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It was normal, expected even, for people to deal with trauma in different ways. For some it manifested in ‘fixing’ things, making sure the traumatic event doesn't happen again, like Tony tended to do.
For others they bottle everything up inside and pretend to be okay because facing the fact that it isn't okay is too much to bear.
Some do talk to people, they find healthy coping mechanisms and eventually the trauma fades into the background.
But special people tended to pick the less healthy options. For whatever reason they just didn't seem to be able to, at least not quickly.
That was the case for Tony, although he was working on it.
It was the case for most of the Avengers actually. Other than one, most people assumed. Because most people looked at Spider-man, Peter Parker, a relatively happy, healthy young adult, and they thought something along the lines of: ‘oh what a nice young man, I'm so glad he's completely fine after everything he's been through’. Or more likely they don't think about his mental state at all.
That was the goal. Peter knew that if he went around shut off and moody it would only be a matter of time before someone intervened. If he walked the line though, confessed just enough and talked about the right couple of problems then most people would take it at face value. Peter Parker was, for the most part, fine.
He really was too. Mostly. Because that was his role, he was funny, upbeat, he didn't spend hours of the night awake in his room hugging a pillow and trying to pretend it was something– someone alive.
It was actually quite easy to ignore his problems if he didn't put a name to them. See, for people like Tony or Steve it was relatively clear cut, not easy or pleasant but it was clear. PTSD, a name to put to their struggles, to explain it. It made sense.
Peter on the other hand… well Parker luck. His problems didn't make sense. Not in a way he wanted to think too hard about anyway.
He didn't get flashbacks really, or panic attacks other than the occasional one or two. Really he could go most days as if nothing particularly bad had ever occurred in his life. But at night, as soon as he was alone or not doing something to stay busy it all just kind of… collapsed.
He honestly felt a little pathetic. Not in the self-pitying way but more like a fact. More often than not he'd just curl up under his blankets, hug his pillow and try to muffle any of the small sobs that escaped his lips.
It wasn't bad enough to be a meltdown or a panic attack, it wasn't severe enough to be depression, it was just what happened.
Of course he'd done research, he'd spent countless hours pouring over psychology, trauma and medical books but nothing seemed to quite fit. By the end of it terms like PTSD, anxiety and depression swam around his mind like a really shitty fish tank.
So he didn't bother. It wasn't that bad, he'd be fine.
It had been roughly a year since everything had finally calmed down, since he'd almost lost his d– Mr.Stark. He was more or less used to how his brain worked now, he could handle it. That's what he thought at least.
Really the situation that started it wasn't even that bad, it could have been fixed in about half an hour if Peter was thinking straight. But he wasn't. It was two in the morning and Mr.Stark had been working on something in his lab for pretty much the last four days straight. He must have been eating and sleeping in there because neither Peter nor any of the others had seen him so much as open the door.
It shouldn't have affected him as much as it did, Mr.Stark was a busy man and Peter was almost a legal adult. But nevertheless here he was, curled up in a little ball on his bed, sobbing and holding his head because it hurt.
It hadn't even been a bad day either, no stress, nothing to remind him of anything that had happened, nothing. The emotions had just hit him all of a sudden and none of his breathing exercises were going to spare him.
He just wanted to see Mr.Stark. He just wanted to hear him call him kid or to pat him on the head. Was that too much to ask?
The room felt as if it were growing, far too big for him, and yet somehow he felt too big and awkward on the bed. It was disorienting and it only made him cry harder, which made his head pound more, which made him more upset.
It was shaping up to be one of the worst episodes of– well whatever it was– he could remember. But Peter was determined to stick it out himself, he was an Avenger after all, he'd taken down guys ten times his size, he could handle being sad.
Peter lasted another seven minutes. He was convinced it'd been at least half an hour and the reality of it was the last nail in the coffin. He was ready to burn whatever shred of pride he had left if it would just stop this.
Shakily Peter sat up, then got to his feet. A wave of dizziness struck him along with the unnameable sense that he was wrong. His body was all wrong, too strong and tall and imposing.
Once he could see straight and managed to rub the tears out of his eyes he set off for the workshop.
Nobody stopped him on his way down. It was a short journey from his room on the 92nd floor down to the 89th floor but it still felt excruciatingly slow. The halls were light, they always were, but they went on too far in each direction. It felt like if he walked off in one direction for long enough nobody would ever find him again no matter how loudly he shouted.
Finally, finally he made it to the workshop. Muffled sounds of metal on metal and heavy footsteps came from the other side of the door. A little voice in the back of his mind said something about being embarrassed, or it being rude to interrupt. The bigger part of him, however, ignored that. He knocked twice, quickly, and pushed the door open before Mr.Stark had a chance to do anything himself.
Mr.Stark was there alright, standing over a work bench clearly in the middle of something. As the older man registered the scene before him, his mentee in his pajamas, eyes puffy and wet, his expression softened a little. He lowered the hammer he'd been about to bring down and faced Peter properly.
Peter had told himself on the way down what to do. He'd keep it together, he'd explain he needed… something. Mr.Stark wasn't overly fond of dramatic displays of emotions, especially not directed at him, and Peter knew this. However the moment Mr.Stark's attention was on him something in Peter's brain just broke.
