tight.

Tony lingered in the doorway, face shadowed with worry. "You don't have to talk. But I'll be out here if you need me."

The door slid shut softly behind him.

Peter lay in the dark, wrist throbbing with phantom memory, heart pounding too fast to ever let him rest.

And the fragile routine closed in tighter around him.

Chapter Text

The first time Peter wandered out of his room, he regretted it instantly.

The compound was too big, too bright. Every corridor hummed with quiet tech, every turn opened into glass and steel. He hugged the walls, hoodie pulled up despite the summer heat, sneakers squeaking against polished floors.

He didn't mean to run into anyone. He just wanted... air.

But the second he stepped into the kitchen, he froze.

Steve was there, sleeves pushed up, making coffee. Natasha leaned against the counter, sharp-eyed as always. Bruce sat at the table with a tablet, glasses sliding down his nose.

Three pairs of eyes turned to him.

Peter's heart slammed. He tugged his hood lower, muttered something like "sorry,” and spun back toward the hallway.

"Hey, kid-" Steve's voice was warm, steady, but Peter didn't stop.

He didn't breathe until he was back in his room, door shut tight behind him. His pulse thundered in his ears.

He wasn't ready for this.

The Avengers noticed anyway.

Steve asked Tony that afternoon, voice calm but probing: "Is he eating? He looks thinner.”

Tony deflected, fiddling with a wrench in the lab.

"He's fine. Kid's got an appetite, you know how it is. Growth spurt."

Steve didn't look convinced.

Bruce was subtler. He checked the medbay logs, frowned at the weight drop, the low O2 levels, the cortisol spikes. He didn't say anything yet. But the concern in his eyes when Peter passed him in the hall was enough.

And Natasha... Natasha didn't miss a thing.

She caught the way Peter flinched when Clint brushed past him in the common room. The way he froze when Thor clapped him on the shoulder in greeting. The way he stayed silent through team meals, shoulders hunched like he was trying to disappear.

She filed it all away.

Peter felt the eyes everywhere.

Not just Tony's—though his were the heaviest, always following, always hovering-but everyone's. Steve's steady concern, Bruce's quiet watchfulness, Natasha's sharp gaze that cut straight through him.

It made his skin crawl.

He couldn't hide in the compound. There were too many hallways, too many people, too many cameras embedded in the walls. Even when he was alone, FRIDAY was there, humming gently, tracking vitals, reporting to Tony.

He was always being watched.

It wasn't safety. It was suffocation.

Tony tried to pretend everything was fine.

At breakfast, he piled Peter's plate with eggs and toast, dropping a glass of orange juice beside it. "Eat up. You need protein, carbs, vitamin C. Doctor's orders."

Peter stared at the plate, stomach twisting. He managed half a piece of toast before setting it down.

Steve caught Tony's eye across the table. The question was written all over his face.

Tony scowled. “What? He ate."

Peter wanted to disappear.

That night, Natasha cornered Tony in the lab.

He was elbow-deep in a half-finished gauntlet, pretending the sparks and circuits could drown out the ache in his chest.

"Tony," Natasha said simply.

He didn't look up. "You're gonna tell me to back off, aren't you?"

"Not exactly.”

He sighed, setting the gauntlet down. “Spit it out, Romanoff."

She studied him, arms crossed. "You're smothering him."

Tony bristled. "Excuse me?"

"He's drowning in silence, but you're filling it with noise. That's not the same as listening."

Tony's jaw tightened. "What do you want me to do? Sit on my hands while he—" His voice cracked, and he turned away. "While he shuts down completely?"

Natasha's expression softened, almost imperceptibly. "You can't fix him with tech or food or constant supervision. That's not what he needs."

Tony's hands curled into fists. "Then what the hell does he need?"

"Time. Space. Someone to listen without demanding answers."

Tony laughed bitterly. “Listening's not exactly my strong suit."

"Learn."

The word landed heavy in the lab's still air.

Natasha turned to leave but paused in the doorway. "You're scared. That's good. It means you care. But don't let your fear make him feel like a prisoner."

Tony swallowed hard, throat tight. “He already tried to-" He stopped himself. “I can't just let him out of my sight."

Natasha met his gaze evenly. "You can't lock him in it, either."

Then she was gone, silent as always, leaving Tony with nothing but the buzz of unfinished circuits and the weight of his own helplessness.

Peter felt the shift.

Tony started pulling back-just slightly, just enough to notice. He still hovered, still left meals, still checked vitals through FRIDAY. But he stopped cornering him with questions. Stopped forcing conversation.

Peter should've felt relieved. Instead, he felt more exposed.

Because if Tony wasn't filling the silence, then Peter had to face it himself.

And silence meant memories.

It happened one afternoon in the lounge.

The TV was on, some old movie playing. Steve and Bruce were on the couch, quietly debating scientific ethics between scenes. Natasha sat in the armchair, eyes flicking between the screen and Peter.

Peter sat at the far end, hoodie pulled up, hands hidden in his sleeves. He didn't follow the movie. He didn't hear the debate.

All he could hear was the phantom echo of Skip's voice.

Relax, Parker. No one's watching.

Except now, everyone was. Steve, Bruce, Natasha-their eyes slid to him every so often, careful but constant.

Peter's chest tightened. He could feel sweat prickle at the back of his neck, breath going shallow.

He stood abruptly. “I- uh- gotta—” His voice cracked. He didn't finish the sentence.

He fled the room.

The silence he left behind was heavy.

Steve frowned. Bruce rubbed the back of his neck. Natasha only watched the door, expression unreadable.

"He's not okay," Steve said finally.

"No," Natasha agreed quietly. "He's not."

That night, Peter curled in bed, pulling the blanket tight around him.

He was suffocating either way. In the compound, eyes followed him everywhere. In silence, the memories clawed through.

He couldn't tell them. He couldn't risk it.

So he stayed silent.

And the Avengers noticed.

Chapter Text

Peter thought he was ready.

He wasn't.

Walking into Midtown felt like walking onto a stage he hadn't rehearsed for. The chatter of students in the hall pressed against him from every angle, too sharp, too loud. Lockers clanged open and shut. Someone laughed too close behind him, and he flinched, shoulders curling tight.

He kept his head down, hoodie drawn up, backpack clutched like armor.

He just needed to get through one day. One.

Pretend everything was normal. Pretend he hadn't almost-

Don't think about it.

He shoved the thought down, forced his feet toward class.

The classroom was worse.

Chairs scraped. Pencils tapped. Mr. Delmar's voice droned at the board, but Peter couldn't latch onto the words. His eyes skated over formulas without meaning. The letters blurred.

Behind him, someone whispered, "Did you hear about Parker? He looks worse than usual."

His stomach dropped.

They know. They all know.

Another laugh. Another whisper. Maybe not about him, maybe about something else-but his brain twisted it anyway, made every sound about him, every glance an accusation.

His chest tightened. The room shrank.

He tried to steady his breath, counting like May used to teach him-one, two, three—but it slipped through his fingers. His heart pounded harder, faster, a runaway train.

Flash. Locker room. A grip on his wrist. A voice in his ear: Don't make this harder.

Peter's pencil snapped between his fingers.

The sound ricocheted in his skull.

He bolted.

The hallway blurred. His sneakers slapped against tile, echoing too loud, too fast. Students turned, staring. Voices chased him down the hall, but he couldn't understand them, couldn't slow down.

He burst into the stairwell and shoved through the heavy door, collapsing against the cool metal railing halfway up. His lungs clawed for air, but nothing came right.

He pressed his hands to his ears. Tried to drown it out. Tried to breathe.

It wasn't working.

Tony arrived fifteen minutes later.

He didn't storm into the building in a suit of iron. Didn't bark at the teachers or demand explanations. He just signed in at the front desk with a tight smile and made his way to the office where Peter sat curled in a chair, hood pulled low, hands trembling in his lap.

The secretary looked relieved when Tony appeared. "Mr. Stark, thank goodness-"

"Yeah, thanks," Tony cut in gently, raising a hand. "I'll take it from here."

Peter didn't move. Didn't look up.

Tony crouched in front of him, lowering himself until they were eye-level. He kept his hands planted firmly on his own knees, not reaching.

"Hey, Pete," he said softly. "Bad day, huh?"

Peter's throat worked. No sound came out.

"That's okay. You don't have to explain." Tony's voice was calm, steady. Not pushy. Not demanding. "We're just gonna get out of here, alright? You and me. Fresh air."

Peter's fingers tightened in his sleeves. Slowly, he nodded.

The ride back was quiet.

Peter sat curled against the door, forehead to the cool glass, breath fogging the window. The city rolled by in a blur of noise and light, but inside the car it was still.

