Archive of Our Own

1: Nightmares & Sleep Disruption

“Hey Peter, pancakes are ready.”

“Hm?” Peter blinked blearily, turning his head to the side so he could rub the remaining sleep from his eyes. It didn’t work, and the sunlight streaming in from the kitchen window only served to send a spike of pain through his head rather than making him feel more awake.

“I didn’t burn them this time,” May continued, setting the plate down in front of where his arms rested on the table. Peter watched as she set her own plate down, neurons sluggishly firing to try and figure out what exactly was happening.

Breakfast, that was right. He was supposed to be eating breakfast.

“Thanks,” he managed, tongue heavy in his mouth. He sat up, pulling the plate toward him and ignoring the dizziness that followed the movement.

“Geez, you sure you’re good to go to school?” May asked. She looked worried. “You can stay home if you’re feeling sick. It is that time of year…”

“I’m okay,” he was quick to reassure her. He picked up his fork and started cutting into the pancakes. “Couldn’t get to sleep last night, that’s all.”

That’s all, like every second hadn’t been utter hell to go through — like he hadn’t been fighting his own body to be able to rest for most of it. Like he hadn’t been rudely awoken less than two hours in from a stupid nightmare. Like he hadn’t found himself completely unable to fall back asleep after that and resigned himself to scrolling through his phone until it was a reasonable time for him to get out of bed.

That was all. Nothing May needed to worry about.

“You sure?”

“Mhm.” He ignored the nausea creeping into his throat and shoved a bite of pancake into his mouth. Ash stuck to his tongue and coated the back of his throat as he swallowed. He inhaled, and the dust stung his nose. “I was up working on my English project. I’ll just take a nap when I get home.”

“If you’re sure,” said May, looking placated for the time being. Peter could’ve sighed in relief when she turned her attention to her own plate. “Are you going over to the Tower today?”

Peter shook his head, thankful for the distraction. “Ms. Potts is forcing Mr. Stark to go to a meeting,” he explained. “I’m going tomorrow instead.”

May nodded. “Sounds good. Let me know if I need to come pick you up.”

“I will.” Peter tried to take another bite, but his stomach swooped dangerously. He took a sip of water to calm the worst of the nausea. He stood, pushing his chair back, and glanced at his phone.

“Oh shoot, wouldja look at the time!” he said. “I better get going or I’m gonna miss the bus.” He rounded the table and grabbed his backpack, hoping that May wouldn’t notice he still technically had ten more minutes before he had to leave. “I’ll see you when I get home, unless you’re working late today?”

“My shift ends at five. Hopefully they don’t need me longer than that.” May glanced at her phone and frowned. “You sure–”

“Hopefully not!” Peter interrupted. He set his backpack on the floor and grabbed his coat off the rack. “Alrighty then, I’ll see you after school. Larb you!”

“Peter, are you–” May looked over at his unfinished breakfast. “Are you sure you don’t wanna take anything with you? Or you could grab something from the fridge if you didn’t like the pancakes.”

Peter slipped his arms through his coat sleeves. “I’m good, promise. Not very hungry right now. I’ll grab something at school. Larb you.”

May sighed. “Larb you too, Peter. Be safe, ‘kay?”

Peter smiled and zipped up his coat. “I will.”

He was out the door before May could interrogate him further. He rushed down the stairs and out the door, walking as fast as he could down the sidewalk without it being considered running. He pulled his scarf from his pocket and wrapped it around his neck as he went. He dodged passing pedestrians with practiced ease and made it to the bus stop in record time. When he finally got there, he was panting for breath, heart racing even though logically speaking, there was no reason for him to be out of breath. He wasn’t sure why he rushed. He had more than enough time to walk the block and a half to the bus stop. It was like some invisible force was pushing him forward, compelling him to move as quickly as possible.

Peter breathed as deeply and evenly as he could, leaning against the outer wall of the bus stop and letting his heart rate settle. The noises and smells of the city assaulted his senses. He felt a little windswept, overtired but wide-eyed and shaking with adrenaline. He closed his eyes, tucked his nose into his scarf, and tried to ignore the endless barrage of sound coming at him from all angles.

He spent the entire bus ride in a daze, leaning his weight heavily onto the pole. Keeping his eyes open was a challenge. He stared out at the passing buildings and tried to ignore the pull of gravity on his eyelids. He felt unsteady, though he wasn’t sure if that was from the exhaustion or from the movement of the bus.

Peter hardly realized when the bus arrived at his school. He stared at the building, unrecognizing for a good few seconds, before he was jostled out of his daze by another student knocking into him. He jolted and released his grip on the pole, then stumbled off the bus, mumbling a vague “thank you” to the bus driver. His hand, slick with sweat, tugged at one of the dangling straps on his backpack. His cheeks stung as the wind slapped at his face.

Getting from the bus stop to the school was all a bit of a blur, but he managed. It was purely by instinct alone that he ended up at his locker. The code came to him through muscle memory, which… thank whatever deity might’ve been up there, because Peter never would have consciously remembered the pin number on his own.

“Hey, loser.”

Peter startled a bit, nearly dropping his grip on his backpack. “Um–” he cleared his throat. “Hey MJ.”

He turned to look at her. MJ looked relatively put-together– not that she wasn’t normally put together, she actually looked good no matter what she wore, and– that was besides the point. The point was, she looked nice. Organized. Alert, which was more than Peter dared would happen for him today at this point.

“Woah, you look terrible.” She leaned in, getting uncomfortably close. Peter backed away as far as he could without knocking into his locker door. “Are those real?

She was looking at his eyes, which made Peter think she was referring to his eyebags. “Uh–”

She leaned back with a laugh and slapped his arm. “I’m just messin’ with ya. Chill! You look so freaked out.”

Peter scowled and unzipped his backpack. “I didn’t sleep well, okay?”

“Well, duh. You could hold a week’s worth of groceries in those bags.”

Peter wasn’t sure what he was supposed to say to that, so he stayed silent instead. He grabbed the books he needed for his first three periods and hung his backpack on the hook. His coat and scarf quickly followed.

“Seriously though,” she continued, clearly deciding he wasn’t going to respond, “if you think that’s bad, you should’ve seen me last week.”

“Oh yeah?” Peter shut his locker and twisted the dial to lock it. He stepped away, MJ falling into pace with him as they walked to their first period.

“I got like, five hours of sleep,” she replied. “I was scrolling Instagram until like, two in the morning.”

“How did you live,” Peter drawled.

“Coffee and spite.” She stuck her tongue out at him. “That’s how I’ve been surviving this week. I’ve literally gotten no sleep, it’s not even funny.”

“Sounds tiring.”

“Oh, you have no idea.”

Peter hunched his shoulders and tugged on his hoodie string. MJ didn’t seem to notice– either that or she just didn’t care enough to point it out. Either way, she spent the entire walk to English rambling about her awful sleep schedule. Peter tuned her out. It wasn’t that he didn’t care– well, actually, that was a lie. He just… couldn’t find it in him to care right now, or even to formulate some kind of faux sympathetic response.

Because as much as she talked about her own, she didn’t ask him about his.

Not even once.
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2: Inattentiveness & Distractibility

First period was fine. The “English project” he’d told May about was actually just a five-minute presentation on the themes of Othello, and his presentation wasn’t until the end of the week. He was able to zone out for the majority of the class and only zoned back in when the teacher started handing out homework. Overall, not a terrible experience, though MJ did annoy him a little bit with her constant flicking of paper balls at the back of his neck. Each little impact came with a lovely little jolt from his spidey sense right before impact, which was not appreciated at eight in the morning. He was vibrating from the adrenaline by the end of class, but through the power of deep breathing and telling himself that actually, murder is a crime and also generally frowned upon, especially for vigilantes-slash-superheroes, he managed to keep his emotions in check and avoid snapping at her.

