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Peter didn’t know why he did it, looking back. He didn't have an explanation or a root cause he could point to. Really, it had just been a big pile of things that never really went away. The anniversary of May’s passing was a few weeks ago. Flash was being nastier than usual with the stress of exams. Peter’s teachers were being hard on all of them, cramming in all the last minute assignments and reviews before the testing. Peter thought he did fine on the tests this past week, but standardized testing was always hit or miss for him. The suit needed repairs and tweaking, so his time patrolling was cut short. Ned and his family were going on a trip this holiday.
Really, it was just a lot affecting him all at once. When the snow started falling, he didn’t think anything of slipping out and making his way to one of the easily accessible rooftops in the area. He just laid down and watched the snow fall through the streetlights of the city. He’d taken his contacts out before he left, so things were even more muted by his myopia. The snow, as it piled up, started muting all the sounds too. Lying there, watching the flakes slowly drift down, his mind finally whirring to a quiet hum as everything else just fell away. It was peaceful. Soft.
“You know, Tony and Pepper are looking for you.” the voice shocks him out of his trance. It’s familiar, but he doesn't immediately place it. He trusts them, whoever it is. He hears a sigh, then the soft crunch of snow as they walk closer, and a slight oomph as they take a seat without taking their hands out of their pockets.
“You want to tell me why you’re out here by yourself? Why no one knows where you are?” She asks, following up on her earlier question.
Peter shrugs, “s nice is all. Quiet.”
“Hmm. Yeah, I see that. It is nice out here. No guardians worrying or asking questions, no missing friends or family, no responsibilities or obligations. Just the hum of a city bracing for the storm and the snow slowly swallowing up all the garbage.”
Peter doesn’t say anything in response- it doesn’t feel necessary to break the quiet.
After a while, the woman speaks again, “Alright, I’ll let them know you’re safe, but that you’re taking some time to think and decompress. But go home soon, okay? They worry about you.” She reaches over and squeezes his gloved hand before pushing herself to her feet and disappearing back over the edge of the roof.
Peter goes back to the snow, watching the flakes drift down and land, the soft wind swirling them about. He’s relaxed, and at ease for the first time in what feels like months. He should go back to the tower, but he doesn’t want to move. He wants to stay in this space where nothing can touch him for just a little longer.
He loses track of time. Of course he does. He doesn’t notice the snowbanks getting deeper, or the way the sun fades in the sky. He doesn’t realize that the snow on his chest has stopped melting and instead is piling up. He’s so calm and peaceful.
The steel rungs of the fire escape rattle, and the stride through the snow is fast, sending flurries skittering across the top.
“Peter Benjamin Parker.” She's back, and she’s upset.
“Get up.” she growls. Peter climbs to his feet, staggering a little as he moves stiff legs.
“Follow me.” she commands, turning and retreading this path to the fire escape. Without question or protest, Peter does as he’s told.
As they walk through the snowblown streets, Peter slowly wakes up and starts realizing things. Things like that he’s shivering, that his jacket is soaked. That the snow on the ground, which was less than an inch when he laid down, is halfway up his shin. That he knows the red hair bobbing in front of him, the controlled but furious walk he’s trailing behind. Natasha was the one to find him. He notes that they’re not going back to the tower, but trusts Natasha to follow her still. He almost wants to ask where she’s taking him, but the words seem to vanish somewhere between his head and his throat.
By the time they make it to their destination, a quiet unassuming apartment building a few blocks from the tower, she’s cooled off. She uses a fob to buzz the door open and ushes him in before her.
“Elevator. 7th floor.” she instructs, stomping off the snow from her boots. They ride in silence, flyers for Christmas events posted on the side of the elevator wall. The elevator doesn’t stop until the 7th floor. No one is in the halls, and Natasha doesn’t hesitate to stride down the cheap carpet. She fishes keys out of her pocket and unlocks one of the apartments, ushering Peter inside.
He looks around without taking another step as she moves to the thermostat. It’s sparsely furnished, but it has the essentials. Fridge, table and chairs. Couch. Snow swirls outside the windows across from the door.
“Come here.” Natasha asks, easing into one of the chairs. She’s pulled the chair out so it faces the room rather than the table. Peter stands in front of her.