Tony didn't fill the silence with chatter. He wanted to-every instinct screamed at him to-but he remembered Natasha's warning.

So he let Peter breathe.

Halfway back, Peter's voice cracked, small and broken: "They were staring."

Tony's grip tightened on the wheel. He forced his voice even. "Kids are experts at staring. You know what I see? You still walked in there. That's... that's brave, Pete."

Peter shook his head, biting his lip hard. “No. It was- stupid. I couldn't— I couldn't stay—"

"Hey." Tony glanced at him, voice firm but gentle. "Needing to leave doesn't make you weak. It makes you human. I bail on meetings all the time when my head's not in it."

That startled a tiny, breathless huff from Peter. Almost a laugh.

Tony clung to it.

"Point is,” he continued, "you don't owe anyone a performance. Not me, not your teachers, not those kids. If you're not okay, you get to say so."

Peter stared at his lap, eyes glassy. His voice was barely audible. "Doesn't feel like I get to say anything."

Tony's chest ached. He didn't push. He just said, quiet but certain: "You can say it to me. Anytime. And I'll listen."

The words hung in the air. Heavy. True.

Peter's shoulders sagged. For the first time all day, the tension in his frame eased just slightly.

Back at the compound, Tony didn't drag him into the med-bay or pepper him with questions. He just steered him gently toward the lounge, dropped a blanket on the couch, and switched on a movie.

"Not mandatory," he said, sinking into the armchair. "But I find explosions on screen help drown out the ones in my head. Popcorn optional."

Peter curled into the couch, pulling the blanket tight. The movie flickered across the room, distant but grounding.

For once, the silence between them wasn't suffocating.

It was almost safe.

That night, as Peter drifted in and out of uneasy sleep, Tony sat nearby, laptop open but mostly forgotten.

He wasn't fixing. Wasn't pushing.

Just staying.

Learning to listen.

And for Peter, that was enough to keep the memories at bay-for one night, at least.

Chapter Text

The lab was supposed to feel safe. To Tony, it always had—the hum of arc reactors, the soft glow of holograms, the familiar scent of solder and machine oil. But tonight, the space carried a different weight.

Peter was slouched on one of the stools, hoodie sleeves half-covering his hands, gaze fixed somewhere in the middle distance. His body was here. His mind wasn't.

Tony pretended to tinker at the workbench for a while, waiting. Giving the kid the illusion of space. He adjusted a bolt that didn't need adjusting, ran diagnostics on a glove that didn't need them.

Peter hadn't said a word since drifting in an hour ago.

Finally, Tony broke the silence, voice soft. "You planning on staring that countertop into submission, or...?"

Peter's lips twitched. Almost a smile. Almost. "It's winning."

Tony set the glove down. Wiped his hands on a rag. He turned, leaning a hip against the bench.

"Kid, you've been looking like you're carrying around a lead backpack for weeks. You gonna let me help carry it, or keep insisting you've got it all under control?"

Peter's shoulders hunched further. He muttered, "You wouldn't get it."

Tony inhaled slowly. He'd promised himself: don't snap, don't push too hard. He thought of Natasha's words—don't try to fix him. Listen.

So he crossed the room and pulled a stool up next to Peter, close enough to show presence but not so close he'd feel crowded.

"Try me," Tony said quietly.

For a long time, the only sound was the hum of machinery. Peter fidgeted with the cuff of his sleeve, twisting it between nervous fingers. His throat worked like the words were there, stuck, too jagged to come out clean.

Finally, he whispered: “I'm tired."

Tony tilted his head. "Okay. You've been running on fumes, I can see that. What kind of tired are we talking? The normal teenage I-had-three-hours-of-sleep tired, or the scary kind where... where it's heavier than that?"

Peter's fingers tightened until his knuckles whitened. He didn't look up. "The second one."

The air shifted.

Tony didn't move, didn't breathe too loudly. He just nodded slowly, grounding himself before answering. "Alright. Thanks for saying that out loud. That's... that's not nothing, Pete."

Peter's voice cracked. "I don't think you understand. It's not just... exhaustion. It's every day feels like I'm walking through cement. Like even breathing is too much sometimes."

Tony's chest ached. "Yeah," he said softly. "I get that more than you think.”

That earned him a flicker of a glance-quick, skeptical.

"You?" Peter rasped. "You're... Tony Stark. You build suits and fight aliens and—you're not..." He trailed off, shaking his head.

Tony exhaled a humorless laugh. "Kid, you think being Iron Man makes me immune to the funhouse in my head? Newsflash: it doesn't. I've been where you are. Waking up and wishing I hadn't. Wondering what's the point. Pretending everything's fine when it's not.”

Peter's breath stuttered. He didn't answer, but his eyes darted back down, like he was trying to hide the fact that the words landed.

Tony leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees. He kept his tone even. "So when you tell me you're tired of... all of this? I hear you. And I'm not gonna brush it off. But I need you to keep talking, Pete. Don't shut me out."

Peter's jaw tightened. His eyes glistened. "It's not that easy."

"I know," Tony said gently. “But try anyway. Start small."

Peter's hands twisted in his lap. He whispered, “I don't want to be Spider-Man anymore.”

Tony blinked, caught off guard—but then he nodded slowly. “Okay. That's fair."

Peter's head jerked up. "What?"

"You heard me,” Tony said. “If the suit's too heavy, we put it away. You don't owe the world your blood and bones, Pete. You don't owe me. Hell, you don't owe anyone."

Peter stared at him, stunned. Like he'd expected an argument, disappointment, anger.

Tony shrugged. “Don't get me wrong, you're damn good at it. Better than I was when I started. But if putting on that mask feels like drowning, then we take a break. Full stop."

The words cracked something in Peter's chest. He shook his head, voice breaking. “But it's not just Spider-Man. It's-everything. School. Friends. Living. I'm just... tired of existing.”

The raw honesty hung in the air, heavy and painful.

Tony swallowed hard. He kept his voice steady, even though his heart was breaking. "Thank you for telling me."

Peter flinched. “Don't you don't have to say that. I know it's messed up."

"Stop." Tony's tone sharpened—not harsh, but firm enough to cut through. “It's not messed up.

It's not shameful. It's what you're feeling. And feelings aren't wrong, Pete. They're just... heavy. And right now you're carrying too much by yourself."

Peter's lips trembled. His whole body curled in on itself, as if the truth was too dangerous to let out.

"I don't know how to keep going," he whispered.

Tony's throat tightened. He reached out, but stopped short, letting it hover near Peter's sleeve without closing the gap. “Then let me help you figure it out. One step at a time. You don't have to know the whole map right now. You just have to know you're not walking it alone.”

Peter's breathing hitched. He stared at the floor, tears spilling silently down his cheeks.

For a long time, neither of them spoke.

Then Peter whispered, almost too soft to hear: "You really don't hate me for this?"

Tony's chest cracked open. He leaned closer, eyes burning. “Kid, listen to me. There is nothing -nothing-you could tell me that would make me hate you. You're not a burden. You're not broken. You're... you're my kid, whether you like it or not."

A choked sound escaped Peter-half sob, half laugh. He scrubbed at his eyes with his sleeve, embarrassed.

Tony gave him a crooked smile. “Besides, if you think you're the first Parker to make me lose sleep, you're sorely mistaken.”

That earned him a real laugh, shaky but genuine.

And for the first time in weeks, Peter let himself lean sideways-just slightly-until his shoulder brushed Tony's. He didn't pull away.

Tony didn't move, didn't push, just sat there. Solid. Present.

The hum of the lab filled the silence between them.

For once, it wasn't a silence of distance.

It was trust. Fragile, tentative—but real.

That night, Tony walked Peter back to his room, waited until the kid was curled under blankets, then lingered in the doorway.

"You did good, Pete," he said softly. "Really good."

Peter blinked sleepily at him. “Didn't feel like it.”

Tony smiled faintly. "Yeah, well, sometimes surviving the day is the bravest thing you can do."

Peter's eyes fluttered closed. His breathing evened.

Tony stayed until he was sure the kid was asleep. And for the first time in a long time, he let himself believe that maybe—just maybe they'd make it through this.

Chapter Text

The compound had never felt so small.

Peter lay in his room, curled under the blanket, earbuds in but no music playing. He told himself he wasn't listening. He told himself the voices drifting down the hall were muffled, distant, meaningless.

But every word found him anyway.

"Don't you raise your voice at me, Stark!" May's voice, sharp as broken glass. "You promised me he'd be safe. You swore it!"

Tony's reply was low but jagged, like steel under strain. "And you think I wanted this? You think I planned for him to—" His voice cracked. He cut himself off. "I never wanted this."

"You let him put on that suit!" May snapped back.

"You let a fifteen-year-old fight criminals in alleys, aliens in the sky- God, Tony, he almost died in Washington because of you! And now—" Her voice faltered, but she pushed through.

