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"I don't need your stupid drugs, it's just a scratch!"
"Peter, you got stabbed."
He pushed himself off of the MedBay cot and started walking towards the door. "Yeah, dude, a scratch. Just a large one."
Tony stepped in front of him, blocking his path like a total loser. "You can't just get injured and not take any kind of medication to dull the pain."
"But I'm not in pain!" Peter snapped. He made a move to try and squeeze past Tony, who wouldn't budge.
"That's what a stubborn teen in significant pain would say."
He glared at the man. He was right, of course, but Peter wasn't just gonna tell him that. "Piss off."
The genius seemed not to have accounted for his mentee's super-strength. He gave Tony a light shove before making his way for the exit.
When he didn't hear any footsteps following his own, he breathed a sigh of relief, deflating. Man, he was tired. He wanted a nap. Maybe two, if he was feeling extra rebellious.
He was also really fucking hungry, if the growling of his stomach was anything to go by. Well. Snacks first, nap later. God, he was like a toddler. Peter changed course and made his way to the kitchen.
The kitchen... where a cup of water lay conveniently on the counter next to two white pills, a pink sticky note stuck to the cup with the words "For Peter" haphazardly scrawled.
"For fuck's sake..." He muttered to himself.
"Language."
He jumped. Literally. Like, to the ceiling and everything. The movement really hurt his shoulder, and he, quite embarrassingly, yelped in a mixture of shock and pain.
How didn't he notice someone else in the room earlier?
Peter frowned, peering at the upside-down figure of Steve Rogers. "Whoops."
"Tony told me you weren't taking your painkillers."
He resisted the urge to tell the man to go suck a dick. "That's because I don't need 'em."
"Really? That jump to the ceiling looked like it hurt."
Narrowing his eyes, Peter dropped down to the ground again. "What jump to the ceiling?"
Steve ignored him, gesturing towards the cup. "I just don't see why you refuse to have them."
"Y'don't see? Maybe you should get some reading glasses, then. I hear they're good for the elderly." He opened the door to the cupboard and began rummaging loudly for snacks. He heard an exasperated sigh from behind him.
"Well, don't tell Tony I didn't try. As long as you promise you're not in pain..?"
"Yeah, yeah, Steve, I promise," he said, grabbing a bag of chips and turning around, only to be met with the full scrutiny of a trained super-soldier. He had to make a conscious effort to keep his heartbeat steady.
The man was silent for a moment, furrowing his brows, before seeming to accept defeat. "Alright, kid." He kind of just stood there awkwardly after that, so Peter walked away, making his way to his room for a well-earned nap. God, people were exhausting.
But once Peter was comfy in his bed, he realised he actually wasn't tired at all.
Okay, that was a lie, he was always tired. But he didn't think he'd be able to fall asleep. There was a weight pressing down on his mind, and a buzzing in his body, and a current in his nerves, and he just couldn't relax. Just to make matters worse, his shoulder still stung where his stitches were, and a dull ache radiated throughout his body whenever he moved.
Out of nowhere, he felt the familiar taste of pills in the back of his throat.
He gagged, squeezing his eyes shut and trying to will away the feeling. But it wasn't going away. Why wasn't it going away? That was ages ago. He was over it. He was.
A few minutes later and Peter found himself keeled over the toilet throwing up the chips from earlier, along with just about everything else that was in his stomach. He was trembling, breaths coming in short, choked gasps.
What the hell?
He coughed, wiping his mouth and trying to slow his breathing. There was no reason for that. He was fine. It was fine.
It felt like he had just blinked and found himself back there, that night, before the Avengers and before his life became the way it was.
But now he did have the Avengers, and his life was fine. So why was this..?
There was a knock on his door.
"Pete?" That was Tony. Of course.
He didn't bother gracing the man with a response until he said his name a second time, louder and slightly more concerned.
"Yeah," he called, trying not to notice how weak his voice sounded.
"Can I come in?"
"Not really a good time."
He heard the man scoff from outside his door. "Yeah, I know, FRIDAY told me you threw up, big deal. Now, can I come in?"
Jesus, he wasn't gonna give up, was he? Peter sighed. "Fine."
He heard the quiet mechanical whir of the door sliding open, followed by Tony's tentative footsteps. Peter looked up at the man when he rounded the corner into the bathroom, and saw him holding the same cup of water.
"For the last time, Tony, I don't need stupid meds---"
The man held his free hand up, eyes widening. "Jeez, kid, it's just water."
"Oh. Okay, then." He went quiet for a moment and gulped, grimacing at the sour taste in his mouth. "What I really need is toothpaste. You'd think I ate a rotting carcass or something, fuck, man."
