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There is a ghoul in Peter's mind.
It is slow.
It is silent.
But on the nights where he’s alone, where May is working the night shift, and Peter is looking up up up at the constellations he’s formed on his popcorn ceiling, Peter—
—Peter can hear it.
It sneaks up like that, like an invisible promise he has to keep hidden.
And it doesn’t exactly talk, not really, but it whispers. It purrs. It’s so quiet it’s terrifying.
Peter supposes it wouldn’t be called a ghoul if it wasn't.
—
(You aren’t safe, Peter. You know this)
(Listen to me, and I will protect you)
—
There is a ghoul in Peter’s mind.
And it is getting louder.
It's lunch, and Ned Leeds is standing over Peter like Peter’s just broken his Lego Death Star and tried to hide it; hands stuffed in his pockets, his lower lip tucked into his mouth as if it might wobble otherwise.
Peter wonders how loud the ghoul is for others, how obvious he’s been. He wonders how many times it’s spilled through without him realizing.
“You’re avoiding me,” Ned states.
(No, I’m protecting you)
Peter tries not to look as tired as he feels. He knew this conversation was coming, and he knows this is for the best. Ned, of course, won’t see it this way. He’ll see Peter, and he’ll see his friend ditching him once again, and then he’ll try to help because that's just who Ned is.
It’s not like Ned did anything wrong, though. Peter couldn’t explain why he’s avoiding his best friend if he tried.
(There is a ghoul in my mind)
(It says I shouldn’t let anyone get close)
(It says that when I can do the things that I can, but don't, and then bad things happen, they happen because of me)
(And I can protect you, Ned)
(So I will)
“Sorry, Ned,” Peter says, taking his mostly untouched tray and walking to the trash can. “I’ve just been busy.”
“Two weeks,” Ned follows. His voice is tight, like he’s barely holding back what is desperate to spring forward. Peter itches to get away, but his friend isn’t deterred. Ned just follows him down the room. “I gave you two weeks, man. I thought—Mr. Stark said you just needed space. He said to give you two weeks, and then you’d be back to normal. MJ is worried too, you know? She hasn’t said anything, but I can tell she is, and I didn’t even think that was possible. And we know you haven’t been eating, either.”
Peter actually stops there, feet stuttering as he turns to stare at Ned. Then Ned stops too, like he might take back pointing out something so intimately personal. Instead though, he clears his throat and takes a deep breath, and he continues.
“Mr. Stark said to tell him if that happens, Peter. But I haven’t, because I really hoped you’d have talked to me by now, but—”
Peter walks away. He doesn’t want to hear any of this. Ned doesn’t stop, because of course he doesn’t.
“dude, stop avoiding me! Peter, are you listening?”
Ned grabs his shoulder.
(You are not safe.)
“Ned, just back off, okay?” Peter doesn’t yell, but it’s a near thing. The ghoul is right behind him, whispering pretty things into his ear as he shrugs Ned’s hand off his shoulder. “If I need your help, I’ll ask for it. Just—leave me alone.”
There is a different voice that appears in times like these.
That is your friend, it says. Why are you ruining this? You like Ned, Peter.
(That is why you can’t have him.) (He will be taken too.)
(It feels better when it’s your choice, trust me.)
Peter walks away. Ned is left standing in the hallway like something really has broken—Peter isn’t sure he’s entirely wrong.
—
He cries when he gets home—because when the ghoul finally recedes, only then do things feel as real as they are, and only then does Peter start questioning why he can’t keep the few good things given to him.
When May finds him, tears snaking down his face as he stands helplessly in front of the pantry, she cups his cheek and asks what’s wrong. Peter shakes his head, leaning into her chest.
Nothing is, and that's the problem.
Because the ghoul says it’s everything.
—
It’s the second week of April, which means Peter is staying with the Starks. Or rather, with Tony, because Pepper is out of town and Happy is busy with his work duties.
It’s the second week of April, and Peter’s leg is vibrating against the floor, his hand in his hair, Tony across from him, and he thinks that if he runs right now, he might be able to jump out of the window before Tony reaches him.
But Tony is Iron Man at the end of the day, so that's a very strong might.
“You don’t have to stay.” Peter grumbles, “I’m fine. Really. You can go do whatever you have to.”
Tony sighs, flipping the page of whatever book he’s reading as he leans back in his chair. “It’ll be a dark day in hell when someone makes me do something I don’t want to, kid.” He winks, looking up. “It’s fine, I like spending time with you.”
(He is waiting)
(He thinks you’ll fold)
“I’m not going to eat,” Peter states bluntly. His voice doesn’t sound like his own, which would be scary if he hadn’t grown used to it by now. “You can—you shouldn’t waste your time. I’m fine.”
Tony is just pretending to read now. Peter can tell because he’s suddenly gone very still, and his eyes have locked onto one singular spot, a forced faux-casual. But then Tony sighs again, carefully places a bookmark in the crevice of the page, and closes it on the table with a gentle thump.
“That isn’t really your choice to make, kiddo. I don’t mind if it takes a while, but you have to eat something.”