"Now I find out he tried to-“

Silence. Heavy. Suffocating.

Peter pressed his hands over his ears. It didn't help.

Tony exhaled, rough. “You think I don't replay it every second? That rooftop, May- if I'd been one minute later..." His voice roke. "I know exactly how close I came to losing him."

“Then why didn't you stop it sooner?" May demanded. "Why didn't you see the signs? I did! He was barely eating, barely sleeping, shutting himself off- and you—"

"Don't you dare," Tony snapped, his tone rising for the first time. "Don't you dare stand there and act like I don't care about that kid. I watched him fall apart right under my nose and I missed it. You think I don't hate myself for that? I've built satellites, weapons, entire suits in hours- but I couldn't see what was right in front of me. So yeah, blame me. But don't you ever say I don't care."

May's breath hitched. The silence that followed wasn't softer. It was heavier.

Peter squeezed his eyes shut, nails digging crescents into his palms. Every word cut both ways. May was right. Tony was right. And somehow it all came back to him-his fault, his weakness, his failure.

May's voice came again, quieter but sharper.

"You put too much on him. He's just a boy. You made him believe he had to save everyone. That he wasn't allowed to be normal."

Tony fired back immediately. "Don't you think he was already carrying that weight? Before I ever showed up? He was out there in sweats and goggles, throwing himself at muggers twice his size. I didn't create that I just tried to give him tools so he wouldn't get killed."

"And in the process," May shot back, "you gave him a war. You made him an Avenger. A soldier. He's sixteen, Tony!"

Tony's voice cracked like thunder. “I didn't make him an Avenger. I made him a promise. That I'd have his back. That he wouldn't have to do it alone."

"And you broke it,” May whispered.

The silence that followed was worse than shouting.

Peter buried his face in the pillow. The words tangled in his chest, suffocating. She's right. He's right. And it's all because of me.

Finally, Tony spoke again, quieter now. “You think I don't know I failed him? That's all I've been thinking since that night. That I'm not enough.

That no matter what I do, I can't pull him back from the edge.” His breath hitched audibly. “I can't lose him, May. I can't. Not him."

May's anger faltered. Her reply came shaky, heavy with grief. "Neither can I."

The room on the other side of Peter's door fell into silence again. Not peace. Just exhaustion.

Peter pressed the pillow harder over his head, willing the words to stop echoing.

But they did anyway.

Too much weight.

Broken promises.

Your fault.

He wanted to scream. Wanted to disappear.

Wanted to walk back up to that rooftop and let gravity do the rest.

Instead, he lay in the dark, silent tears soaking into the pillow, as the voices of the two people who loved him most ripped each other apart because of him.

And he wondered how much longer before they realized he wasn't worth saving at all.

Chapter Text

The rooftop was empty.

Peter perched on the edge, knees drawn up, hoodie pulled tight around him. The city stretched below him, alive and buzzing, but he couldn't hear it. Couldn't feel it. Couldn't see anything but the dark space between himself and the edge.

He had rehearsed the words.

He hadn't rehearsed calling Tony.

Phone in hand, trembling, he stared at the screen. It was a small, fragile connection to the only person who could stop him.

He dialed.

Tony picked up on the second ring. "Stark," he said, voice casual, trying not to show the jolt of alarm when he saw Peter's number.

“Tony..." Peter's voice was raw, barely above a whisper.

"Pete? Hey. You okay?" Tony asked, keeping his tone steady. Calm. Patient.

"No," Peter said immediately.

Tony's chest tightened. "Okay. Thanks for telling me. Want to tell me why?"

Peter swallowed. He couldn't look down. Couldn't think. "I... I thought maybe—"

"Maybe what?" Tony prompted gently. "Start wherever you can. Doesn’t have to be perfect."

"I thought maybe... maybe it'd be easier if..." His voice broke. "If no one knew."

Tony's hand went to his forehead. “You mean... if you weren't here anymore?"

"Yes," Peter admitted, almost inaudible. "Easier for everyone. Easier for me."

Tony didn't flinch. Didn't yell. Didn't panic. Just kept his voice soft, deliberate. "Pete... you're not alone. Not now, not ever. I'm not gonna let you do this by yourself."

Peter's throat tightened. “I'm tired, Tony. So tired. I can't- everything's too much."

Tony took a slow breath. “I know. I know it is. That's why I'm here. You don't have to face it alone. I'm not gonna fix you. I'm not gonna lecture you. I'm just... listening. Okay?"

Peter's breath hitched. "Listening doesn't... it doesn't stop it."

"No," Tony admitted. “It doesn't. But it helps. I promise, kid, you don't have to do this alone."

Peter's hands shook around the phone. "I don't know if I can... I don't know if I want to."

Tony's voice softened even more. “Hey... that's okay. You're allowed to feel that way. You're allowed to be scared. You're allowed to not know what comes next. I just need you to promise me one thing-don't jump yet. Stay with me on the phone. Talk to me."

Peter hesitated, gripping the edge of the rooftop. The wind gusted, tugging at his hoodie. “I... I don't know if I can."

"You can," Tony said firmly. "I know it doesn't feel like it, but you can. You've made it this far, right? And I'm here. I've got you. You're not alone."

Peter's chest rose and fell rapidly. "What if I... what if I can't stop thinking about it?"

Tony leaned against the balcony railing in his mind, grounding himself before speaking. “Then we fight it together. You tell me what you're feeling. You let it out. You don't have to do it on your own. You never did."

Peter swallowed hard. "I feel... trapped. Everywhere I go, everyone's watching, judging. I can't... I can't breathe."

Tony's voice was steady. "You're not trapped, Pete. Not as long as we talk. Not as long as you let me in. I know it feels like it, but I'm not going anywhere. I'll stay on this line until you calm down. Until you feel safe. I swear."

The pause that followed was long. Peter's breaths came in shaky bursts, the wind tugging at his hoodie, tugging at his resolve.

"I feel... like I'm gonna fall anyway," he admitted, voice cracking.

Tony's grip on the phone tightened-metaphorically. “Then lean on me. Let me be your safety net. You're not alone, Pete. Not even a little."

Peter's jaw worked. He wanted to say more, wanted to confess everything that made him want to disappear—but the words were lodged in his chest, too heavy, too sharp.

"I... I don't know if I'm strong enough," he whispered.

"You are," Tony said immediately. "You're stronger than you think. But you don't have to be strong all the time. You just have to stay with me right now. That's enough. That's all you need to do."

Peter's hands loosened on the phone, but his legs remained curled up against his chest. "And if I can't...?"

"You can," Tony insisted. “I'll make sure you do. I've got you, kid. Every second. You are not alone. Not ever. Not now, not tomorrow, not ever.”

Peter's voice cracked into a small sob. “I... I'm scared, Tony."

"I know," Tony said softly. “I know. And that's okay. Being scared doesn’t mean you fail. It means you're human. And you're not failing. Not with me here."

Peter's knees shook. The edge of the rooftop suddenly seemed farther away, darker. But Tony didn't flinch, didn't panic, didn't scold. He just kept talking. Kept grounding. Kept listening.

"I can't... I can't promise I won't... I just—”

"You don't have to promise," Tony interrupted gently. "All you have to promise is that you'll stay on the line. Right now, this second, that's it. That's all I need. Just breathe with me."

Peter's breath came in ragged bursts. Tony counted softly, slowly. "In... two... three... out... two... three..."

It was painfully slow, painfully deliberate. But Peter clung to it. Clung to Tony's voice. Clung to the fact that someone, right now, was not leaving him.

“I... I think... I think I can stay," Peter whispered, just above a breath.

"That's it," Tony said. “That's all I need. You're staying. You're safe. You're alive. And we're gonna work through this, one step at a time. Together."

Peter exhaled shakily, shoulders slumping against the rooftop's railing. "Okay... together.”

Tony's voice softened into something almost tender. "Yeah. Together. I'm not leaving you. Ever. Got it?"

Peter's answer was quiet, almost a whisper: "Got it."

"Good," Tony said. “Now tell me... what's going on in that head of yours. Don't worry about being perfect. Just... let it out."

Peter swallowed. Trembled. And then, slowly, began to speak.

And Tony didn't interrupt. Didn't fix. Didn't judge. He just listened.

For the first time in weeks, Peter felt like maybe he wasn't facing the edge alone.

He actually let himself believe that maybe he didn't have to.

Chapter Text

Peter didn't sleep that night.

Not properly. Not deeply. Not like he used to before the weight of the world had pressed itself into his chest.

But he hadn't jumped either. That was something. Small. Fragile. But something.

By morning, he felt hollow. Empty, jittery, restless. His hoodie was damp with sweat, his hands cold. And the quiet, the silence of the compound, was unbearable.