Second period was also fine, though slightly less so. History had never been his strong suit, and his teacher’s tendency to drone on and on in a monotone voice wasn’t helping him keep his eyes open. It was only through digging his nails into his palms until they left sizable indents in the skin that he was able to force himself to stay awake. He gave up on the idea of taking notes entirely and resigned himself to having to ask Betty Brant for the notes later.

Third period was when things started going downhill– more than they already were, that is. Math— statistics, actually, to be exact. To be even more specific, AP Stats. He didn’t know what he was thinking, taking AP Stats in the first place, especially on top of everything else he had going on in his life, but he was here now, and he was pretty sure there was no way out of it without affecting his GPA. His guidance counselor certainly didn’t think there was. Normally, Stats wasn’t too bad. It was pretty simple stuff at the core, just presented in such a ridiculously convoluted way that it was a wonder anyone actually passed the AP test. He could usually get away with taking rigorous notes and re-teaching himself the material during study hall or at home, but today? Yeah, no way that was happening.

Unfortunately for him, zoning out wasn’t an option either. His Stats teacher really didn’t like him for some reason or another, or maybe she was just harsh on everyone and Peter was overthinking it? Either way, she had the tendency to scold him if he didn’t look like he was paying attention, which really didn’t jive well with his desire to stare at the wall the whole period.

Still, as much as he tried, he couldn’t help but turn his attention away from the board every few seconds to glance around the classroom. At first it was casual, almost habitual— just his routine search for possible exit routes should mortal danger happen to fall upon the school— but as the period went on, his glances became more frequent and more urgent. Halfway through the period, he could barely keep his attention on the board for longer than a second or two before his gaze flitted off to look at something else.

“So, as I said before, chi-square is what’s called a non-parametric test.”

’Where are the exits?’

’How durable is that glass? Could I smash through it without giving myself away?’

“Parametric tests are used much more frequently, and as the name suggests, they involve measuring a specific parameter.”

’How fast could I get to the principal’s office from here?’

’Could I stick to the ceiling? What’s the best way to get up there? Would those chairs stay steady enough for me to launch myself off of?’

’What do I do if the building collapses? Is there anything I could hide under?’

“Can anyone give me an example of a parametric test? You should know quite a few by now.”

’Would those desks take the weight of an entire building on top of them? How do I know that’s not going to happen?’

’Is the room shaking or is that just normal vibrations?’

“Mr. Parker, how about you give us one?”

’Is the floor going to give out underneath all of this weight?’

“Mr. Parker.”

’The building’s super old. How do I know it’s safe? When was the last time the ceilings were inspected? Is there water damage? Are ceiling tiles even safe? Are—’

“Mr. Parker.”

Peter jolted, nearly losing his balance in his seat as he whipped his head back to look at the teacher.

Her lips were pursed, and she stood with one hand on her hip. “Since you don’t seem to think it necessary to pay attention in class, I assume you should be able to give an example.”

Peter blinked, eyes wide as he tried to wrack his brain for what her initial question had been. Something something parametric, non-parametric, frequency data, distribution-free tests— she had to be asking about non-parametric tests. Parametric would be too obvious. They’d been spending almost the entire year so far on parametric tests.

“Chi-square?” he guessed.

Disjointed laughter broke out among the students. Peter shrunk down in his seat and tried to ignore the death glare his teacher was boring into him.

“Mr. Parker,” she glowered, “if you spent half as much time paying attention as you did staring off into space, you might have realized that I just said chi-square was a non-parametric test.” She turned back to the class. “Can anyone else give me an actual example of a parametric test?”

’Of course she said parametric. How could I be so stupid?’ Peter folded his arms on his desk and put his head down, failing miserably to hide his burning face. ’We only learned about one non-parametric test. Why would she ask for examples, plural? I’m such an idiot.’

“Yes, Mr. Thompson?”

Peter didn’t need to look to hear the smugness dripping from every word out of Flash’s mouth. “The related samples t-test is a parametric test, right, Mizz Fuller?”

“Very good, Mr. Thompson. Yes, that is correct. The related samples t is a prime example of a parametric statistical test.”

’Showoff,’ Peter scowled to himself. ’He didn’t need to ask for clarification.’

The teacher went back to her lecture. The sharp edge of an elbow bumped into his upper arm. Peter turned his head to look at Flash.

“What?” he glared, keeping his voice low. He might actually die if he upset the teacher even more than he already had.

“Aw, are you sad you got the answer wrong?” Flash pouted, adding an equally fake lip quiver just to rub it in. “Don’t feel bad. Stats is hard. Maybe they have a picture book you can use.”

“Shut up,” Peter muttered, turning his head the other way.

“Don’t be like that, Petey-Boy. You should ask her if she has any coloring pages.”

One of Flash’s cronies snickered. “Careful, he might think the crayons are food.”

The teacher cleared her throat. “Ahem,” she coughed. “Are you boys finished with your conversation, or should I pause my lecture so you can keep talking?”

“Sorry, Mizz Fuller,” the three boys echoed, though Peter’s was noticeably more muffled.

“Thank you. Now, I trust that I don’t need to repeat myself any more than I already have today…”

Peter let her voice drift over his head. Shame still burned him inside and out, and he found that his leg had started involuntarily bouncing at some point. His palms were sweaty again. The lights hurt. His head hurt. His chest hurt. Everything hurt, and he felt like he could explode from the vibrations building up inside.

He buried his face into his arms and tried to ignore it.
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3: Emotional Numbing & Oppositional Behavior

Stats kind of set the mood for the rest of Peter’s day. It was hard enough trying to deal with everything after his nightmare (ha) of a morning, but Stats somehow dragged him down even further. Although, that was actually nothing new. Still, though, Peter decided somewhere along the way that it just wasn’t worth it to try. If his day was going to be screwy anyways, why would he bother exerting more energy than absolutely necessary? It made perfect sense.

So, Peter stopped trying.

He sat against the wall in PE with the group of girls who, mysteriously, always seemed to be on their periods, not even bothering to change out of his hoodie. He took the detention slip and shoved it in his pocket without bothering to look at when he was supposed to go. When Ned tried convincing him to participate, he snorted and went on his phone.

He zoned out in Driver’s Ed. When the teacher called on him to ask what the maximum speed limit in New York was, he answered with a shrug. When she encouraged him to give an actual answer, he said, “maybe you should call on someone else.” She hadn’t bothered calling on him for the rest of the class, leaving Peter free to stare at the wall and try to prevent his eyes from fluttering shut.

Then it was time for lunch. His stomach grumbled, but the thought of trying to actually eat anything sent spikes of nausea through him. He didn’t bother going to the lunch line. MJ tossed him an apple, and Ned offered him a pack of peanut butter crackers. He took both, but shoved them in his bag as soon as the bell rang, hoping they didn’t notice how badly his hands shook when he pulled on the zipper. He’d eat later. He’d be fine for now. As long as he didn’t stay upright for too long or stand up too suddenly, he’d be fine.

After lunch he had a Chem lab, which took up two periods. It was a continuation of their lab from last class. Peter filled out the lab sheet almost absentmindedly. His group seemed to notice that something was up, whispering among themselves and shooting him glances that could’ve been filled with anything from concern to annoyance. Peter had no idea how to decipher their looks on such little brainpower. They left him alone for the most part.

One of the girls— Ava, if Peter was remembering correctly— would periodically approach him and ask him to check that their equations looked okay. Peter thought that was a bit weird. Ava was one of the smartest kids in the class, so she really shouldn’t have needed him to check over her work. He wasn’t even sure if he was cognizant enough to be able to accurately look over anything. Still though, he did as she asked, giving each question a cursory once-over and mumbling something along the lines of “looks good” or “yup, that’s right.” If nothing else, it made him look like he was actually working, which kept his teacher off his back, so that was a bonus.

It was last period where things really went to shit.

“Pop quiz!” Señora Vásquez announced with a grin.

A groan sounded throughout the entire class, including through Peter.

’I cannot handle a pop quiz today,’ Peter thought, dropping his head down to bang it gently on the top of his desk.