Peter can’t help but laugh to himself. He doesn’t have to do anything—Tony can’t make him. And he isn’t stupid, either, which is partially why he feels so pissed. Peter has gone longer than a night without food. They both know he’d be fine.
“Is it my cooking?” Tony asks, a humorous eyebrow raised. He’s trying to lighten the mood. Normally, Peter would appreciate it on nights like these. But now, it just feels personal—they both know it isn't the cooking.
It’s just Peter.
(Don’t give in)
(This is a test)
“No it isn’t,” Peter snarls suddenly, pressing the heel of his palm into his eyes. “Shut up.” He isn’t talking to Tony, but Tony’s eyes widen a little regardless, because nobody knows about the ghoul, and it’s so loud, and Peter probably looks like he’s crazy. “Sorry, not you—”
“Don’t be sorry,” Tony interrupts, leaning forward. “Just talk to me. What’s going on with you, Pete?”
(Don’t give in)
(This is a test)
“Nothing,” Peter says.
(Everything)
“I’m not going to eat.”
It’s the beginning of a very long week.
—
“Peter?”
A warm liquid is surrounding him, enclosing his body in a slush cocoon that sort of feels like a warm ice.
“Can you open the door?”
Something is filling his lungs and something is spilling spilling spilling from his ears, and Peter is drowning in the terrifying revelation that if he doesn’t find a way to stay perfectly still, then he will die.
It's so warm it's freezing. His skin is sticky, hands clammy. Peter wonders if it’s even a choice to stay this still, or if he simply can’t be any other way when he’s like this.
There’s a voice. Somewhere in the distance. He can hardly hear it, but he thinks it’s there, and he wants and wants and wants, but he doesn’t know if it matters. Because closer, there is another presence over his trembling body, and it has him in a hold he can’t escape, whispering the same things it’s said before.
(If anything changes, then everything changes)
(Don’t move)
Peter thinks he’s holding his breath. He can’t really tell, but he must be, because his lungs keep shifting, turning like intense gymnastics under his heaving chest.
He wonders what it feels like to drown.
(Good. Don’t move)
“Peter,”
There it is again. And the voice sounds familiar, Peter thinks. He thinks he might know the name of it. It rings like tinnitus through the void, flowing through one part of him to the next. Peter feels the familiar word on his tongue, trying to place where it comes from. Who does it belong to? But in the next minute, his lungs are shifting, and flooding, and the word slips from his grasp, and Peter is lost in the slush cocoon once more.
“Peter!”
Persistence, he thinks, doesn’t mean much when the world is like this. Peter doesn’t know if anything means much when the world is like this, other than survival. Maybe obedience.
A splash of cold suddenly presses against his hand, and Peter very quickly realizes that some things do.
“There you are,” Tony is whispering, one of his hands gently laid across the nape of Peter’s neck, the other intertwined with Peter’s own, which is limp at his side. Between their fingers, ice-cold water drips and drips and drips.
Peter thinks he might be shivering. But he isn’t sure—he doesn’t really know what’s happening.
“Tony?”
Tony smiles, gives a shaky breath, then, “Yeah, kid, I’m here.”
“It’s cold—” He whispers. He doesn’t sound like himself.
“Shit, I bet it is.” Tony squeezes where their fingers are intertwined, bringing them up so their hands rest in Peter’s lap. “Ice,” he says, “You weren’t responding to anything else.”
“Oh,” is all he can get himself to say.
Sometimes it’s the little things that make Peter this way—that ruin the careful moments, the quiet afternoons. Most of the time, it’s the ghoul, dragging him down and personally filling Peter’s lungs with so much anxiety his body can’t help but shake, shut down, drown.
Sometimes it’s just him, though. Him being incapable of normalcy, of changing, and him always stuck.
“Hey,” Tony starts again, trying to catch Peter’s eye. “We’re in your room, you’re alright. Don’t go away on me again, kiddo.”
“‘m not,” he isn’t. He just can’t feel his body, and he can’t really tell what’s happening. Peter sees Tony, though, so he tries to focus on that.
Tony frowns, runs his hand through Peter’s sweaty curls. “When’s the last time you’ve eaten?”
It’s not a question that needs answering, so Peter doesn’t. Tony seems to take that as a response in itself.
“Okay,” Tony frowns, rubbing his thumb over the back of Peter’s hand. It’s hypnotic; Peter suddenly realizes how tired he is. “Okay, intervention time, kid. Let’s get you out of here.”
Tony hooks two strong arms underneath Peter’s legs and lifts him.
The ghoul screams.
(Don’t move) (Don’t move) (Don’t move)
Peter goes back inside his mind.
—
“Open up,” Tony inclines, holding a mystery soup before him.
Peter shakes his head, but when Tony resorts to the airplane tactic, swiveling the spoon in the air like Peter’s three years old, Peter wonders how pathetic he must seem for this to be what Tony thinks will work, and promptly opens his mouth. All of this is already embarrassing, and he’s extremely tired of contributing to that.
It’s not bad. It doesn’t kill him. But Peter thinks he might be crying anyway, and he hates himself because of it. He swallows so hard it hurts, tries not to gag because it really doesn’t taste all that bad and he doesn’t want Tony to be offended or think his cooking is gross, just because Peter can’t manage to choke down a single bite of food like a normal person.