So he found Tony.

Tony was in the lab, tinkering with a repulsor prototype. He looked up, surprised but calm. “Hey, kid. You-uh, you okay?"

Peter's fingers clenched the edge of the counter.

"No. No, I'm not okay!"

Tony straightened, his tone soft but alert.

"Alright, then. Let's figure it out together. Come on, talk to me. Tell me what's-"

Peter didn't wait. He shoved his hands into his hoodie, leaned forward, and yelled: "You don't understand! You don't understand what it's like in my head!"

Tony froze. Not a defensive freeze, but careful, measured. "Okay... okay, I hear you. I don't want to misunderstand. Tell me what it's like. I'm listening."

Peter's chest heaved, words spilling faster than he could control. “Everywhere I go, everyone's watching. Everyone's judging. Every voice, every laugh, every glance- it's all just... it's all just trying to make me feel smaller. And I can't get away from it!”

Tony nodded slowly. "That sounds... terrifying. I don't blame you for feeling angry. You're allowed to feel angry."

"Allowed?" Peter spat. "I'm living in it! I'm drowning in it every single second, and you... you think 'allowed' fixes that?"

“No,” Tony admitted immediately. "It doesn't. But I want to be here while you figure it out. I want to stand next to you while you fight it. You don't have to do it alone."

Peter's hands balled into fists. "I don't want you standing next to me! I don't want anyone! I just... I just want to-" His voice cracked, breaking on the edge of a sob.

"Want to what?" Tony prompted gently, leaning forward slightly. "You don't have to finish if it's too much. But I'm not going anywhere. You're not alone, Pete. Not ever."

Peter spun around, hoodie flapping, the raw anger and frustration finally spilling out. “I didn't ask you to save me! I didn't ask for this! You don't know what it's like in my head! You don't know what it's like to feel everything break and nobody seeing it!"

Tony's chest tightened. He had trained himself for combat, for disaster, for every imaginable crisis—but this was different. This was personal. And it cut deeper than any fight with a villain ever could.

"I didn't ask to care this much!" Tony snapped, voice cracking, emotion finally breaking through his usual controlled tone. “But I do! I do! I can't- won't let you just throw yourself away!"

Peter froze. The words hit him like a punch. His anger faltered for a moment. "You... you can't even understand..."

Tony's voice softened, trembling slightly. "Maybe not. Not fully. But I can listen. I can stay. I can care. That's the part I do understand. That's the part that matters right now."

Peter's knees buckled. He dropped to the floor, fists against the cool tile, shaking. "It's too much," he whispered. "It’s too much, Mr. Stark. Every day. Every second. I can do it anymore."

Tony knelt beside him, careful not to crowd, careful to let him keep some space. "I know," he said quietly. "I know it feels like that. And it's okay to feel that way. You're not weak for feeling it. You're not broken, you're hurting. And I'm here. I'm not leaving."

Peter pressed his forehead to the floor, every muscle trembling. “I hate it. I hate the suit, the damn mask. I hate this life. I hate being... me." He broke off, sobs wracking his body.

Tony stayed silent. Just let him release it. Let him spill the words, the rage, the shame, the fear. He couldn't fix it with tech, couldn't erase the memories, couldn't stop the hurt. But he could be present. And right now, that was enough.

After a long pause, Peter finally lifted his head slightly, voice quieter, raw. "Why do you care so much?"

Tony swallowed, heart in his throat. "I can't help it, kid. I tried to. Tried to not care so much, tried to step back, tried to-" His voice broke. "You are my son, Peter. And I can't watch you do this to yourself, kid. I can't. I won't. That's why I care."

Peter's eyes filled again, tears spilling over. He opened his mouth to argue, but no words came. Instead, he let out a shaky laugh—half bitter, half in disbelief.

Tony kept his gaze steady. “I know it's not perfect. I know it doesn't fix everything. But it's a start. It's me saying I'm here. And I'm not going anywhere."

Peter's hands fell to his lap. He didn't reach for Tony. He didn't push him away. He just sat, shaking, letting the words sink in.

"Maybe... maybe I don't want to be Spider-Man," Peter admitted quietly, voice hoarse. "Maybe I don't want any of this."

"Then you don't have to be," Tony said immediately. "We'll figure something else out. But you're not giving up on yourself, Pete. Not today. Not ever."

Peter let out a shaky breath. "It feels impossible."

"I know," Tony said softly. "And it's okay that it feels impossible. It's okay that it scares you. It's okay that it hurts. You don't have to have all the answers. You just have to keep talking to me. That'll be enough for now."

Peter looked up, meeting Tony's eyes for the first time that night. "You really... really mean it?"

Tony nodded, voice trembling slightly. “Every word. I've got you, kid. Always."

Peter's shoulders sagged. Slowly. Trembling less. The fire of his anger dimming into exhaustion. "Okay..."

Tony stayed with him, letting him breathe. Letting him process. Letting him know he wasn't alone.

And slowly, almost imperceptibly, Peter let himself lean just slightly closer. Not for comfort.

Not yet. Just... acknowledging presence.

Tony didn't move. Didn't speak. Just stayed. Just was.

Time passed, both of them content. No judgment. No lectures. Just listening, just grounding, just love.

Peter felt the edges of the panic recede.

He wasn't fixed. He wasn't okay. But he was still here.

Still alive.

Still talking.

Still fighting.

And Tony? Tony realized that sometimes, love and patience were stronger than any suit he could build. Stronger than any weapon. Stronger than any plan.

Because right now, all that mattered was keeping Peter from falling apart.

And Tony would stay there—talking, listening, holding space—until the panic loosened its grip.

Because that was what being family meant.

Chapter Text

The training room was empty when Peter stumbled in.

Or at least, it should have been empty.

Natasha Romanoff was leaning against the far wall, arms crossed, eyes sharp and alert. Not the intimidating spy he'd feared for years, but patient. Observing. Waiting.

Peter froze, mid-step, hoodie tight around his arms. “I- uh... thought I'd train a little," he mumbled.

Natasha tilted her head. "You thought right," she said simply. "But... you don't look like you're here to train. You look like you're... running from something."

Peter's throat tightened. He swallowed. “I'm fine.”

"Fine," Natasha echoed softly. "Sure." She stepped closer, slow, deliberate. No sudden moves. "Look, Pete... you don't have to convince me. Or anyone. Just... talk. Or not. Up to you."

Peter's stomach twisted. Talking? He didn't even know where to start. He wasn't ready to tell anyone everything—not Tony, not May, not anyone. But Natasha's presence was... safe.

He fiddled with his hoodie strings. “I... I messed up. Again. Yesterday. I—"

Natasha held up a hand. "Slow down. You're not here to explain yourself. Just... start wherever it feels okay."

Peter's hands fidgeted. He glanced at the mat, at the training equipment, anywhere but her eyes. "It's like... I can't... I can't stop thinking about... things. Stuff that happened. And I... I don't know how to get rid of it. How to... how to... function."

Natasha nodded, quietly. "Okay. That's... that makes sense."

Peter blinked. "You... you get it?"

"I've seen it," she said softly. "Not just once. Not just you. People- especially heroes-carry things they shouldn't have to. Things that make it feel impossible to just... breathe. And it doesn't make them weak. It doesn't make you weak."

Peter's voice caught. "It feels… weak."

Natasha shook her head gently. "It feels weak. That's the brain lying. Trauma lies, Pete. It tells you you're less than you are, that you're broken. But you're not. Not even close. You're still here. Still fighting. That's strength.”

Peter swallowed, the words pressing into him. “I... I don't know if I can keep doing it," he admitted, voice small.

Natasha moved closer, crouching so she was level with him. No intimidation. Just presence. “You don't have to do it alone. You think being The Friendly Neighborhood Spider-Man, being an Avenger, being... everything... means you have to carry it all yourself? It doesn't. Not if you don't want to. Not if you trust the right people. And you can trust me."

Peter stared at her, surprise flickering in his wide eyes. "You... really mean that?"

"I do," she said softly. "I don't need you to explain every detail. I don't need you to tell me everything. Just… that you trust me to listen when you’re ready. That’s all.”

Peter's hands shook in his lap. “I don't... I don't know if I can."

“Then we start small,” Natasha said. “One word, one thought, one breath at a time. That's it. No rush. No pressure. Just... presence. I'll stay here.”

Peter looked down at the floor, unsure. “I-”

"Shh," Natasha said. "You don't have to talk if you don't want to. Just... let yourself be here.”

And for a long time, he didn't.

He just sat, hoodie tight, heart racing, listening to the quiet hum of the training room, Natasha beside him like a shadow that promised not to leave.