Señora Vásquez began passing quizzes around. “¡Lápices fuera, por favor!” She continued the instructions for the quiz in Spanish. The only reason Peter knew what she was talking about was because she said the same thing every time. Words that Peter was normally able to translate correctly (at least most of the time, anyways) went in one ear and out the other. It was like she was speaking gibberish. If he went much longer without quality sleep, Peter was sure that was going to start happening with English, too.

“Dude, I completely forgot to study,” Ned groaned, dramatically leaning back in his chair. “I don’t even know what we’re learning right now.”

Peter made a noncommittal noise. He knew exactly what they were learning. They were learning conjugations, mostly in the past tense— specifically the simple and imperfect past tenses. It was easy stuff. Peter felt an uncharacteristic flicker of annoyance at Ned.

’Why would he not even know what we’re learning? Does he really not care that much?’

And then, even more uncharacteristically:

’If he doesn’t care about this, what else doesn’t he care about? Does he care about keeping his grades up? His GPA? Getting into college? Does he even care about our fr–’

Something thin nudged against his arm. Peter snapped himself out of his spiraling to see Ned holding out a paper, looking a little concerned.

He took it, looking away and biting his lip. ’What was I thinking? Of course he cares. I’m being a hypocrite. What’s wrong with me?’

“Are you okay?” Ned asked, nothing but worry in his eyes. “You look kinda pale…”

“Ned, silencio por favor,” Señora Vásquez tutted, returning to her desk. “You can talk after the quiz is finished. Todos, pueden comenzar ahora.”

Ned shot Peter one final look. Peter gave him an awkward attempt at a smile before turning to his paper. He stared at the page for a full five seconds, completely overwhelmed, before realizing he should probably start with his name. He reached for his pencil, but found nothing.

’Whoops, forgot to take it out of my bag.’ Peter reached down into the side pouch of his backpack and pulled out a mechanical pencil, clicking the end. ’Man, I really am out of it today.’

He scribbled his name at the top of the page, hoping it was legible, before continuing down to the actual questions.

1. Completa la oración con la forma correcta del verbo:
Cuando (ser) ______ niño, siempre (jugar) ______ en el parque.

’What?’

Peter squinted at the page. The letters weren’t making sense.

’Complete the something with the correct form of the verb…’ Peter tapped the end of his pencil against the quiz. ’Cuando. Cuando, cuando, cuando. Nope. Can’t remember it. Come on, I know I know this. Cuando, what is cuando?’

He shook his head. This wasn’t helping.

’Okay, nevermind. Ser is be. Something be. Niño, that’s child, I know that, and siempre is… what is that? Is it always or sometimes? I know this. I should know this. Why don’t I know this? Come on, brain, work with me here.’

Frustrated tears pricked at Peter’s eyes. He tried to control his breathing, but it wasn’t working. He let one tear leak out before sniffling and wiping any evidence away. The water blurred the ink, just a little bit, but Peter’s vision was so blurry now he hardly noticed it.

Peter clicked at his pencil, then pushed the lead back in. Click, push. Click, push. Click, push. It didn’t help him remember, but it felt better than just doing nothing.

The scratching of pencils filled the room and grated his ears. His breathing was too loud. Every inhale scraped away at his eardrums. He looked around anxiously, bouncing his leg so hard he was sure he was rattling the room. His free hand went up to his mouth, fingers resting on his lips. Without thinking, he bit down on his nails.

Click, push. Click, push. Click, push.

’I want to go home,’ Peter thought with sudden clarity. ’I need to go home. I need to get out of here.’ He looked at the door, then down at his paper. ‘I don’t want to do this. I can’t do this. I feel sick. I want to leave. Where’s May? Where’s Mr. Stark? Can they come pick me up? Can I leave? I don’t care about this, I don’t care, this is a stupid class, I don’t care I don’t care I DON’T CARE I DON’T CARE I DON’T—’

Like he was on autopilot, Peter set his pencil down and didn’t pick it back up again.

“Pencils down, everyone, the test is over,” Señora Vásquez announced after exactly thirteen more minutes. “Por favor pase sus papeles al frente. We’ll get started with the class now.”

Peter passed his paper to Ned, who gave it a completely conspicuous look.

“Dude, you didn’t answer anything?” Ned balked, leaning forward to whisper harshly at him.

Peter shrugged. “Didn’t feel like it,” he said.

“Dude…” Ned passed the two quizzes to the girl sitting next to him. “What’s with you today? You’re acting stupid.”

“This class is stupid,” Peter mumbled. He glanced at the clock again. “Ugh, why do we still have twenty minutes left?”

Ned opened his mouth, looking flustered now, but was interrupted by Señora Vásquez beginning the lesson. Peter could feel his eyes on him, staring at him periodically throughout the remainder of the class, but Peter never bothered to look back.

’I don’t care what Ned thinks,’ Peter thought, resting his chin on his hand and blinking lazily at the Powerpoint. ’I just need today to be over, and then I can go home and forget about him and this whole mess.’

His stomach twisted a little, but he swallowed against it and let out an annoyed huff.

Peter didn’t think twenty minutes could drag on the way those last twenty minutes did, and yet, as he stared at the clock, time almost seemed to slow down. The seconds dragged, minutes ticking by like hours. He fought waves of exhaustion. His eyelids fluttered in his attempt to keep his eyes open, and yet, every time he closed them, he became hyper aware of his body and jolted back into dazed alertness with a spike of adrenaline.

Finally, finally, the bell rang. Peter leaned down and scooped up his bag quicker than he ever had before. Students began filing out of the class, with Peter caught behind a small group of them. He bounced on his toes, chanting under his breath, “come on, come on come on come on.”

“Peter? Stay behind for a minute, por favor.”

’Are. You. Kidding. Me.’ Peter stopped in his tracks, groaning audibly. ’Please, I just want to go home.’

Peter waited until the rest of the students were gone before attempting to approach the teacher’s desk. Ned stood at the front of the room, hands clutching at the straps of his backpack.

“You should go,” Peter said. Then, feeling a sudden surge of guilt, he quickly added: “Wait in the hallway for me?”

“Okay,” Ned agreed. He seemed less concerned than he was before. Peter wasn’t sure if that was an improvement or not. He thought Ned might say something else, maybe ask him again if he was okay. It would have been annoying, but better than nothing. And yet, Ned gave him nothing, walking toward the door without another word.

Peter gritted his teeth. ’Don’t take it out on him, don’t take it out on him.’ “I’ll be right out,” he tried again.

He wasn’t sure what he wanted Ned to say. And yet, when all Ned responded with was a vague “good luck,” Peter couldn’t help but feel disappointed.

Peter waited until he disappeared behind the doorway, then dragged himself toward Señora Vásquez’s desk.

“Peter,” she began, looking at her desk with a frown. Peter followed her gaze and saw his blank paper on the top of her pile. “You didn’t do your quiz.”

Peter shrugged.

“Can you tell me why?”

He shrugged again.

“Are you struggling with the material?” She glanced at where the Powerpoint was still projected onto the board.

“I know the material, I just…” Peter made a vague gesture, looking down at the floor. “I don’t know.” He did know, but she didn’t need to know that.

Señora Vásquez frowned. “Is everything okay at home? I’m sorry to ask, but this isn’t like you, Peter. You’re one of my best students. It’s not like you to not even try.”

Peter’s heart thudded for a moment, before he forced himself to take a deep breath. He clenched his hands into fists. His nails stung, bitten raw. He hadn’t even realized how much he’d been biting them today.

“I’m fine, Señora,” he said, not looking up from the floor. “I just didn’t want to do it.”

“You didn’t want to do it?” she asked, incredulous.

Peter nodded. His hand went up to tug at his backpack strap. “Yup. I just didn’t feel like doing it.”

’What? No, that’s not it. Tell her you were tired. Then maybe she won’t hate you.’

Peter didn’t listen to the voice. It continued to nag him, but he ignored it, pushing it out of his mind for the time being.

“Are you sure that’s why you didn’t try?”