“Hands.” She tugs the wet gloves off of his hands and lets them fall onto the faux wood with a wet splat. His fingers are blue and start to sting, but he doesn’t really care.
“Arms up.” She unzips the jacket slowly, checking his face every few inches. Peter doesn’t know why she keeps looking at him, but she does. Natasha eases the wet jacket off of him and lets it too fall to the floor.
She grabs the hem of his shirt and looks at him. It takes Peter a moment to realize she’s asking for permission. He quickly nods. She’s gentle tugging it off of his body, careful around the ears and his hair. After it’s over his head she brings it back down and eases it off, once sleeve at a time. Peter stands, bare chested in front of her, shivering slightly.
Natasha scoots back in her chair, “Foot.” Peter blinks a few times, uncertainty trapping him. “Either one, маленький паук.” She rolls her eyes.
Peter places his left foot on the edge of the seat. Natasha brushes off the snow and works the frozen laces, untying it and easing it off his foot.
“The other.” After both shoes are off and on the floor, Natasha hooks her fingers into the waistband of his pants.
“Do you feel comfortable with me doing this, or do you want to?” She asks.
Peter nods, but she shakes her head, “I need you to say it aloud.”
“You.” he mumbles, shifting awkwardly in his wet socks, toes squishing icy water onto the floor.
“Alright.” She pops the button, unzips the fly, and shifts the fabric down his legs until it pools around his ankles. She rises and, holding onto his arms, helps him step out of the soaked pants.
“Come.” she says, letting one of her hands fall to grab his and tugging him along behind her.
She leads him to the bathroom and starts the shower, waiting with him until steam is billowing over the curtain and the mirror is fogged over.
She turns him and lets go of his hand to cup his face with both of hers, “Take as long as you need. I’m going to put clothes on top of the toilet for you to change into after. We will be having a talk once you’re done. This cannot be avoided; it has to happen given what happened tonight. That said,” she leans in and kisses his forehead, “You’ve been a very good girl. I’ll be in the kitchen.” Before she leaves, she gently pushes him into the shower.
It takes Peter a while to come back. He notices he’s not shivering anymore like it’s an offhand observation. At some point he tugs off his soaked briefs and toss them out of the shower. His skin stings, then stops as the heat seeps in, slowly thawing his bones. Slowly, like a waterwheel breaking through the ice of winter, Peter starts to wake up. He shifts under the spray, turns to let the heat wash over a different patch of skin. He flexes his fingers even though they hurt until they don’t hurt anymore and he doesn't feel any stiffness. Same with his toes, and all the other joints. He sticks his head under the spray and lets the hot water soak his scalp and run down his face. It feels so good he can’t help but groan.
Peter doesn’t know how long he spends under the spray, nor how long he was under before he became aware of it, but it’s long enough that he’s impressed by the water heater. Finally, when he feels toasty and warm and kind of washed out, when his skin has long pruned up and he feels like ice and cold are a million miles away, he cuts off the shower and steps out.
The first thing he sees is the closed door, then the bathmat right outside the shower, and finally a fluffy towel hanging on a hook. He wraps himself in the towel and starts to dry off, all too conscious of how his hair is going to take forever to try. He hasn't gotten it cut in a while- it’s almost past his shoulders now.
When he feels dry enough, he looks for the clothes and stalls. Atop the pile is a pair of blue boyshorts. He’s only vaguely aware of everything that happened while they were under. It’s all a haze, but he has an inkling of someone kissing his forehead and calling him a good girl. That combined with the underwear- she knows.
Panic slices right through any calm the shower gave them. She knows, she knows, she knows, she- they have to breathe. Peter grips the sink so tightly it cracks, then stumbles back until they hit the wall and slide to the floor.
Okay, so Natasha knows, or at least suspects. How did she-? Peter barely knows. They’ve told no one. So how does? Peter almost hits themself on the head. World's greatest superspy. Of course she knows, Natasha knows everything. Duh.
It takes Peter a minute to gather themself and regain their emotional balance. Climbing back to their feet, they pat themself down with the towel again, then start pulling on clothes.
They thought it would feel weird, but the underwear feels…normal. Like it’s no big deal. They tug on what turn out to be sweatpants and a t-shirt. Everything is soft and warm and, they sniff, smells like Natasha. It feels nice.