Minutes passed, stretching. Then Peter exhaled, small, shaky, almost unconscious. "It... it's stupid," he whispered.

Natasha tilted her head. "What's stupid?"

"That I... I feel like I'm falling apart. And I shouldn't. I should be able to handle it. I'm Spider-Man. I'm supposed to be... strong."

Natasha's gaze softened. "Strong doesn't mean unbreakable. Strong doesn't mean flawless. Strong is... continuing even when everything inside tells you to stop. Right now, just showing up, just letting yourself feel—that's strong."

Peter's voice cracked. "I feel like I'm drowning. Like... like no one sees how bad it is."

Natasha's hand hovered near his shoulder, careful, giving him space to recoil if needed. "I see it. And that's what matters. Not the world, not everyone else. Just... you. And me. And anyone else you choose. It's enough if someone sees it. That's all you need to start."

Peter swallowed hard, nodding slightly. “I... I guess."

"You're doing more than you think," Natasha said. "Even just sitting here, letting me be here, that's progress. Tiny steps, Pete. Tiny steps. Just take one at a time."

Peter's throat worked. "Tiny steps... okay."

"Good," Natasha said. “That's all I need from you for now. Tiny steps. You take them, I'll take them with you."

The conversation hung between them. No judgment. No demands. Just presence.

Peter fiddled with the hem of his hoodie, slow, deliberate. "I... I didn't mean to-"

"You didn't do anything wrong," Natasha interrupted softly. "Accidents aren't crimes. Feeling scared isn't a failure. You're allowed to exist without perfect control over every thought."

Peter's voice wavered. "I... I feel like I should be better. Stronger."

Natasha shook her head. "You are. You just don't know it yet. And that's okay. We'll get there. But not today. Today, you just sit. You just breathe. You just... exist."

Peter closed his eyes, letting himself breathe.

Letting the tension leave his shoulders, even if only slightly. Natasha didn't speak for a long while. She didn't need to. Her presence, quiet and steady, was enough.

Finally, he whispered, “Thank you."

Natasha's lips twitched into the faintest smile. "Anytime, kid. Anytime."

Peter didn't reach for her. He didn't have to. But something in him shifted slightly-a tiny seed of trust, planted in the fertile soil of patience and understanding.

And for the first time in weeks, maybe months, he allowed himself to feel a small sliver of relief.

He wasn't healed. He wasn't whole. But he wasn't alone.

And that, Natasha knew, was the start.

Chapter Text

The lab was quiet, the hum of machinery filling the space like a heartbeat. Peter perched on the edge of a stool, hoodie clutched so tightly his knuckles were white. His legs bounced nervously. He couldn't meet Tony's eyes. He couldn't even bring himself to look at the floor for too long.

Tony leaned against the workbench, arms crossed. "Kid... you've been quiet all night. Not the usual 'Peter Parker quiet' but the silent and scared type. I would appreciate it if you would talk to me, please."

Peter swallowed hard. "I... I... I have to... I need to... tell you something."

Tony's brow furrowed. “Uh-oh. That's the 'bad news' tone. Or maybe the 'holy crap, my kid might explode' tone. Either way, I'm here."

Peter flinched at Tony's attempt at humor, even though he needed it. He rubbed at his hoodie nervously. "It's... it's about... about Skip Westcott."

Tony froze mid-breath. "Skip... Westcott?"

Peter's voice dropped so low Tony had to lean in. "He... he... he assaulted me. Back... back at school." His hands shook. "I- I haven't... I haven't told anyone. I... I... I didn't know how to..."

Tony immediately crouched to Peter's level, keeping his voice soft but firm. “Pete... hey, look at me. You're safe. I hear you. You are not in trouble. You're alive. You're here. That's what matters. Okay?"

Peter's jaw worked. “I- I didn't want anyone to know... not May... not you… not anyone. I... I thought... I thought it was my fault." His voice cracked.

Tony shook his head slowly. “No. No, no, no. Stop right there. You did not cause this. You did not deserve this. Ever. None of it is your fault. Got it?"

Peter swallowed, voice trembling. "But.. I-“

Tony cut him off gently. "Shh. I got you. I know it's terrifying to say it out loud. But you're saying it now. That's brave, Pete. That's huge. And I see you. I believe you."

Peter's eyes filled, tears slipping over. "I... I thought... I thought if I told anyone... if anyone knew... it'd just... it'd ruin everything. I didn't... I didn't want to ruin... anyone's life. I just..."

Tony's hand hovered near his shoulder before resting lightly there. "Peter, look at me. You're not ruining anything. You're not weak. You're not not ruining anything. You're not weak. You're not broken. You're telling me because you trust me. That's what matters. You're not alone anymore."

Peter trembled, hugging himself. “I... I tried... I tried to make it stop. I thought... I thought if I... if I wasn't here... if I-" He broke off, voice faltering.

Tony pressed a hand gently to the back of Peter's head, pulling him into a careful hug.

"Hey... hey. Shh. I know. I know it feels impossible. I know it hurts. But you're still here. You're still alive. And I'm not going anywhere. I promise. Not now, not ever.”

Peter clung to him, trembling. “I... I'm so scared, Tony. I don't... I don't know how to... how to deal with it. I- I feel... broken."

Tony held him tighter, voice soft but steady. “You're not broken, Underoos. You're hurt. And that's okay. Being hurt doesn't mean you're weak. You're strong enough to tell me this. That's strength. That's courage.”

Peter buried his face into Tony's chest, whispering, "I... I didn't think anyone... would believe me."

"I believe you," Tony said, voice cracking just slightly. "Every single word. You didn't do anything wrong. None of this is your fault. And I've got you. Always."

Peter let out a shaky breath. "You... you really mean that?"

“Every word," Tony said, forcing a grin through his own tears. "I've got you. No judgment. No lecture. No trying to fix you with tech. Just... me. Here. With you. That’s all you need right now.”

Peter nodded slowly, letting himself relax just a fraction. "I... I guess... I don't have to... I don't have to be... alone."

"Exactly," Tony said. "Not today, not tomorrow, not ever. And hey... you're still alive. You're still here. And that counts for everything. You take this one tiny step, and I'll take it with you."

Peter sniffled, a small, weak laugh escaping. "You're cheesy."

Tony smirked, voice soft. "Yeah, I know. That's my superpower. But you know what? Cheesy Stark pep talks beat being alone with trauma any day."

Peter let out a small, shaky smile, just enough to show that maybe—just maybe he could survive this. That he could start to feel safe.

Tony hugged him once more, careful, deliberate.

"Good. That's it. That's all I need. Tiny steps. One at a time. You take them, I'll take them with you. And you're not facing this alone. Not now. Not ever."

Peter exhaled slowly, finally letting a little of the tension leave his body. "O- okay..."

Tony ruffled his hair, careful not to hurt him.

"Good. And just look at how far you’ve come. You’re Alive. Still standing. Still stubborn. And yeah... still annoyingly heroic sometimes, even when scared out of your mind.”

Peter laughed softly through his tears, finally letting himself believe that maybe... he could survive this.

Chapter Text

The compound felt bigger than ever. Too big, too quiet.

Peter sat curled up on the corner of the medbay cot, knees tucked against his chest, hoodie sleeves twisted around his fists. He stared at the far wall like it held the answer to everything, though all it really had was a hairline crack in the paint.

The door hissed open. Tony walked in carrying two plates, balancing them precariously with the same level of focus he used for handling weapons-grade tech.

"Delivery service, Stark Industries," Tony announced. “One deluxe plate of mac and cheese, no crusts, extra cheese- don't ask me how that works, and one... uh... something green so your aunt doesn't murder me if she finds out I only fed you noodles."

Peter blinked at him, then at the food. "...broccoli?"

"Yep." Tony set the plates down on the rolling tray beside the bed. “Don't look at me like that, I had to Google what kids eat these days. Turns out broccoli still makes the list of universal tortures."

Peter let out a weak laugh, almost against his will. "That's... pretty timeless."

“Yeah, well. I'm timeless.” Tony slid into the chair beside him with a groan. He set his own plate—pasta, a Stark-level pile parmesan—on his lap.

"Alright, ground rules. No pressure. If you eat three bites, I'll declare victory and call it a night. You don't, I'll whine until you cave. Either way, I win."

Peter smirked faintly but didn't reach for the food. His stomach twisted with equal parts hunger and dread.

Tony didn't push, just twirled a forkful of pasta for himself. "You know, when I was your age, my diet was ninety percent takeout and ten percent... well, also takeout. No one ever made me eat broccoli. Maybe that's why I turned out like this."

Peter raised an eyebrow. “Like what?”

Tony pointed to himself with the fork. “Genius billionaire philanthropist, superhero. And occasional disaster. The point is- you can't out broccoli as a contributing factor to... all this."