Peter nodded again. “Yeah. I know everything already. This whole class is stupid. I don’t even want to take it.”

Señora Vásquez furrowed her brow. He could see her studying him in his periphery. His brain kept screaming at him, all different things.

’Tell her the truth!’

’No, shut up! Don’t say anything!’

’She’s gonna think you’re a nutcase…’

’You’re being so rude! First Ned, now Señora Vásquez? She’s the only teacher who actually likes you, you know. She’s gonna hate you now. Do you want that? Do you want your life to be more miserable than it already is? Because the way you’re going—’

“Well, if that’s the case,” she said, finally relenting, “then I’m extremely disappointed in you, Peter.” Señora Vásquez opened her desk drawer and pulled out a familiar pink slip. “Detention tomorrow, after school, and I expect you to come in to do a makeup next Monday.”

She scribbled on the note and tore it off the pad. She held it out for him to take. He took it, staring blankly. That was weird. Normally he felt some kind of way about getting detention— anger, frustration, upset— but staring at it now, he didn’t feel anything.

He tucked it in his pocket, still feeling nothing about it.

“Is that all?” he asked.

“Is that really all you have to say for yourself?”

“Yep.”

“Alright, then.”

“Alright?”

“Yep.”

“Can I leave now?”

“Do you want to leave?”

“Do you need me to stay?”

“Do you want to stay?”

“No.”

“Alright, then. I will see you in class tomorrow.”

“Okay.”

“Have a good day, Peter.”

“Thanks.”

Peter turned toward the door, buzzing with energy. He was so close to finally being free, to being able to collapse into bed and stare at the wall and forget all about his day.

“Oh, and Peter?”

Peter could have cried, but he didn’t. He turned halfway back to her instead, looking over his shoulder.

He couldn’t read the look on Señora Vásquez’s face. Her expression was all twisted up. Her set chin and intense stare could have meant anything, and he was too tired to try and decipher it. She was thinking, though, that much he could tell. She seemed to mull over her words, before eventually landing on:

“Get some rest, alright?”

Peter blinked. Was that really all she was going to say?

Apparently so, because she looked at him expectedly, staying silent.

“Uh… yeah. Sure,” he easily agreed, because yeah, he was gonna do that anyways.

That seemed to placate her, at least partially, because she gave a curt nod, gesturing for him to leave. Peter didn’t hesitate in obeying.

True to his word, Ned was waiting outside the door for him. He looked down to avoid Ned’s gaze.

“Why would you fail a test on purpose?” Ned asked. “That’s so stupid.”

Peter shrugged. “Just didn’t feel like trying,” he deflected. He looked around a little frantically, tugging on the backpack strap again. “Come on, I wanna get out of here.”

For a second Peter was a little scared that Ned would put up a fight— admonish him, tell him off for disrespecting the teacher, tell him May would be mad at him for getting detention again— but Ned only rolled his eyes. They fell into step together, walking through the long-empty hallway.

“You’ve been acting really stupid all day,” Ned said. “Maybe you’re brain-damaged from all the Spider-Manning.”

On a normal day, Peter might have laughed at the comment, or maybe he would have told Ned off for talking about that in public. But today was anything but a normal day. He hadn’t had a normal day in so long. So instead, Peter hunched his shoulders up, some unnamed emotion swelling in his chest. It was like anger, but not. Indignance, maybe? Whatever it was, Peter hated it.

Peter tuned out Ned’s ramblings for the rest of the walk, satisfied at least that he wasn’t going to press, but upset at the same time.

’How can he make jokes like that?’ Peter picked at his lip, staring down at the ground again. ’Doesn’t he care? Why do I care if he cares or not? I don’t want him to care, but it’s weird that he doesn’t. No way he wouldn’t notice, right? I mean, I don’t want to be obvious, but I want people to care, but also I don’t. Ugh, why am I like this?!’

Skin flaked off his lip and fell to the floor. His mouth tasted like iron.

He tried to ignore how it reminded him of being back there.
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4: Hypervigilance

Peter took a different route to Delmar’s after school. He didn’t go much anymore. Even though the shop had been rebuilt (and entirely remodeled, thanks to Mr. Stark’s intervention), even being around the general area was enough to put him on edge.

Today, though, he thought he’d give it a shot. He was hungry to the point where it outweighed the nausea, and he didn’t want May to worry if she saw that he’d torn up the fridge while she was gone, and Delmar’s was so cheap and they really did have the best sandwiches in Queens, and okay, maybe Peter just wanted some sense of normalcy after the hell he’d had to endure that day.

He managed to space out big-time on the walk there. His thoughts were quiet for once, which was probably the only benefit of being so tired. He did have to make a detour as he got nearer, though. They were doing some kind of demolition on the next block over, and he absolutely could not handle that today. Well, not like he was fine with it on a good day, but he at least managed. He wasn’t sure he’d be able to hear the sound of jackhammers and falling debris without having a major freak-out, so the long way round it was.

Peter entered the store, not quite happy, but more at ease than before. The smell punched him in the face, but like, in a good way. The smell was nice, and for the first time that day, his appetite began to make an appearance. Delmar’s meant meat and cheese and lettuce and smushed-down bread and sauces and spice mixes, not bland food that turned to ash in his mouth.

He stood in line for a minute, scrolling aimlessly on his phone and breathing easy. This was familiar. The thoughts came subconsciously, easy and soothing like a balm: ’Number five with pickles, and smushed down real flat.’

It was good. It was familiar. It was safe.

Until, suddenly it wasn’t.

Hands on his shoulders, shouting in his ear, the smell of something burning, the taste of iron on his tongue, ash in his throat, thick and suffocating, squeezing, squeezing.

“Look who’s back!”

Peter jolted. He turned and knocked his backpack into the threat. The movement shook his phone out of his hand and sent it clattering to the ground. He only managed to avoid screaming by letting out a loud yelp instead. The person he knocked into let out a similar noise.

Peter tensed at the loudness and stared at the person he’d hit for a solid two seconds before his senses came back in a dizzying rush. Mr. Delmar (not Toomes, it wasn’t Toomes) was hunched over a little, one eye closed as he rubbed at a reddened cheek.

“Jeez, kid! What’ve you got in there, bricks?” Mr. Delmar groaned.

Peter stared in horror. “Omigosh, Mr. Delmar I am so sorry!”

He resisted the urge to flinch when another person entered his field of view, only relaxing when he saw it was the clerk.

“He got you good!” the clerk— Larry, Peter remembered numbly, that was his name— slapped Peter on the shoulder. This time, Peter did flinch. “Jumpy much?” he said with a laugh.

Mr. Delmar joined in with his own set of cackles. All worry he had for the man flew out of his mind. He bristled, a flush rising high on his cheeks, and swung his backpack back over his shoulder. He shoved Larry’s hand off of him and sent a glare their way before stalking toward the door.

“Wait, Pete, hold up!” Mr. Delmar called. “Weren’t you gonna order somethin’?”

“Someone’s in a bad mood,” Larry muttered, low enough that Peter knew he probably wasn’t supposed to hear it.

He didn’t look back. He pushed the door open and turned as sharply as he could. As he turned, he knocked into someone else.

“Ow. Oh, sorry, are you okay?”

Peter didn’t look at them, either. It was just some random person.

About ten steps later, voices from inside the shop trickled in.

“Is that guy okay? He seemed upset.”

“Yeah, I don’t know what his problem is.”

”Should we call his aunt?”

”Maybe. Damn, he left his phone.” Footsteps, and then the door swung open. “Hey Peter! You dropped your phone!”

Peter ignored Mr. Delmar and kept walking.

’I’m glad everyone thinks my suffering is funny,’ he brooded, shoving his hands into his pockets. His shoulders hunched up. ’I can’t wait for this stupid day to be over with.’

And so Peter left: angry, upset, and still uncomfortably hungry. The voices rang in his ears, playing over and over and over again like a broken record.

”I don’t know what his problem is.”