Peter pads barefooted back to the kitchen, seeing now that the apartment is a small one bedroom unit, with a combined kitchen and living room. Natasha is sitting at the table on her phone, two steaming mugs on little coasters.
Hearing them, she looks up, “Good shower?”
Peter nods.
“Normally I would apologize about giving you ladies underwear, but that’s not really a problem for you, is it?” she teases. Peter flushes, hoping the heat from the shower will hide it.
“Right, right.” she chuckles, taking a sip from her mug before standing and walking to him.
“Feeling better? Good. Now, to catch you up on everything that’s happened since I shoved you in the shower: Our clothes are in the dryer, I texted Tony and Pepper to let them know where you are, and that I’m keeping an eye on you. This is my apartment in the city for when I need some space from everybody. Please, don’t tell Tony. He’d insist on buying me a bigger one in a trendier district, but I like this one. I chose it very carefully.” As she explains she reaches up and grabs their shoulders, stroking with her thumbs. It’s incredibly soothing.
“So, I promised you a talk before your shower, and I’m guessing you have a few things you’d like to discuss with me as well. We’re stuck here until the sun rises, not literally, but I don’t think you want to face everyone just yet, and I’m being responsible for you. So, it’s here or the tower, and I’m guessing you’d rather stay here.” Natasha catches their eyes and makes sure they’re hearing her, “You alright?”
Peter nods, letting some of the tension fall from their body, “Yeah. Here- I’d rather stay here for now. It’s a nice apartment.”
“Thank you- now would you feel more comfortable sitting at the table or on the couch for this talk?” She asks calmly but firmly- Careful to give them some control and choice, but make it clear that there are things that have to happen.
She follows their gaze to the mugs sitting on the table, “It’s fine if we drink them on the couch. Wanda spilled boba on it and that stain is never coming out. Plus, we’re both highly trained or mutants- I think we can avoid spilling a drink.” she jokes.
“Oh, right.” she says, stepping away and fishing something off the couch before coming back and draping the soft throw over Peter’s shoulders. “So, table or couch?”
“Can we start at the table?” Peter asks quietly.
“Sure honey, just sit right there and drink some cocoa.” Peter does as told, sipping the mug of hot chocolate. It’s warm and rich, filling them with an inner warmth they didn’t realize was missing.
“Now, I have to ask some of these questions without padding or nuance- I’ll be as delicate as I can, but some of these are very abrupt and strong. Take as long as you need to answer them, and feel free to ask questions.” she looks up from the tablet and meets their eyes, “Was tonight your first suicide attempt?”
“What?” Peter gasps, “No-no I- I wasn’t- I wasn’t trying to kill myself. God, no.” he babbles. “I- I saw the snow start falling and wanted to go lay down and watch it. I can’t say why I- I don’t know why I went out there, but it was really peaceful. You- you saw when you found me the first time. I wasn’t.. I don’t want to die.”
Natasha sighs, “Peter, you were almost completely unresponsive when I found you the first time, and I trusted that you would go home shortly after. I told Tony and Pepper that you were going home soon. When they called, five hours later because you still hadn’t shown, what was I supposed to think? When I found you the second time I wasn’t sure you were still breathing. The snow was piled on you because you hadn’t moved for hours. Your lips were blue and you didn’t start shaking until we were moving. Peter, do you know how close to hypothermia you were tonight?”
“I- it wasn’t like that. I didn’t mean to stay there so long. I don’t-” Peter feels their eyes prick and voice start shaking, “I don’t know why I went out there, or why it was so hard for me to come back. I didn’t mean to worry anyone, or cause any trouble. I just wanted some space to think away from everything. Then, it was so mesmerizing- watching the snow fall. The flakes drift down, caught in the wind, swirling and settling. The world just fell away.”
“Peter,“ Natasha reaches across the table and Peter slides their hands into hers, “Honey, I wasn’t sure if your behavior was a result of the hypothermia or not, but it sounds to me like you were dissociating. You fell away from your thoughts and the world and drifted. Dissociation isn’t bad- per say- but it’s not good either. It can be dangerous, as we both saw today. If I wasn't already going to suggest you see a therapist, I would be now. Is this the first time this has happened?”