Peter cracked a smile, shaking his head. His chest loosened, just a little.

Tony caught it, his voice softening. "There it is. That's what I'm fighting for, kid."

Peter looked down quickly, embarrassed. His fingers tightened around the fabric of his hoodie sleeves. "I... I don't know if I can..."

Tony put the fork down, his tone steady but gentle. "You don't have to know. You just try. That's it. Try. Eat a bite. Breathe. Sit here. That's more than enough."

Peter hesitated, then reached out with shaky hands for the plate. The fork felt heavy, clumsy in his grip. He poked at the pasta, then managed a small bite. His throat clenched, but he forced it down.

Tony noticed but didn't comment, just made a show of taking his own bite and groaning dramatically. "God, I'm amazing. Did you taste this? No? Just me? Fine, more for me.”

Peter laughed quietly, almost choked on it, then coughed. "It's... actually good."

"Of course it is." Tony leaned back smugly. “I told FRIDAY to follow Aunt May's recipe. Well, I said 'hack into her Pinterest board' and FRIDAY refused, but same difference."

Peter's chest warmed. “You didn't have to..."

"Yeah, I did." Tony cut him off before he could spiral. "Because you matter. And because you've been running on fumes. One bite at a time, kid. That's all we need.”

They ate in silence for a while, though Peter only managed a few more forkfuls before setting the plate down. He expected Tony to push, to guilt him into more, but Tony just nodded.

"Good. That's progress. See? Tiny step."

Peter fiddled with the edge of the blanket, nerves rising again. He wanted to say something—thank you, or sorry, or I don't deserve this—but the words tangled in his throat.

Tony must've noticed. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "Alright. Cards on the table. You've been flinching every time I so much as breathe near you. That's fine. You need space, I'll give it. But... can I try something?"

Peter tensed almost instantly. “W- what kind of something?"

Tony held up his hands like he was negotiating a hostage situation. “Relax. Nothing crazy. I just... I want to sit here. Next to you. Not touching, not crowding. Just... here. You okay with that?"

Peter hesitated, heart pounding. His skin prickled with unease, but something inside him wanted to say yes. Wanted to test it. Wanted to not be so afraid.

He gave a small nod. "O- okay."

Tony moved slowly, carefully sliding from the chair to sit on the edge of the bed. He didn't touch Peter, didn't even let his arm brush against him. He just sat, looking straight ahead like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Peter's heart raced, every nerve screaming at the closeness. He wanted to shrink away, but Tony's stillness helped. No sudden moves, no pressure. Just presence.

After a long stretch of silence, Tony spoke quietly. "See? World didn't end. You're still breathing. I'm still annoying. Perfectly normal night."

Peter huffed out a shaky laugh. "Normal's... a stretch."

“Hey, I'm redefining normal here." Tony tilted his head toward him. “You, me, mac and cheese, shared trauma. Sounds like Tuesday to me."

Peter's lips twitched despite himself. He took a slow breath, then another. The weight in his chest eased, just a little.

Tony risked glancing at him. "Okay if I...?" He gestured vaguely towards Peter’s wrist resting on the blanket.

Peter froze, then nodded faintly. His pulse hammered as Tony carefully, gently, rested two fingers against his wrist—not gripping, not holding, just... there. Light pressure. Warmth.

Peter's body tensed, then slowly loosened when he realized Tony wasn't going further. Wasn't forcing anything.

"You're okay,” Tony murmured. "Just me. Just us. Nothing scary."

Peter's throat tightened. "I... I thought I'd never... never be okay again."

Tony gave his wrist the faintest squeeze. "Maybe not the same okay you had before. But a new one. A stronger one. And you're not doing it alone."

Peter blinked rapidly, tears stinging his eyes. "Why... why are you... why do you care so much?"

Tony's chest tightened, but his answer was immediate. "Because you're my kid. Maybe not by blood, maybe not on paper, but you are. And I won’t give up on my kid. Not ever."

Peter's breath hitched, a sob breaking free. He ducked his head, ashamed, but Tony didn't let go.

"Hey. No shame here," Tony said softly. "Cry if you need to. Yell, laugh, eat an entire pot of mac and cheese. Whatever you need, I'm here."

Peter pressed his sleeve against his eyes. “I... I don't deserve..."

"Don't finish that sentence," Tony cut in, voice firm but not unkind. "You do. You deserve safety. You deserve love. You deserve to be with me every second of the day if that's what it takes. Don't argue with me on this one, Underoos."

Peter laughed weakly through the tears, his chest loosening further. He let Tony's fingers stay where they were, not pulling away this time.

Right now, Peter didn't feel completely alone.

Chapter Text

The suit lay folded neatly on the table, looking deceptively harmless. Blue and red fabric, black lines like a spider's web, the emblem on the chest. To anyone else it was a symbol. To Peter, it looked like a challenge.

He stood in the lab doorway, arms folded tight around himself. His heart was already hammering, and he hadn't even touched the thing yet.

Tony noticed from across the room. He was tinkering with a gauntlet, though “tinkering" mostly meant avoiding Peter's laser stare at the floor. "You keep glaring at it like that, kid, it's going to catch fire."

Peter's lips pressed into a thin line. “Maybe that wouldn't be the worst thing."

Tony set the gauntlet down with a sigh and walked over. "Okay. Real talk. You said you wanted to try. Keyword: try. This isn't me strapping you in and throwing you off the roof. This is your pace."

Peter shifted uncomfortably. "I know. I just... it feels like if I put it on, then I have to be..." His voice cracked. "Him again."

"The guy in the suit?"

"Yeah." Peter's throat bobbed. "Spider-Man. Brave. Untouchable. Not the kid who..." He cut himself off, flinching.

Tony didn't push the words. He just gave a small nod. "You don't have to be untouchable. You can be you. You put the suit on, you decide what it means. It doesn't own you."

Peter gave a shaky breath. "What if I can't do it?"

"Then you take it off." Tony shrugged, casual but not careless. "Big whoop. Suit goes back in the drawer, we eat cheeseburgers. The city will survive one night without Spider-Man. This is about you, not them."

Peter looked at him, studying his face, searching for any hint of pressure. He found none. Just patience. Just Tony.

Finally, Peter took a step forward. Then another. He reached for the suit, fingers trembling, and lifted it off the table. The weight in his hands felt like ten tons.

Tony raised an eyebrow. “Want me to step out? Give you some privacy to do the dramatic slow-mo suiting-up thing?"

Peter let out a weak laugh. “I don't think I can make it look cool."

"Kid, you could trip over your shoelaces and somehow make it look cool. Trust me."

Peter shook his head but managed the faintest smile. Then he turned away and slowly pulled the suit on. Each piece felt heavier than the last, memories crowding with every zip and click. By the time the mask was in his hands, his chest was tight.

He stared at it. His reflection warped back at him in the white eye lenses.

"Pete?" Tony asked gently.

Peter swallowed. "I don't know if I can breathe in it."

“Then don't put it on. Nobody's clocking you for attendance."

Peter hesitated, then slipped the mask over his head. The fabric pressed close, the world narrowing to muffled sound and filtered light. His pulse spiked immediately.

Tony was in front of him in an instant. "Okay, breathe. Just me. In through the nose, out through the mouth. You're not trapped. You can take it off whenever you want.”

Peter forced a breath, shaky and too fast. He tugged the mask up halfway, gasping cool air. "S- sorry."

"Don't apologize." Tony’s voice was steady. “That's step one. You wore it. That counts."

Peter nodded faintly, fighting tears under the mask. "Okay... okay. Next step?"

Tony smiled faintly. “Next step is rooftops. You don't have to swing. Just stand there. Get used to the view again."

The compound rooftop stretched out under the night sky. Cool wind rushed over them, carrying the hum of the city below.

Peter stood at the edge, mask pushed back, suit clinging uncomfortably to his skin. His toes curled against the concrete, memories clawing at the back of his mind.

Tony stood a few paces back, arms crossed but posture open. “Remember—this isn't about proving anything. You're not auditioning. You're just... being here."

Peter nodded, though his stomach twisted. “It feels wrong."

"What does?"

"Being up here. Like... last time.” His throat closed. He couldn't say more.

Tony stepped closer, slow. "Last time, you were alone. Not this time. Big difference."

Peter's breath stuttered. "What if I can't... what if I can't even do one swing?"

“Then we take the elevator back down. Simple as that."

Peter squeezed his eyes shut. "You make it sound so easy."

Tony softened. "It's not. I know it's not. But I'll be here either way. Swing, don't swing, collapse in a heap- I'll catch you. That's a Stark guarantee.”

Peter let out a small, shaky laugh. "Do you have... like... a warranty policy?"

Tony smirked. "You break, I fix. Lifetime coverage."