’Yeah,’ Peter thought, ’that’s the whole issue, isn’t it?’
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5: Irritability & Exhaustion

Peter returned home to a mercifully empty apartment. As soon as he kicked off his shoes and dropped his backpack at the entrance he made a beeline for the fridge. He searched the shelves for a while. Finding anything to eat was such a pain now.

He couldn’t eat the leftover roasted chicken from last night, because it had been in the oven a little too long. Even if he picked off the charred bits, it wasn’t enough. The flavor of smoke and ashes and fire soaked through the entire thing.

He couldn’t eat half of the vegetables in the fridge. Carrots, potatoes, beets, even lettuce— all of it was off-limits now. They tasted like dirt, like earth and rubble and the taste didn’t go away even if he washed them.

He tended to avoid the pantry, because most of it gave him problems. Most dry foods had this way of crumbling in his mouth that sent him coughing and choking. Cereal, bread (especially toast), granola, some kinds of nuts— you name it, Peter probably couldn’t eat it. Except for oatmeal. Oatmeal was good. Unfortunately, they were all out of oatmeal, and had been for a little bit. May didn’t like it, so she never remembered to buy it.

Eventually, Peter did land on something that he thought would be okay. May had made soup for dinner two days ago, and they still had a big container left over. She’d made a lot, expecting him to eat most of it. He would have, if he hadn’t been struggling with the aftermath of a particularly bad influx of memories. They’d come on suddenly, and left Peter’s stomach churning. He’d completely lost his appetite after that. Unfortunate then, but fortunate now.

He didn’t really remember what kind of soup it was. He closed the fridge door and opened the lid of the container. Chicken noodle. It was chicken noodle. That was good. He could do chicken noodle.

He considered getting a bowl for a moment, but ultimately decided against it. He stuck the entire container in the microwave and nuked it until it was steaming. He got a spoon from the drawer and padded over to the couch. He didn’t realize how much his legs were shaking until he went to sit down and nearly crumpled to the floor. He caught himself before his soup spilled all over the carpet and used one hand to gently ease himself down.

He sat in silence for a minute, thoughts racing through his head as he ate. Images from the day flashed through his mind— MJ, being in class, feeling spaced out, all the nausea, math class, Spanish, Ned, Mr. Delmar, his phone, Flash, May, ash in his mouth and coating his tongue and being crushed under the weight of a building, waking up in a cold sweat, his chest squeezing as he struggled to catch his breath, people making fun of him and not understanding and thinking he was stupid, and—

He reached for the remote and turned on the TV, flicking through the channels. Maybe The Office would help shut his brain up for a bit.

It worked for at least a little while. He wasn’t sure exactly how long he sat in front of the TV, but it was long enough that the sun had started to set. The container sat empty on the cushion next to him. He wasn’t sure he could handle laying down just yet— sometimes just being horizontal was enough to set him off, and he wasn’t willing to risk that after today— so he lounged against the back of the couch, feet propped up on the coffee table as he fought against sleep.

He must have nodded off for a little bit, because he startled back into awareness some time later at the sound of the key turning in the lock. He sat up a bit, determined not to look like he’d just been sleeping. He wasn’t sure what time it was, but it was fully dark outside now.

There were voices speaking outside, and then the door swung open.

“Hey Peter! I’m home!” May called. She shrugged off her jacket and hung it on the hook. She turned and noticed him for the first time. “Oh hey, there you are. I thought you might be in your room.”

Then came the second voice. “Ooh, is that The Office I hear?”

Peter sat up a bit more, taking his legs off the coffee table. Oh. It was, uh, what was her name? The loud woman May knew from work. A blond head poked over May’s shoulder, and the woman stepped into view.

“Uh—” said Peter, realizing he never answered her question. “Yeah.” He looked at the screen, then at May.

Seeming to notice his silent question, May answered. “Johanna’s here for dinner,” she said, shutting the door and turning the lock. Johanna, right, that was her name. “Speaking of dinner, got any requests?”

Peter shrugged. “You can pick.”

“Alright then. Hanna, got any suggestions?”

“Hmm…” said Johanna. She kicked off her shoes and padded over to the other end of the couch. “How about spaghetti? That’s nice and easy.”

“You good with spaghetti, Peter?”

“Sounds good.”

“Spaghetti it is. Hanna, you make yourself comfortable.” May started puttering around in the kitchen.

“Will do, Boss.” Johanna crossed her arms and bent over a bit, looking at the TV. “Which episode is this?”

Peter shrugged. “I dunno.”

Johanna laughed. Peter didn’t.

After another minute of watching the episode, Johanna seemed to realize he didn’t want to talk and went over to the kitchen, leaving Peter alone once again.

“Hey Peter, do you wanna come help me out with this?” May called from the kitchen. It was her way of asking if he wanted to hang out. She’d probably realized he was having a bad day.

Peter thought about it for a minute. He did, he really did, and that was the problem. He did, but he didn’t at the same time, and he didn’t know why.

He mulled over a bunch of explanations: he was exhausted from the day. He didn’t feel like getting up. He was enjoying the show too much to leave. Johanna had too much energy for him to handle right now. He didn’t deserve to hang out with anyone.

Eventually, he landed on: “I’m good.”

“Alright,” said May, and she left it at that.

Their voices floated over, and Peter found himself nodding off once again, catching only brief snippets of conversation.

“I could’ve sworn I bought more sauce! Oh wait, here it is.”

“May, the water’s boiling over.”

“Aaaand the timer is set!”

“Alright, now you can show me.”

“This is the engineering expo from last summer. His friend was presenting a project.”

“When was that?”

“Oh, here’s the picture I was talking about.”

“Ooh, lemme see.”

The last bit woke Peter up a bit more. He didn’t open his eyes, but he was actively listening now.

“What happened?”

“He was trying to build a pillow fort,” May laughed. Peter’s stomach dropped. He knew exactly which picture May was talking about. ’Please, no.’ “It collapsed on top of him.”

The building was on top of him. It was crushing him. He was going to die, someone help, he was going to die, he was trapped, he was—

“Aww, poor baby!”

Toomes’ voice played over and over in his ear, mocking him. He pointed a gun at his head. One wrong move and Peter was dead.

“It took me and Ben a while to even realize. He was buried pretty good.”

Nobody was coming for him. He was alone.

”I’m stuck! I can’t move!”

Nobody heard him. Everything looked wrong, everything felt wrong, and he was alone— utterly and completely alone. Mr. Stark abandoned him, threw him away like he was just some piece of trash.

“Look at that pout!” Johanna laughed.

“He was pretty mad,” said May. “And embarrassed. He thought the whole couch’d come down on him or something. It was actually just two of the cushions. Took us all of five seconds to get him out.”

What kind of superhero was he, if he couldn’t move a hunk of rubble? Mr. Stark was right— he didn’t deserve that suit. If he didn’t think Peter was a failure before, he would now.

“Oh, you should have seen the look on his face when—”

Peter stood abruptly. He stalked around the couch, knocking into the coffee table as he went. He barely felt the pain, his mind too occupied with anger, anger, seething rage for no reason, why was he so angry to really notice it. He didn’t bother to grab his coat before he was shoving his shoes on and opening the door, May and Johanna calling after him. Blood roared in his ears, too loud for him to make out what they were saying. He slammed the door behind him and ran up the stairs, not stopping until he reached the rooftop.

He rolled his sleeves up, shot a web at the wall next to his apartment building, and started swinging.
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6: Flashbacks & Dissociation

Peter swung through the city, barely able to see through the haze of tears building up in his eyes. The wind stung like sandpaper against his cheeks. His head was spinning, and his stomach was cramping something awful, but he couldn’t stop. He couldn’t stay in that apartment. He had to leave, had to get out, had to go as far as he could as fast as possible.

He kept swinging until the dizziness overtook him and his arms could no longer support his weight. His head swirled and blinking was no longer clearing his vision. He made the decision to swing up above the nearest building and practically crashed onto the roof. He raised his arms to protect his face and barely managed to turn to his side in time to avoid a head-on collision. He skidded along the top of the roof for a brief distance before the momentum wore off and he was left laying there, panting and trying to process what had just happened.