Tony shook his head, placing the cup by the sink and lowering himself to the ground beside Peter. "Nah, kid, you gotta wait at least half an hour 'til you brush, or you'll get all your gross stomach acid all over your teeth and ruin them."
"Why do you just, like, know that?"
The man barked out a laugh. "When your twenties are as... adventurous... as mine, you learn fairly quickly how to deal with this kind of stuff." He reached up and grabbed the cup, passing it to Peter. "Swish this around in your mouth for a bit and spit it into the sink. Can you stand?"
"Uh, yeah?" He said, mildly offended, until he tried to get to his feet and found himself wobbling like a baby deer. Tony placed a steady hand on his back and he thought he might melt to the ground in embarassment. "Nevermind."
Peter decided it might be wise to do as he was told, and spat the water into the sink. Tony passed him a warm, damp hand towel to wipe his mouth with, and he grinned.
"You're such a dad."
"Well, someone's gotta be, if you're gonna be such a teenager."
"You wound me," he deadpanned.
"Clearly."
He turned on the tap and scrubbed his hands thoroughly, watching through the mirror as Tony continued to just stand there and stare at him. He had removed his hand from Peter's back and started leaning against the doorframe, and it didn't seem like he was gonna move anytime soon.
"So, kid." There it was. "You wanna tell me what that was about?"
"Dunno, I guess I just ate something bad."
"That's strange, considering the spider gave you one of the strongest immune systems in the team. If you managed to get sick, you'd think that the rest of us would be bed-bound by now, right?"
He spun around and glared, pointing an accusatory finger at Tony. "Why are you interrogating me? What's this even matter to you!?"
The man was unphased by his outburst. "FRIDAY also happened to mention that your heart rate was through the roof, and that your breathing was so shallow you were maybe ten seconds away from passing out."
"Okay, and?"
"Kid, that and you spilling your guts paints a pretty clear picture. If you're having panic attacks---"
"I'm not!"
"They don't make you weak, kid." Tony crossed his arms. "I have panic attacks, nightmares, flashbacks, the whole shebang. One time, I freaked out so bad I called over a gauntlet in my sleep and nearly shot poor Pepper in the face."
Peter narrowed his eyes. "But you have a reason for them. The only reason I have is---" He cut himself off with the realisation that Tony didn't know. He wasn't gonna change that now. "I don't have panic attacks. I'm just tired, is all."
If the man noticed his slip-up, he didn't show it. "Alright. Just know that..." He sighed. "My door's open anytime."
"No it's not. You make FRIDAY keep it locked because it's, and I quote, 'your fucking building and you do what you want.' You suck at this." Peter gave a small grin.
"That I do." Tony turned around and made his way out of the bathroom, heading for the hallway and pausing at the door. "Get some sleep, kid. And no training until you're all healed up."
"Yeah, okay, Dad."
Peter shook his head as he watched the man exit his room, and made a beeline for his bed. God, he was so tired. It was still early, but he'd probably be able to sleep through the night with the fresh wound still draining his energy, and maybe even heal it, if he was lucky.
He may have forgotten to account for the fact that he was not a lucky person.
In his sleep, Peter had rolled over weirdly and pulled a few stitches, causing the wound to reopen. Now there was blood all over his shirt and his bedsheets. Not to mention, it fucking hurt.
His alarm clock said that it was two in the morning, which meant that everyone was asleep, so he would be able to sneak to the kitchen for some water without anybody seeing his bloodstained clothes.
Peter winced as he pushed himself up by his arms, the movement causing a new wave of pain to radiate from his shoulder. He got to his feet and started walking to the kitchen, cradling his arm to his chest to stop it from swinging and pulling at his shoulder more than it already had.
He scanned the room to make sure nobody was around, before switching on the light and reaching for the cupboard to grab a mug. He made a point to use his uninjured arm for everything, but bending over and moving around still hurt like hell.
With a sigh, he turned on the tap and filled the mug to the brim with water. However, when he went to turn off the tap, he was holding the mug with the same hand, and it slipped from his grip.
Normally, his reflexes would've allowed for him to grab it with ease, but attempting to do so sent a rush of pain down his shoulder and he swore, allowing for the ceramic to crash into the sink and shatter.
"Fucking ow!"
Peter quickly turned off the tap and frowned as he stared at the pieces of mug in the sink. He really couldn't do anything right, huh.
His shoulder was stinging like a bitch and he realised that he needed painkillers. It was fine, a few pills wouldn't kill him. Learned that one the hard way.
He gulped, making his way to the medicine cabinet and reaching up for the pill bottle reserved purely for him and Steve.
It was fine. Don't freak out. He wouldn't. Because he was fine, and he knew how to ignore his urges now.
Letting out a shakey sigh, Peter opened the bottle and tipped two little white pills into his hand.
It was fine.