Peter breathed, tension easing just a fraction. He tugged the mask down fully, heart racing. "Okay. One swing."

Tony held up a hand. “Kid-"

"One." Peter's voice trembled but held. "I need to try."

Tony exhaled but didn't argue. "Alright. I'll be right here."

Peter stepped onto the ledge. His fingers flicked instinctively, web-shooters primed. He aimed at the next rooftop, fired, and the web line stuck.

His breath hitched. His knees bent. He jumped.

For a split second, the air caught him, the line pulling taut. The city stretched below in dizzying colors. It was almost familiar. Almost.

Then his chest seized. His vision blurred. The line in his hand might as well have been a chain.

His body froze mid-swing, panic crashing like a tidal wave.

"No no no no-" Peter's voice strangled under the mask.

Before gravity could take him, Iron Man's thrusters roared. Tony caught him mid-air, holding him tight against the armor as they hovered above the rooftop.

"Got you, kid. You're safe.”

Peter's breaths came fast, shallow, chest heaving against the suit. His hands clawed at the mask, yanking it up. Cool air hit his face, but the panic didn't ease.

"I can't- I- I can't do this—"

Tony's voice cut through, calm but firm. “Kid, Look at me."

Peter's wide, terrified eyes met his.

"You're okay. You don't have to swing. You don't have to be Spider-Man tonight. You just have to breathe. That's it. Just breathe with me.”

Tony exaggerated a slow inhale, then exhale. “In. Out. Come on, kid. Match me."

Peter tried. His breaths hitched, uneven, but slowly began to sync with Tony's.

"There you go," Tony murmured. “That's it. You're okay. I've got you."

Peter sagged against the armor, trembling. “I... I thought I could... but I can't."

Tony shifted them gently back onto the rooftop, setting him down with care. "Hey. Listen to me. You swung. You tried. That's more than enough. No one expects you to pick up where you left off. Healing doesn't work like that.”

Peter's eyes filled. “Then what if I never... what if I never get it back?"

Tony crouched in front of him, helmet retracted so Peter could see his face. "Then we find something new. Or we try again next week. Or never again, if that's what you want. Doesn't matter. You're not Spider-Man first. You're Peter first. My kid. That's the priority."

Peter blinked rapidly, voice breaking. "You... you mean that?"

“Every word.” Tony reached out slowly, giving Peter the choice. When Peter didn't flinch, he rested a hand on his shoulder. "The suit doesn't define you. The mask doesn't define you. You do. And I will love you, Underoos. With or without the webs."

Peter let out a shaky laugh, wiping his eyes. "You're... you're too good at this ‘dad’ thing.”

Tony smirked faintly. "Don't spread that around. I've got a reputation to maintain."

Peter managed a real smile, faint but real. Honestly, when he put the suit back on, it felt strong enough to hold the extra weight of his problems.

Tony squeezed his shoulder lightly. "We'll go at your pace. No rush. No expectations. You're not alone in this, Pete. Not anymore."

Peter nodded, finally believing it. "Okay."

And since the rooftop, this "okay" didn't feel like a lie.

Chapter Text

The compound's common room didn't usually look cozy. It was designed like everything Stark- sleek, expensive, and vaguely intimidating, like a hotel lobby that never fully decided whether it wanted to be lived in. But tonight, it felt... different.

The sharp glass tables had been pushed aside. A ridiculous pile of blankets and pillows smothered the floor, courtesy of Thor (who claimed it was "customary Midgardian nesting before battle,” but no one corrected him). Natasha had strung up warm fairy lights she'd confiscated from Clint's barn. May Parker was in the kitchen, bossing around a billionaire like she'd been doing it her whole life.

And Peter? He stood at the edge of it all, mask-less, hair messy, hands fidgeting with the hem of his sweatshirt. He felt like he didn't belong here- like an uninvited guest crashing someone else's party.

Tony noticed immediately. “Don't even think about bolting, kid. I bribed half the team to be here with the promise of pizza, and if you ditch me, I'll look like an idiot."

Peter gave him a weak look. "Pretty sure you manage that on your own sometimes."

Tony grinned. "Okay, fair. But tonight I'd like to keep the idiot ratio at a minimum. C'mon."

Peter shuffled forward reluctantly, dropping onto the edge of the pillow pile. Natasha handed him a soda without a word. Clint gave him a two-finger salute. Thor sat cross-legged, already double-fisting slices of pepperoni.

May emerged from the kitchen with a tray of garlic knots, giving Peter the kind of look that said she wasn't fooled by his hunched shoulders.

"Eat. No excuses."

"Yes, ma'am," Peter mumbled, taking one.

Tony flopped down beside him, stretched out like he owned the place (which, technically he did). "Alright, team. Tonight's mission: Operation Not-So-Crappy Evening. Objectives include, but are not limited to: eating our body weight in carbs, pretending we're normal, and reminding our friendly neighborhood spider that he's not alone. Questions? Comments? Concerns?"

Bruce raised an eyebrow. "You realize you sound like a middle school counselor, right?"

“Yeah, well, kid comes with baggage. I adapt."

Peter ducked his head, cheeks heating. "You don't have to-"

"Stop." Tony's voice cut in, gentle but firm. “We do have to. Because we want to. So sit there, eat carbs, and let people show up for you. Got it?"

Peter's throat tightened, but he nodded.

They started with pizza. Clint kept stealing slices from Thor's plate, which only ended when Thor threatened to "smite" him with a breadstick.

Natasha calmly ignored them while stacking her plate with surgical precision. Bruce told a story about how Tony once accidentally set off a fire suppression system trying to reheat leftovers in the lab.

Peter found himself laughing—quietly, but real.

May caught the sound and smiled softly from her corner.

After dinner, Clint pulled out a stack of battered board games. "Alright, Parker. You're the new blood. What's your poison? Monopoly? Scrabble? Or are you brave enough for Uno?"

Peter blinked. "Uno's... brave?"

"Oh, kid," Natasha said with a smirk. "You'll see."

Two hours later, the common room was chaos.

Thor was passionately accusing Natasha of hoarding Wild Draw Fours. Clint was loudly declaring himself the “Champion of the Midwest." Tony was trying to cheat using FRIDAY until Bruce threatened to lock the Al out.

Peter sat between May and Tony, clutching his cards like they were battle plans. He couldn't stop grinning. And surprisingly, the weight pressing on his chest had eased.

Tony nudged him. "You having fun, Underoos?"

Peter hesitated, then nodded. "Yeah. I... I really am."

"Good. That's the point." Tony leaned back, voice casual but steady. "You don't have to carry everything alone. Not anymore. You got a squad now. Whether you like it or not."

Peter's throat tightened again. "I... I don't deserve this."

May immediately cut in. "Peter Benjamin Parker, don't you dare.”

He flinched at her tone.

"You deserve every bit of this," she continued firmly. "Love. Support. Stupid card games. All of it. You've been carrying too much for too long. Let us carry some of it, okay?"

Peter stared at her, eyes wet. “But what if I just... keep messing up? Keep-"

Tony interrupted. “Then we pick up the pieces together. That's what families do."

The word hit Peter like a punch. Family.

He tried to blink the tears away, but one slipped free. "I don't... I don't know how to do this."

"That's fine.” Tony's hand landed gently on his shoulder. "We'll teach you."

The night stretched on with more games, bad movies, and too many snacks. Slowly, Peter let himself sink into it—the noise, the laughter, the warmth.

When the room finally quieted, most of the team sprawled asleep in the blanket fort, May dozing in an armchair. Peter sat awake, staring at the dim fairy lights.

Tony, still awake beside him, spoke softly. "Not so bad, huh?"

Peter swallowed hard. "It feels... safe."

"That's the idea."

Peter hesitated, then whispered, "Do you think... do you think I can get better? Really better?"

Tony looked at him, eyes steady. "Yeah, kid. I do. And not because you're Spider-Man. Because you're Peter. And you're tougher than you think."

Peter's lip trembled. "You'll... you'll stay?"

Tony didn't hesitate. “Always."

Peter leaned against him, tentative but real. Maybe this night isn’t something he has to survive.

It really is something he… belongs in.

Chapter Text

The fluorescent lights at Midtown High buzzed faintly, the sound crawling down Peter's spine like static. His backpack straps dug into his shoulders, sweaty palms fidgeting against the zipper. It had been weeks—longer than that, really—since he'd walked these halls.

And now every step felt like walking into a battlefield.

Kids brushed past him, laughter and chatter echoing down the lockers. None of them knew.

They couldn't. To them, Peter Parker was just the quiet, awkward kid who disappeared sometimes with lame excuses.

But to Peter, this hallway might as well have been Times Square, every eye a spotlight, every sound a warning.