He laid there for a few seconds, motionless. His brain took a few seconds to register the pain on his left arm and leg. He had definitely torn some skin there. Something was dripping down his arm, leaving an itchy sensation in its path. ’Blood, probably,’ Peter reasoned, rolling a bit so he was half on his stomach. The new position left his chest feeling oddly tight. He brought his right hand up to brush over the injury, and–

Bits of rocks and debris stuck to his scrapes, digging into his skin with every little movement he took. He caught a glimpse of one of the gashes, set deep into the back of his hand. It hurt. It stung so badly and all he wanted was for Aunt May to come and wrap it up and kiss it better, but she wasn’t here. Peter was scared and hurt and devastatingly alone, and–

Peter jolted, his heart leaping into his throat, and tried to push himself to his feet. In his panic, he rolled even further, now fully on his stomach, and he could feel the rubble trapped on top of him, jagged concrete pressing him down and constricting his chest, leaving almost no room for his lungs to expand. Thick plumes of debris filled the air and clogged his already-struggling airways. Ash stuck to his tongue and coated the back of his throat as he swallowed. He inhaled, and the dust stung his nose. It burned his eyes. Tears leaked out, though whether they were from the dust or from the pain he couldn’t tell. He couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe.

Peter gasped and somehow managed to push himself onto his knees. His chest heaved, lungs greedily sucking in all the air he could get, until he inhaled too sharply and was sent into a coughing fit. He hacked, breaths coming in panicked wheezes, until the pain and dryness ebbed and he was left to shakily breathe through the aftermath.

He raised his head and looked around. Nothing looked right. Nothing felt right. The edges were too sharp, too clear. His hands were too far away. He had pockets of empty space in his body— regions where he couldn’t feel, where his body didn’t exist unless he focused on it. His pants were the wrong color, just a shade off what they should be, and everything was wrong, wrong, wrong.

The air was cloudy with smoke, the colors all around him desaturated. Everything looked wrong. His chest felt wrong. He couldn’t breathe. He was alone. Toomes had left— abandoned him to die under the rubble, and Peter was terrified. He tried getting up, but he couldn’t move.

”Hello? Hello?! Hey, hey, please! I’m down here! I’m down here! I’m stuck. I’m stuck. I can’t move! I can’t—”

Pins and needles spread throughout his body, numbing his extremities. He clenched his hands, ignoring the stinging protests from his wounds. His fingers were freezing against his palms. His teeth chattered. He was hot and cold at the same time, and his hands were shaking. His hands— the hands that helped Ned build LEGO sets, the hands that he had used to fasten his tie just a few hours before, the hands that had helped Mr. Stark build his suit, that had saved so many people, that might not ever get to save anyone else, that couldn’t save him— trembled so badly his arms shook with the effort.

It struck him then. No one was coming to save him. He was all alone. Trapped, left to die at fifteen. Maybe nobody would ever find his body. No one would ever know he died, scared and in pain and alone. He would never would never get to hang out with Ned again, would never get to eat Thai food with his aunt again, would never get the chance to prove himself to Mr. Stark.

He was useless. He couldn’t even stop one bad guy, and now that bad guy was going to go hurt so many people, and it was all Peter’s fault.

He only wanted to help.

He only wanted to help.

“I only wanted to help!”

The shout ripped itself from his throat unbidden. Peter pushed himself up onto his feet and stumbled away from where he had landed. He lost his balance and crashed into the side of the air conditioning unit. He crumpled to his knees. The impact knocked the breath out of him all over again. He doubled over, gasping and wheezing for air. Everything hurt. He couldn’t breathe. It was too much.

Peter knelt there for a little while, fighting to catch his breath. He squeezed his eyes shut against the onslaught of memories. Tears leaked freely from his eyes and dripped onto the roof, and his chest heaved from the force of his sobs.

He didn’t know how long he knelt there, choking and crying, but it was long enough that the moon had moved in the sky. His eyes felt swollen and puffy. His cheeks stung. He turned so his back was against the AC unit, hugging his knees to his chest.

He sat there for a little while longer, staring into space. The memories were gone. In its place, he couldn’t really feel much of anything. He just stared and stared and stared.

Eventually, the sound of propulsions broke through the numbing silence. Peter saw a figure approaching in his peripheral vision. He sniffed, all congested now, and wiped the remaining wetness from his face.

“Hey, Mr. Stark,” he greeted. His voice was hoarse.

“Hey, kid. Mind if I sit?”

Peter shrugged. Mr. Stark stepped out of the suit and approached him. He looked down at him for a moment before turning and sliding down so he was sitting next to him.

“Hard day?”

Peter gave a wordless nod.

“Yeah. May called. Said you seemed weird this morning, and that you stormed out a little while ago?”

Peter hummed. He didn’t try to deny it.

“What’s goin’ on, kiddo?”

Peter blinked lazily, still staring out at the roof. “I’m tired, Mr. Stark,” he said. He couldn’t think of anything better to say.

He turned to look at his mentor, whose face quickly contorted into concern. “Tired?” he asked. “Why are you tired?” When Peter didn’t answer, he tried again. “Y’know, Ted and MJ talked to your aunt, too. They said you seemed really off today. Ted told me you refused to do a quiz and snapped at your teacher. Is that true?”

“She deserved it,” Peter snapped, emotion finally filtering back through.

“Woah,” said Tony placatingly.

“What? It’s true. That test was stupid. Why do we need those tests, anyway? They don’t actually measure anything.”

“It’s a quiz, Underoos. You’ve done a billion quizzes before. Why was this one any different?”

“Because it just was, okay?!” Peter’s shoulders hunched up, hands shooting up defensively. “It was stupid! It was just verb conjugations. I’ve done them a million times before. I don’t need to keep doing them. I know how to do them! I just couldn’t do it, I broke under the pressure, I— oh God, Mr. Stark, I’m so stupid.” He was crying again. He swiped furiously at his face. “I couldn’t even do conjugations. I’m so stupid.”

“Hey, hey,” Mr. Stark said, scooting closer so he could put a hand on Peter’s shoulder. “Where’s this coming from, huh? You’ve got an A in that class.”

Peter choked on another sob. “I couldn’t remember anything. I got distracted. I’m so stupid. I couldn’t even handle one stupid test without breaking down like a freaking baby.” Peter sniffed. He turned to look at Mr. Stark, who was staring at him with a hurt expression, brows drawn together. His stomach twisted. “Oh no, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you. I’m sorry. I’m so stupid, I’m sorry.”

He sniffed again. Mr. Stark looked even more hurt. “Oh no, no no no Peter, I’m not upset.” His arm moved to wrap around Peter’s shoulder, drawing him into his side. Peter went willingly, head coming to rest on Mr. Stark’s shoulder. Mr. Stark rubbed up and down his arm in a soothing motion. “I’m just worried. We’re all worried. You’re not acting like yourself. To be honest, you haven’t been acting like yourself for a while now. And today seems like it especially sucked.”

“It did,” Peter agreed, sniffling miserably.

“Yeah,” he sympathized. “Do you wanna tell me what happened?”

“Don’t you already know?”

“I’d like to hear it from you.”

Peter sniffed again. “Okay.” He cleared his throat. “I only got two hours of sleep. Had a nightmare, couldn’t get back to sleep.”

“So you were already feeling bad this morning?”

Peter nodded. “Yeah. Dreamt… about homecoming. The dance. Getting trapped under that building.” He wiped his nose with his sleeve. Before, even thinking about the memory would have sent him spiraling, but with Mr. Stark here, he felt more okay to talk about it. “It’s been all I can think about all day. Everything reminds me of being back there.” He gave a hoarse, self-deprecating chuckle. “Couldn’t even eat breakfast without freaking out.”

“That why you skipped it?”

He nodded again. “I just felt really sick and out of it.”