Everything was fine and suddenly it was last summer again and there was no way out except---
Shut up, everything was fine. Stop thinking about that.
He caught a whiff of the pungent odour of medicine and gagged.
It was last summer again, when he had downed the entire bottle and let himself fall asleep, when he had fully embraced death, as scared as he was. And he was scared, but it was for the best. He caused more harm than good. He was a parasite. He was---
He was alive, he woke up in so much pain, more than the spider bite. He didn't want to be alive, not after he had spent all night accepting it through the fear. He could pretend it was just a stomach bug, but he knew. He knew that he wasn't meant to be alive, he was living on borrowed time, he---
He was hyperventilating on the floor, cradling his arm to his chest, tears wetting his cheeks.
There was somebody in front of him, someone staring at him, saying things he could hear but not understand.
He was alive.
He was alive.
"Peter, are you with me? You're in the kitchen. You're safe. It's Tony. Your favourite billionaire. Your favourite annoying Dad."
He blinked the tears from his eyes and looked up. Oh. It was.
Peter nodded, looking around. He found a small plastic bag filled with pieces of mug on the counter, and a pill bottle spilled all over the floor.
Tony was kneeling in front of him, holding his hands up in a placating gesture.
"M'fine."
"Yeah, okay, kid. Can you show me your hands for a second?"
He furrowed his brow. "Why?"
"Just making sure you didn't get any shards in your palms."
"Oh." Peter flipped his hands. "I didn't."
"That's good."
They both sat there for an awkward moment while they both figured out what to say.
Tony broke the silence, surprise to absolutely nobody. "So, no panic attacks, huh?"
"Nope."
"Peter..."
"It's not a stupid panic attack. I don't have anything to panic over."
"Oh yeah? Not super-human painkillers, or anything?"
He stilled, staring at Tony, who narrowed his eyes.
"Yeah, I thought so."
"How..."
The man lowered himself fully to the ground, sitting with his legs crossed. "I think you forget the genius part sometimes, Pete. You freak out twice in one day. The first time is right after you're offered meds, and the second time, I see the same pills spilled on the floor around you."
Peter pursed his lips, looking away.
"Kid, what happened to you?"
"Don't say it like it just happened, like it wasn't my fault." His voice was barely a whisper. "I don't have any right to act like this when I--- when I did it to myself."
He made the mistake of glancing back at Tony. The man looked cold in a way that he'd never seen before.
"Peter, did you---"
"Try to end it all like a fucking moron?" He scowled and leaned forwards. "Yeah, and now I have the audacity to act like I'm a victim, somehow, and I wanna throw up when I so much as smell pills, and I can't stop thinking that I should've died then, and I can't let myself enjoy anything because I shouldn't be here and I..." He trailed off, voice breaking, and collapsed into ugly sobs.
Tony crawled forwards and wrapped Peter into a hug, carefully avoiding his injured shoulder. "I'm sorry you didn't feel like you could come to me before. I should've known."
"I didn't want you to."
"Yeah, because I'm a dick. That's on me."
"Sorry for waking you," he mumbled into Tony's shoulder.
"You didn't," he replied. "I couldn't sleep anyways."
"Why not?"
Tony held him tighter. "I was up worrying about you, actually."
"I'm sorry," he whispered, lowering his head in shame.
"Peter."
He looked up at Tony, tilting his head. He noticed, now, that the cold expression that the man had shown earlier seemed more like barely restrained terror. A pang of guilt hit him. He never wanted to make him worry.
"Peter," he repeated. "You have nothing to apologise for. I'm proud of you, okay? I'm proud of you for talking to me at all, because I know that this really fucking sucks. And yet, you still told me anyways."
"You shouldn't be proud, I'm..." He trailed off, clinging to the fabric of Tony's shirt like a lifeline.
"Don't finish that sentence, Pete." The man got to his feet, extending a hand for him to grab. He gladly took it with, feeling slightly lightheaded as he stood. "I'm gonna clean up the sink, and then we're gonna get that shoulder of yours cleaned up, 'kay?"
"...Okay."
"Then, I'm getting you ice cream. Stark Raving Hazelnuts, of course."
"Tony, it's 2:30, everywhere's closed."
He stared at him incredulously. "I'm Tony Stark. I'll figure something out."
"Right."
"Right. And then, in the morning, you're gonna have a nice long nap, and I'm gonna ask Cinderella to talk to you because he'll probably do a better job than me."
"...Cinderella?"
"Sam. Wilson? Falcon? Ring a bell?"
"Uh, yeah." Why Cinderella? Tony was weird with nicknames.
Peter stood there, wringing his hands, for a few seconds. After a moment's consideration, he stepped forward and pulled Tony into another hug. "You really are a dad."
The man smiled, pulling him close. "Never denied it. Love ya, kid."