"Breathe, kid." Tony's voice crackled through the tiny comm hidden in Peter's ear, FRIDAY patching the signal straight from the Audi parked two blocks away.

Peter tugged at the cord on his hoodie, muttering, "You don't have to play babysitter.”

"Correction: I absolutely do. You're the one who swore you could handle school again, so humor me while I hover."

Peter's lips twitched, torn between rolling his eyes and crying. "You're really outside?"

"Of course I'm outside. Where else would I be? You think I trust New York teenagers not to make your day worse?"

Peter swallowed back a laugh and shook his head, then spotted Ned waving frantically from their usual locker cluster. Relief broke through the nerves, sharp and real.

"Peter!" Ned practically bowled into him, backpack bouncing. “Dude! You're here! You didn't text me- you just... showed up!"

"Sorry," Peter mumbled, smiling weakly. "Kind of a last-minute thing."

Ned nodded eagerly. "It's cool, it's cool. I'm just- man, it's good to see you. We saved your spot in chem. Oh, and MJ said she's not admitting it, but she missed you."

"Did not,” came MJ's voice dryly from behind a book. She stood leaning against a locker, eyebrow raised. "But also glad you're alive, loser."

Peter ducked his head, cheeks pink. “Thanks. Uh. I'm glad too.”

Ned's grin stretched wider. "This is awesome. Just like old times."

Peter forced a smile, but his stomach churned. Old times. He didn't feel like that kid anymore.

First period dragged. Every squeak of a chair, every whispered laugh, every slam of a locker door jolted Peter like a gunshot. His pen slipped in sweaty fingers, notes messy and half-finished.

"Pete." Tony's voice again, quiet in his ear. "You're gripping the desk like it owes you money. Relax your hands."

Peter exhaled shakily, easing his fingers. He prayed no one noticed.

When the bell rang, he bolted for the hallway, but MJ caught him with a raised eyebrow.

"You're jumpier than usual.”

"I'm fine," Peter lied automatically.

MJ's gaze lingered on him, sharp and knowing. But she didn't press. "If you pass out, I'm stealing your homework."

Peter snorted despite himself. “Noted.”

Lunch was worse.

The cafeteria was loud, too loud, voices bouncing off the walls, trays clattering, chairs screeching.

Peter sat at the table with Ned and MJ, barely touching his food, eyes darting around like he was waiting for something to explode.

“You're vibrating,” MJ remarked, spearing a fry. "Chill."

“I am chill," Peter said quickly.

"You're sweating through your hoodie."

"Am not."

"Are too."

Ned jumped in, waving his hands. “Okay, okay, hey- let's just, uh, talk about something fun. Movies? Games? Uh- Star Wars marathon this weekend?"

Peter blinked. "Really?"

"Yeah! At my place. Mom even said she'll make lumpia. You'll come, right?"

Peter hesitated, throat tight. Fun. Normal. Could he do that?

"Yeah," he said softly. "I'd like that."

Ned beamed.

After school, Peter practically sagged against the Audi's passenger seat. Tony tossed him a water bottle without comment.

“Well?" Tony asked after a beat.

Peter stared at his lap. "It was... hard."

"Hard but... doable?"

Peter thought. Flashes of laughter with Ned, MJ's sharp teasing, the suffocating cafeteria, the ringing bell that made him flinch. A mess. But also—connection.

"Yeah," he admitted. “Doable."

Tony gave a small smile. "That's all I wanted to hear."

Peter sipped water, then glanced sideways. "You really sat out here all day?"

"Kid, I've got satellites and a multi-billion-dollar company. You think I can't work from a car?"

Peter laughed, shaky but real. "You're insane."

"True. But I can afford being insane.”

Peter's chest ached, but in a softer way this time.

"Thanks, Mr. Stark.”

"Anytime, Underoos. Anytime.”

Walking back into those hallways tomorrow didn't feel impossible.

It felt survivable.

Chapter Text

The rooftop was quiet tonight.

Not the same suffocating, unnatural quiet Peter remembered from weeks ago, when the ledge had looked like the only way to silence everything inside his head.

This quiet was softer. The kind of hush that came when the city finally exhaled, when traffic dipped just enough to let the wind carry faint echoes of life.

Peter sat cross-legged a few feet from the edge, his hoodie zipped up to his chin, hands stuffed in the pocket. The lights of Manhattan stretched out before him, glittering like a blanket of stars laid upside down.

He didn't come up here to die tonight. He came up here to breathe.

"Figured I'd find you here."

Peter startled, head whipping around. Tony stepped out of the shadows near the stairwell door, hands shoved in his coat pockets, tie loosened like he'd come straight from some boardroom just to climb a dozen flights of stairs.

Peter gave a weak smile. "You stalk all my rooftops, or just this one?"

"Only the ones with good views." Tony wandered closer, slow, careful. He didn't sit right next to Peter, but he lowered himself onto the ledge a few feet away, groaning dramatically as his knees cracked. "God, I'm too old for concrete perches. I need a folding chair or something."

Peter huffed a laugh through his nose. "You sound like Mr. Delmar."

"Don't insult me." Tony shot him a sidelong look, but the corners of his mouth twitched.

For a while, they sat like that—two figures against the skyline, the silence filled by distant sirens and the low thrum of the city that never slept.

Peter's fingers fidgeted in his pocket, twisting the drawstring of his hoodie. "I, uh... I didn't come up here for... you know. That."

Tony's voice was quiet, but steady. “I know."

Peter's shoulders slumped in relief. “I just... it's peaceful up here. Doesn't feel so... heavy."

"Yeah." Tony leaned back on his hands, gazing at the lights. "City's a mess up close. Garbage, traffic, people yelling. But from up here? You could almost believe it's perfect."

Peter smiled faintly. "Almost."

Another stretch of silence. Comfortable this time.

Finally, Peter spoke again, voice softer. "I used to think rooftops were... an escape. Like, if I just got high enough, maybe all the noise would stay down there. But it followed me, even up here."

Tony didn't move, didn't interrupt.

Peter swallowed. "Now... I guess it's different. I don't want to... disappear anymore. I just want somewhere I can see everything, without being in it. You know?"

Tony nodded slowly. "Yeah, kid. I know."

Peter let out a shaky breath, eyes fixed on the skyline. "It still hurts. A lot. And sometimes I get scared it'll always feel like this."

Tony shifted, finally looking right at him. “It might. At least for a while. But pain changes. It doesn't stay the same forever. Trust me- l've got the emotional scars and the therapy bills to prove it."

Peter's lips curved, small but real.

Tony's tone softened. "But you're not carrying it alone anymore. That's the difference. And that? That makes it survivable."

Peter blinked hard, fighting the sting in his eyes. “...Thanks. For not... letting me go. Even when I wanted you to.”

Tony's jaw worked, throat tight. He didn't trust himself to answer right away. Finally, he said, voice rough, “Not in a million years, Underoos."

The wind tugged at their hair, the city below humming with its endless, messy life.

Peter shifted closer, just enough that his shoulder brushed Tony's arm. He didn't pull back.

Tony glanced down at the contact, then up at the kid's face—pale, tired, but with the faintest spark behind the eyes again. He let out a breath he didn't realize he was holding and rested a hand lightly on Peter's shoulder.

No flinch this time. Just quiet acceptance.

They didn't speak again for a long time. They didn't need to.

The city stretched out before them, their presence helping each other out more than they knew.

Peter Parker wasn't standing on the ledge.

He was sitting back, safe.

And he was still here.

Alive.

Surviving.

Chapter Text

Dear Mr. Stark,

For a long time, I didn’t have a reason to live. The only thing that kept me here was the thought of keeping other people safe. That was it. Every morning I got up, it wasn’t for me—it was to stop someone else from getting hurt. Even in fights, I never felt afraid. It didn’t matter what happened to me, as long as others walked away okay.

Last November, winter came early. The cold was sharp, but I barely noticed it—I hadn’t left my bed in three days. No one was there to wake me up. No one would have found me if the pills I swallowed had worked faster. They didn’t. I threw them up, maybe from the pain, maybe by accident. I don’t know.

After hours of fighting myself, I finally dragged my body to a hospital. They panicked. I lied. I told them I’d just forgotten when I last took my medication and doubled the dose by mistake. I didn’t want them to lock me away; I just wanted the pain to stop. I’ll never forget the taste of that charcoal drink they forced down my throat—thick, bitter, impossible to wash away.

My body was exhausted, but my mind never stopped racing. Nowhere felt safe. No escape seemed promising. The only way out, I thought, was death. On November 28th, I climbed to the top of a building and let myself fall. That night, I wanted to hit the ground.

But I didn’t—because of you.

Thank you for holding me up when I couldn’t stand. Thank you for giving me another way out. You were the reason I didn’t break.

-Peter Parker