“Why didn’t you tell someone? You could’ve taken the day off.”

“Didn’t wanna be a burden,” Peter shrugged. “I thought I could push through it. And I did try to tell MJ, but she didn’t care.”

“What makes you say that?”

“She just made fun of me, and then she started saying how much worse she had it,” he spat, a little bitter at the memory. “She didn’t even ask if I was okay.”

“I’m sorry. That sounds really frustrating, Pete,” said Mr. Stark.

Peter nodded. “It was. I’m tired of playing the trauma Olympics with her. That’s all she ever seems to want to do. If I have a problem, she always has to have it worse.”

“For what it’s worth,” said Mr. Stark, “she called me all concerned earlier. She and Ned talked. They’re both worried about you.”

“Yeah? Well, didn’t feel like it at the time.”

“Maybe that’s a conversation you can have with her another day,” Mr. Stark suggested. “Let her know you don’t like when she does that.”

“Yeah,” Peter hummed noncommittally.

“So, what happened after that?”

“Went to class,” he shrugged. A gust of wind blew by, and he shivered. Mr. Stark zipped open his jacket and tossed half of it around Peter’s shoulders. Peter leaned further into his side, thankful for the slightly better cover from the wind. “Couldn’t stop thinking about the nightmare. Made a complete ass of myself in Stats. People were laughing at me. I know the material, it’s just hard to concentrate when all you can think about is all the ways you could die.”

“Yeah, I’ve been there,” Mr. Stark gave an ironic chuckle, pointedly not commenting on Peter’s language like he normally would have.

Peter blinked, suddenly remembering who he was talking to. “You have?” he asked, tilting his head so he could look at Mr. Stark’s face.

“Oh yeah,” he said, looking down at Peter. “Nearly destroyed my relationship because of it. Multiple times. Turns out, most people don’t appreciate you nearly ending the world to try and protect them.”

Peter inhaled sharply. That’s right, that did happen. “I didn’t realize…” he trailed off.

“That that was why? Yeah,” Mr. Stark chuckled. “Believe me, Roo, I’ve been there before.”

Peter blinked harshly, a fresh round of tears stinging his eyes. He reached up to wipe them away before they could fall. ’He gets it. He gets it, he actually gets it,’ he thought, biting his lip to stop it from quivering.

Mr. Stark noticed this and hugged him close again, hand going back to rubbing his arm. “It’s okay, bud. It’s okay.”

Peter nodded, blinking away the last of the tears. He sniffed before continuing. “Um. Anyways. After that, the day was kinda okay. I mean, it still sucked, but it was manageable. Until Spanish. For… obvious reasons.”

“What happened?”

“I was already in a bad mood going in. Got angry at Ned for no reason. I don’t even know why I was so angry. I just… it was like I was so full of emotions and they just spilled out of me without me wanting it to. I dunno. But then we got the pop quiz, and I couldn’t focus on it. I spent the entire period just… staring at it, not writing anything. And then she asked me about it after class. I don’t know why I didn’t just tell her the truth. Maybe I thought, like, if I didn’t say it out loud, that meant it wasn’t real. I don’t know. It was stupid. She gave me detention and I just… I didn’t feel anything. It was really weird.”

“Didn’t feel anything, how?” Mr. Stark asked.

Peter shrugged. His eyes glazed over a bit, staring back out at the roof. “Like, I should’ve been mad, or embarrassed, or something. But I wasn’t. It was like I wasn’t even there. My brain just shut off. Like it couldn’t handle all the feelings.” He turned back to Mr. Stark. “Does… did that ever happen to you?”

“It does,” he hummed. “You know, a few years ago, SHIELD had me in mandated counseling. It wasn’t very useful, it felt more like an interrogation most of the time, but she did have some good nuggets of wisdom sometimes.” Mr. Stark adjusted his position a bit, moving his legs with a quiet groan. “I used to feel like that a lot of the time. Empty, I mean. I couldn’t force myself to feel anything. She told me that those feelings are normal. Your brain’s still processing everything that happened to it. It doesn’t really have the room to deal with normal emotions.”

Peter nodded. That made sense.

“Does that sound like what happened?”

He nodded. “Yeah. Honestly, I haven’t really been able to feel much of anything since homecoming. Today was bad, though.”

“It’s completely normal, you know. It’s a common reaction to trauma. That’s what she said, anyway.”

’Trauma.’ Peter hated the word trauma. He wasn’t traumatized. What had happened to him was his own damn fault. He wasn’t a victim. And people had gone through way worse stuff– like Mr. Stark, for example. What right did he have to say he’d experienced something traumatic?

“Am I broken, Mr. Stark?” he asked quietly.

“Of course you’re not,” he said, like it was ridiculous Peter would ever suggest such a thing.

“Kinda feels like I am.”

You’re not,” Mr. Stark said, gentle but firm. “You’re human— a human who has been through more in the past year than most adults have in a lifetime. Give yourself some grace.”

“But it’s been months,” Peter stressed, “and I’m still not any better. I feel just as messed up about it as I did the day it happened. Don’t you think that if I was gonna get better, it would’ve happened by now?” He brought his arms up and hugged his knees closer to his chest.

“Pete, you never get over these things,” said Mr. Stark. He took his arm out from around Peter. He mourned the loss of contact for a brief moment before Mr. Stark was moving, shuffling to face him. He pulled the jacket off and draped it fully over Peter’s shoulders. “You almost died. That stuff sticks with you. It never goes away, but you learn how to deal with it. And it doesn’t happen overnight. It’s been six years and I still can’t think about the wormhole too much without freaking out. These things take time— time you haven’t had yet— and you need people to help you through it. This—” He gestured at Peter’s miserable, curled-up form. “-Isn’t gonna help you get better. I’ve been through all of this— the shutting people out, the shutting down, the avoidance— it’s a temporary solution. It’s like trying to fix a bullet wound with a bandaid. It doesn’t work.”

He grabbed Peter’s chin, tilting his head up to look at him. “You can’t keep carrying on like this, Pete. You’re gonna burn yourself out. Actually, I think you already have.”

Peter held Mr. Stark’s gaze for a long time. He looked almost as tired as Peter felt, but his eyes were fiery and firm. Peter felt himself wilting under the intensity of it, not attempting to stop his lip from quivering this time. Mr. Stark dropped his hand from Peter’s chin, allowing his head to drop down with a nod.

“Yeah,” Peter breathed, “I think I have.”

“Yeah.”

“What do I do about it? How do I get better?”

Mr. Stark sat back again, and Peter followed, propping his head up on the AC unit. “Like I said, these things take time. We can see about getting you a therapist. Ah ah, no arguing.” He interrupted Peter as his mouth opened, ready to protest. “We should’ve done that a long time ago, actually. We shouldn’t have let it get this bad. That’s on us.”

“‘Us?’” Peter turned a bit to look at Mr. Stark.

“Me and your aunt,” he clarified. “She told me she brought it up once, but you were against it, so she dropped it. We both thought you were coping with it. Clearly you weren’t. You’re good at hiding these things.”

Peter didn’t argue there. He knew it was true. It was a habit he’d picked up in childhood— hiding everything, pretending nothing was wrong until even he believed it.

“Is that really it?” Peter asked. “Is that all I need to stop… all this? I could’ve stopped this from happening by just talking to someone?”

“Well, not entirely,” said Mr. Stark. “Therapy’s only one part of it. You still need all the stuff outside of it.”

“Like?”

“Support. You need people around you who can help pick you back up when you can’t do it yourself.”

“Like you?”

Mr. Stark’s breath hitched. For one terrible moment, Peter panicked, thinking he’d somehow offended Mr. Stark, or jumped to conclusions. ’Of course he doesn’t want to help me,’ he thought, heart racing. ’I’m just some stupid kid. Why should he care about me? Stupid, I misjudged everything. I should’ve kept my mouth shut. I–’

“Like me,” he echoed. Peter’s thoughts came to an abrupt halt. He took in a deep breath, letting his heart slow.