“Ye- No. I don’t know. Some days I’m walking into class and next thing I know I’m on the subway coming home. Sometimes, I blink and it’s been two hours. I- Some patrols I lose track of where I am, or what's going on. I’ve reviewed the footage a few times and found that half of my patrol I just sit on a rooftop staring at the city. It’s not every time, not even half of the time. Maybe once every few weeks?” Peter backpedals.
Natasha hums, “Do you notice these periods happening close together? Like two or three patrols in a row, or at school and then patrol later that night or the next day?”
“I don’t think so. I haven’t really tracked them or anything.” Peter admits.
“I think, until we get a handle on this, you should stop patrolling.” Natasha says quietly.
“What!? No! I- I can’t! I have a responsibility- I- When you can do the things that I can, but you don't, and then the bad things happen, they happen because-”
“They happen because people made the choice to do bad things.” Natasha interrupts firmly. “You’re not responsible for other people’s choices and actions, Peter. When bad things happen, they happen because someone made a mistake, or chose to make the wrong choice. Your action or inaction- so long as you’re not the one doing the bad things- has no bearing on who is responsible or at fault, understand?”
“But, Uncle Ben. He said..” Peter protests weakly.
“Your life has been full of tragedy, Peter. Your Uncle died because some punk thought it was a good idea to rob a bodega. Your Aunt lost her life because shitty politicians valued building monuments over reinforcing infrastructure. Neither of those were your fault.”
“But, I- I could have stopped the robber, I-”
Natasha gets up and tugs Peter into her arms, “Even if you saw him do something and chose not to act, you didn’t make him rob that bodega. Even if you could have stopped him earlier that day for a different reason, what he chose to do after you let him go is his decisions and his fault. You’re not responsible for Ben’s death, Peter. Your Uncle chose to act, to try and stop injustice. He chose to act, and he paid the price for his choices. The guy who shot him, he made his choices and he’s paying the price- 24 more years in prison. He and Ben are the only ones responsible for your uncle’s death. Do you understand, Peter?” They nod into her shoulder, hot tears soaking into her shirt.
They feel more than hear her sigh, “You really need therapy маленький паук.” when they’ve stopped crying she draws back but doesn’t let go of their shoulders, “Not an active suicide attempt.”
“Not a suicide attempt.” Peter echoes.
“Not an active attempt.” Natasha insists, “I’m not qualified to determine if this was a passive attempt or not.” Peter takes a moment, then nods.
“Okay, маленький паук, we can skip most of the questions then.” Peter slumps a little.
Natasha quirks an eye, “You do know I have to tell Tony and Pepper all of this, right?”
“You do?” Peter groans.
“Of course. They’re your legal guardians, and they love you. They want to help you grow and be the best person you can be.”
“Person, huh?” Peter grumbles after a moment.
“You haven’t told me anything one way or the other.” Natasha shrugs, “The ball is in your court.”
“If I tell you, will you also tell Tony and Pepper?” Peter asks quietly.
“Oh, маленький паук, no.” Natasha shakes her head. “Something that puts your life in danger or body at risk, yes. But the things you discover about yourself? The secrets you share in confidence? No, those only you get to tell. Unless something is going to harm you, or it’s so unimportant that it doesn't matter, I won’t tell anyone.”
“Can you give me an example?” Peter asks.
“Let’s take this to the couch.” Natasha deflects, gently pushing Peter toward their abandoned cocoa. Peter picks up his mug and sits on the couch, cradling the cooling ceramic in his hands. Natasha, rather than join, first finishes her mug and rinses it out.
“You good sharing a couch, or should I grab a chair?” she asks as she checks her phone.
“We can share.”
“Alirghty then.” Natasha eases onto the couch leaning on the opposite arm from Peter.
“You asked for examples,” she says after a moment. “Something that would harm you could be a drug habit, or a toxic girlfriend. Could also be a mugger as Peter Parker, or lying in the snow for seven hours. Harm could be mental or emotional or physical. Trivial things could be movies you liked, or dishes you hate. Offhand comments about cities you’d like to go to, or that you think a boy is cute.”
Peter digests for a moment, then clears their throat, “Isn’t that last one crossing a line?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, for most guys, having their aunt tell their parents they saw a cute boy would be outing them as gay or bi or something, wouldn’t it?” Peter remarks, “Like if Steve joked in the next interview after an event that you missed a shot because you couldn’t keep your eyes off a lady’s butt.” at her glare they quickly follow up with, “Not that you would! I’m just saying.”