(You’re going to die)
(You need to get out of here)
(You’re going to die, Peter)
Tony’s hand finds its place on Peter's knee before he can stop it from shaking. Peter doesn’t pull back like he wants to, instead opting to tap his index finger against the wood of the table.
He has a headache. And while he feels more present than before, that doesn’t mean he feels good. Peter thinks Tony might know that, though. With the way he’s looking at him.
(He thought you would fold, and you did)
(And now you're going to die)
Before he can stop it, before Peter can run or hide or even think, a wet sob coarses it's way through his body, escaping him like water through a crack. Peter holds his breath for one, two, three seconds, having startled even himself, embarrassed for no particular reason except for all of them, before another one breaks through, and then another, and then, when it hurts too much to stop, it all sort of goes off from there. Like a knob in Peter’s chest has been untwisted, everything he’s ever wanted to keep to himself spilling out.
“Pete, hey, It’s okay bud,” Tony inclines, rubbing his hand back and forth on Peter’s knee more frantically. Peter reaches for Tony’s hand, clinging, because he thinks that point of contact might be the only thing keeping him tethered.
“Sorry,” Peter says, and he tries to rub at his eyes, but Tony grabs his other hand before he can, and looks Peter right in the eye like he's really trying to understand, and for some reason that makes him cry harder. “I’m sorry, I don’t—I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
Tony doesn’t look away. But he frowns, and he sighs, and then he pulls, folding Peter into a hug just as easily as he’s ever done anything else, like this is something Tony needs just as much as Peter.
Peter rests his forehead in the crook of Tony’s neck. Tony squeezes him, and it stifles some of the shaking. “Nothing's wrong with you, Pete. And I’m sorry you’ve been made to feel like there is, kid, but I promise that’s not true.”
(He’s lying)
Peter can’t help the way he starts shaking harder, crying harder, because he doesn't know what he’s supposed to believe anymore with two voices speaking at once, sounding so unbelievably different that he can’t tell which is which, just by association.
But there is a different voice that appears in times like these. A third noise that mixes into the conglomerate of chaos, yet somehow manages to stand out the most, despite it all.
That’s Tony, it says. That’s your dad, Peter. Why would he be lying? Why would you believe the ghoul over him?
“Because it keeps me safe,” Peter whispers, breathless, so quietly he more so feels the words on his lips than anything else. The admission hurts, but it feels more right than anything else has over the past day. And it’s true, he thinks. When Peter had nothing, no Ben, no May, and no Tony, he always had the ghoul. It led him. It—it raised him.
(You are going to die)
(You aren’t safe, Peter)
(Listen to me, and I will protect you)
Peter shakes and shakes and shakes, then shakes his head.
Peter, suddenly, feels Tony go entirely still beneath him. And it's such a change compared to how much Peter's shaking that it helps him suck in a breath just by contrast.
Tony pulls back. He looks Peter in the eyes again, and then he says, his face gentle and voice kind and hands soft from where they hold him:
“Peter, I love you. I don’t think I can tell you that enough.”
Peter blinks. Because Tony’s talking like everything that’s happening is normal, like Peter isn’t slowly falling apart in his arms. For some reason, that sort of makes him feel a little better. And Peter breathes, and breathes, and breathes.
“So does Pepper, you know.” Tony continues, “And Happy always told me he didn’t want kids, which is a bold statement considering I’ve never even seen him with a woman, but a few weeks ago, you know what he said? He said that if all of the kids in the world were like you, then one day, he might.”
Peter stops crying.
The world stops moving.
The voices stop talking, and then, suddenly, everything around him tunnel visions, until it’s all just Tony.
“I think it takes a pretty special kid to do that. To do the things that you do. To have been through the things you’ve been through and still be a damn awesome Spider-Man despite it all. And I’m proud of you, okay?”
Peter has never seen Tony like this before.
Peter has never felt like this before.
And Peter sees an opening.
It’s quiet.
“And you are. A good Spider-Man, that is.” Tony adds, “but you’re a pretty cool son, too. And even if you were neither of those things, I’d still love you. And there’d still be nothing wrong with you, and you still wouldn’t be alone, because you’re a fucking awesome kid. And awesome kids like you don’t get to be alone. The laws of the universe don’t allow it, not now that I’m here.”
It’s terrifying.
Peter supposes it wouldn’t be called a ghoul if it wasn’t.
(You are not safe)
But Peter—he also thinks that he got here by himself, and he survived by himself, and he thinks that if what Tony said wasn’t true, then he probably wouldn’t be alive, right? If he let the scary things hold him back?
(He’s lying)
(You are going to die)
(You are not safe)
You can be, something is telling Peter. You can live.
Tony pulls him back into a hug, sways them back and forth. The tear tracks dry on Peter's cheeks sometime after that, sticky and restricting, but it doesn’t bother him for some reason.
He takes a deep breath.
“There’s a ghoul in my mind,” he says.
Good, says the voice.
And then it all sort of starts there.