“You’ve dealt with all of this before,” said Peter, repeating what he’d said before. “You know what it’s like… right?”

“Sure do, Underoos,” said Mr. Stark, stretching his arm out to hug Peter close again. “You can always come to me, no matter what. I don’t care about what’s happened. If you’re struggling, you can always come find me. You got that?”

Peter nodded silently.

“Good.” Tony sighed, mirroring Peter and leaning his head back to rest against the AC unit. “I think you should also be getting some support at school. We can set up a meeting with your principal to see what your options are. I’m sure they’ll be willing to set something up for you.”

“What if they’re not?” Peter worried. His hand came up to his hoodie string, tugging.

“I’m sure I can sway their opinion. Or, you know, threaten to take them to court.”

“You’d really do that? For me?”

“Kid, I’d try to end the world all over again if it meant keeping you safe.”

The sureness in his words made his heart skip a beat. Peter looked into Mr. Stark’s eyes, trying to find any hint of a lie. He couldn’t find any.

The reality of what he’d just said seemed to hit Mr. Stark in a similar way. He broke eye contact first, looking down at his now-fidgeting hands. He cleared his throat. “Um. Anyway. We’ll get that rolling as soon as we can.”

“And that will help?”

“If nothing else, you won’t have to deal with it all on your own. It’ll lighten the burden.”

Peter nodded. He tugged on his hoodie string again.

“So, why don’t you tell me what happened after Spanish?”

“Oh, yeah.” They’d gotten wildly off-track. “Um. I went to Delmar’s. I wanted something familiar, y’know? And I was hungry. I hadn’t eaten much up until that point.”

“Right. What happened there?”

“Mr. Delmar snuck up on me. Scared me half to death. I hit him with my bag.” The memory sent a flinch down Peter’s spine. “I could’ve really hurt him, Mr. Stark, but he just laughed it off. Larry, the clerk, he started joking about it, and it set me off all over again. It felt like they were making fun of me— like the fact that I was scared was the funniest joke in the world. I was just so angry. I left my phone there.” Then, suddenly realizing something, he asked, “wait, how’d you find me if you weren’t tracking my phone?”

“Karen’s on your watch too, remember?”

’Oh yeah, that’s right.’ Peter felt a little stupid. His fingers brushed against the face of the watch, tracing along the buttons on the side. “Right. Anyways. I left, went home, had some dinner, and fell asleep on the couch for a while.”

“How long did you sleep?”

“I don’t know. I was out until May got back. She had one of her work friends with her. Johanna. We normally get along really well, but today her energy was too much.” Mr. Stark nodded along. “They made dinner, and then they started looking through old pictures on May’s phone.”

“She told me about that part. Said you got up out of nowhere and stormed out, right in the middle of it.”

“Yeah.” Peter swallowed thickly. “Um.” He struggled to think of the words to explain it. “It was a picture of me when I was a kid. I was trying to build a pillow fort, and it came down on top of me.” His tongue darted out to lick his dry lips. “It took them a long time to notice what had happened. Ben and May, I mean.”

He was trapped for so long. He didn’t know how long, only that it stretched out, every second contorting until it felt like an eternity.

He swallowed again. His hand tugged harder at his hoodie string. He stared intently at the roof.

“They were laughing,” he said, referring to both Ben and May, as well as May and Johanna.

He could hear Toomes’ laughter from far above him, echoing through the rubble that imprisoned him.

He shut his eyes, jerking his head a bit as he tried to fight off the memory.

“Ben got me out in the end. It was easy.” He spat out the last sentence, like it was bitter. “When May brought it up again, it was like… it felt like they were making fun of me, or that I was weak. Like I should’ve been able to get out sooner. Like it was my fault I was under there for so long.”

He didn’t know whether he was talking about the pillowfort, or about the warehouse.

He opened his eyes again and looked over at Mr. Stark. “Is she mad?” he asked. His voice sounded impossibly small.

“Oh, kid,” said Mr. Stark, face pinching into something sad and pained. He turned, reached out with both hands, and pulled him into a proper hug.

Peter forgot how to breathe for a few seconds, before he crumbled.

He collapsed into the embrace, pressing his face into Mr. Stark’s chest. His shoulders shook with hitched breaths. Loud, ugly sobs tore themselves from his throat. Mr. Stark held him through it, whispering soothing nonsense and resting his chin on top of Peter’s head. One hand rubbed circles onto his back, and the other went to his head, petting the curls. His hands were big and warm. They chased away the shivers, eased the tension from his muscles while Peter cried into his shirt.

“It’s okay, Pete. It’s okay. May’s not mad. Nobody’s mad at you. This wasn’t your fault. None of it was. I promise.”

Peter nodded, sniffling loudly. His sobs came to a slow stop, relegated now to quiet whimpers as tears continued to stream down his face.

Mr. Stark held him for a while, his arms shielding Peter from the world. For once, he didn’t feel confined. He didn’t feel trapped. He felt safe. It was like he was finally back in his body, after months and months of floating, untethered.

Eventually, though, Peter pulled away, wiping at his face. Mr. Stark let him go, though he moved his hands to Peter’s shoulders, steadying him, which Peter appreciated.

“Thanks.”

“No problem, kiddo. Man, what a crappy day, huh?”

Peter gave a wet laugh. “Understatement of the century, Mr. Stark.”

Mr. Stark chuckled. “Yeah, I get that.”

Peter sniffled again. “Are you gonna take me back to the apartment?”

“Yup.”

Peter bit his lip, conflicted.

Mr. Stark seemed to catch this. “Unless you don’t want to. We don’t have to go just yet. No pressure.”

Peter hesitated. “Can I come back to the Tower with you?”

“What?” Mr. Stark asked, blinking.

Peter hunched his shoulders up a bit, looking off to the side. “It’s just… I don’t think I can go back there yet. Not tonight. I’ve barely been able to sleep there recently. The only time I can really sleep is when I’m in the Tower.”

He’d spent many nights crashed on the couch, either in the common area or in the lab, exhausted after a long day of school or several hours in the lab. Nightmares were rare when he was there.

“I feel safe with you there. The nightmares don’t come as often.”

He looked back up at Mr. Stark, who looked taken aback. Peter thought maybe he’d offended him, or that he’d overstepped, but that line of thinking quickly dissipated when a smile broke out on the man’s face.

“Of course you can come,” he said, squeezing Peter’s shoulders. “We can go pick up your things from the apartment. I’ll tell May, and call Happy to come get us.”

Peter sighed in relief, the remaining tension draining from his body. “Thank you,” he said.

“Of course, Pete. You’re always welcome at the Tower.”

Peter’s heart tugged in his chest. He gave a shaky smile, which Mr. Stark quickly returned.

“Alright, c’mon, kid,” he said, patting his shoulders once before letting go. “Let’s get off this roof.”

Peter nodded. He held onto Mr. Stark’s arm, following him as he stood up. His legs shook a bit, aching from sitting for so long and completely drained of strength. Mr. Stark wrapped an arm around him to steady him, then walked him over to the suit. He punched a few of the buttons, and the suit closed itself up and took off.

“I’ll call a cab,” he said, answering Peter’s unspoken question.

Peter hummed.

He still had so many thoughts racing through his mind, but it felt muted now, and they weren’t as scary. He thought about what he’d done, and who he’d hurt. He thought about how others had hurt him, and what that meant for his relationships with them going forward. He thought about what he’d say to them, how he’d apologize, or how he’d assert himself with them. He thought about MJ, and Ned, and Señora Vásquez, and Mr. Delmar, and Larry, and May, and how he was going to go about resolving all of this.

He thought about what his future would look like— how things would change, who would stick with him, who would help, who could understand. He thought about the meeting Mr. Stark had mentioned, the therapy he’d recommended.

He thought about Mr. Stark— about their conversation, and his endless understanding and compassion, and about how he’d held him while he cried. He thought about what this meant, how things would change.

The events of that day— homecoming and Toomes and being trapped under that building— didn’t even cross his mind.