Natasha frowns, “I get what you mean. Being able to tease kids about their crushes is a right that older family has, but I see your point. That could be crossing a boundary. And assuming heteronormativity doesn't excuse doing the same for the opposite sex.”
“So?” Peter prods.
“So, until you give an indication of your sexuality I won’t tease you about seeing anyone you like. And I’ll do my best to nudge everyone else into doing the same. But the moment you tell us that you like girls, or guys, or both, or whatever, all bets are off. I’ll have stockpiled teases so you better be ready for a lot of ribbing.” Natasha smirks.
“I guess that’s the best I’ll get, huh?” Peter grouses.
“Take it or leave it. Now, about girls and guys.”
“I don’t know!” Peter hisses, “We just talked about boundaries.”
“I meant you, dear.” Natasha pokes.
“Oh. Right.” Peter stares into their cocoa. “I don’t really know that either. The more I grow and see, the less I feel like a man. It just looks gross and awful- and there’s so much pressure and expectation. Tony expects me to take over SI, you know that, right? He wants me to go to college, and party like he did before settling down and taking over the business. But I don’t want- It’s not that I don’t want to work at SI. I can’t think of anywhere else I would want to work. But I don’t want to be the next face of Stark Industries, not like he is. And I don’t want to be CEO like Pepper. I don’t know what I want, or who I am.
Ned, and Flash, and the other guys- they all talk about girls like they’re some trophy to obtain. Less with Ned, but he has his moments. They all want to touch girls and do things with them and- I mean I kind of get it? Girls are amazing. They’re so soft and warm, and no one looks twice when they’re sharing a seat in the library or walking hand in hand. They have such nice colors for clothes, and so much more opportunity to express themselves. I-
Pepper’s closet is huge, and she has a dress in every color of the rainbow. She had blouses and skirts and pantsuits. Tony has suits. He has a whole rack of dark, drab suits.
My whole life people have been telling me to grow big and strong- what if I don’t want to grow? What if I like being small like this? Why do I have to always pay for dinner, and hold the door, and be the shield. Why can’t someone look after me? Why can’t I be dainty, and pretty, and-”
“That’s a lot, Peter.” Natasha says, gently pulling the now cracked mug from their hands.
“Peter.” they scoff, “I don’t want to be a rock. Why can’t I be someone else? Miles, or Chase, or Morgan, or-”
“Penelope.” Natasha adds.
Peter scrunches their nose, “Absolutely not. Get that out of here. Whoever she is, she’s not me.”
“Alright.” Natasha says quietly.
“It’s just-” Peter sighs, “I can’t see why anyone would want to be a man. Men are the worst. Girls are- they’re just better. Cleaner, more elegant, more colorful and playful and free. They’re not trapped in this race to the bottom, always fighting to make your place in the pack. They don’t have those ugly deep voices, or big shoulders. They’re discreet when they get excited, y’know. Not, that. They’re softer, and they can show weakness and not be punished for it. They’re allowed to be whoever they are; they don’t have to contort themselves to fit some mold created by some sanctimonious asshole three centuries ago.”
“I get what you’re going for, Peter.” Natasha says, pulling them into her lap and cuddling up to them. “In my opinion, you’ve got a bit of an idealized version of femininity in your head that isn’t quite congruent with reality. But you’re not completely off base- you’ve got a lot of good points. It sounds to me like you have a lot of thinking and discussion ahead with someone who’s been trained to handle these discussions. As skilled as I am, the Red Room was more concerned with teaching me how to strangle a man than how to decide if I would want to be a man.”
“But, I do have one litmus test I want to try with you that might help you figure this out more.”
“Okay?” Peter asks.
“You ready? Which feels more right?” She leans in close, “Good boy, Peter.” They flush, but barely squirm. Natasha repositions to whisper in their other ear, and they can hear the smugness in her voice, “Good girl.” she purrs, then laughs at the blushing, squirming mess in her lap.
“Preliminary results say female, маленький паук.” Natasha crows.
“I hate you.” Peter grumbles, trying to hide under the throw.
“Love you too, маленький паук.” Natasha coos, pressing a kiss to her cheek.