He didn't even walk further into the room, he just stood there two steps through the door as fresh hot tears trailed their way down his cheeks. He was sure it was meant to be embarrassing but right now he couldn't bring himself to care. All he wanted was for Mr.Stark to see there was a problem and fix it, because Mr.Stark could fix anything and the only way that was going to be communicated right now was… well this.
It might have been a subconscious attempt to keep it together, or a cruel joke from the universe but despite this– breakdown, it was a breakdown– incident he managed to retain just enough awareness to feel a twinge of anger. He wasn't a child, he was acting like a child and that's probably how Mr.Stark was seeing him too.
He'd just be proving that he really wasn't grown up enough, he'd have to give up being spiderman and he'd be made to talk to people and nobody would ever trust him again and—
Peter registered, somewhere through the spiralling what ifs, a large, strong body pressing against his. There were arms wrapped around him and for the first time in gods knew how long Peter felt weightless.
It didn't fix it, he still couldn't quite stop, not yet. But it gradually became more clear, the breathing, slow and steady and a little over exaggerated like he was meant to copy it. There was a rumble in Mr.Stark's chest too, he must be speaking.
After some time Peter managed to calm down enough to breathe without gasping. He took stock of everything, he couldn't not, not since everything. They were sitting on the floor, his knees up and his arms wrapped around them like he was trying to protect himself. Mr.Stark was hugging him, actually hugging him, with one hand still on his back and one beginning to run through his hair. It was nice.
Mr.Stark hadn't stopped speaking and slowly but surely the words began to filter through Peter's mind.
“That's it kid, you're okay.. just keep breathing okay? Yeah that's it.. good..” it was a steady mantra in a tone so soft Peter half had to stop himself looking over to check it was really Mr.Stark comforting him.
“I-I'm sorry,” he choked out as soon as his words would work again “didn't– just m-missed you..”
Mr.Stark shook his head slowly. “Nothing to apologise for, kid, it's okay.”
Peter wasn't entirely sure what to do with himself now. He wasn't crying anymore but the idea of standing up and being tall and independent and Mr.Stark being further away was… fuck it, it was terrifying right now.
“Kid?” Mr.Stark asked after maybe another five minutes.
Peter just hummed in a vaguely inquisitive tone, his throat hurt too much for talking anyway.
“Can you tell me what happened?” He asked in that same soft tone, like he thought Peter might break entirely if he spoke too loudly.
Peter paused, shook his head, then shrugged dejectedly. He wanted to really he did, but he didn't understand it himself and trying to even find the words for it right now made his head feel like it was being slow cooked.
Mr.Stark nodded “that's fine, just nod or shake your head, okay?”
Peter nodded, it was nice to be able to do something right even if it was something so small.
“Was it a brain thing?”
Peter nodded.
“Do you want to go back to bed?”
No. Absolutely not. He shook his head vigorously, the idea sending pinpricks of anxiety through his spine.
“Okay, that's fine,” Mr.Stark agreed, “want to stay here with me? I wasn't going to sleep anyway and I can get you a drink too.”
Peter nodded. Even if the workshop wasn't the most hospital environment it was a lot better than being alone. Peter had struggled to sleep in silence anyway.
Mr.Stark helped him up, the mechanic only groaning a bit at the ache in his back and legs. Then, together since Peter didn't want to wait in the workshop, they walked down the hall to one of the small kitchens.
—
The last thing Tony had been expecting at two am was a visit from a very distressed teenager. Yet here he was, sat on the floor of his workshop cradling his– no not his– the kid as he cried his eyes out.
It was concerning to say the least but not entirely unexpected. Tony had been keeping tabs on the kid since shit began to hit the fan. He knew as well as anybody that you cannot throw a teenager into war without some major repercussions.
What's worse is he was pretty sure Peter thought he was hiding it well.
He was not.
Well maybe to somebody that wasn't looking closely, he was. The kid socialised, he ate fine, he even shared some struggles with people. But it was a charade, a good one, but still a charade.
Tony saw how the kid acted when he thought nobody was watching, how he got a sad kind of small look on his face, how he ran his fingers across his lips when he was anxious.
Tony especially noticed the position he put himself in. Tony knew probably better than anybody how strong and capable Peter was, but he'd noticed a pattern over the last year or so of the kid acting less able than he was. Even if it was something small like asking Thor to open the peanut butter lid, asking for a bandaid for a scrape that would be healed in fifteen minutes or volunteering to sit on the floor when they watched TV because Nat always braided his hair. The little things.
Tony didn't know exactly what was up, it could be any number of things with all the shit Peter had gone through, but it was definitely something.
So tonight, in a way, felt like a cherry on top of the sad, confusing cake of the whole ordeal. A breaking point if you will.
Obviously he wouldn't bring it up to the kid now, he'd probably speak with Bruce or somebody first, but Tony didn't stop watching.
Tony smiled a little as Peter followed him down the hall like a lost puppy and how he hovered around him whilst he made the kid a mug of hot chocolate. They head back to the workshop in silence, Peter drinking the hot chocolate and Tony thinking.
He pulled out the old bed hidden away in the beat up sofa he kept in the workshop and managed to find a blanket too. Peter got comfortable and after checking just once more that he didn't mind Tony got back to work.
When he next glanced over the kid was asleep, mug empty and clutched to his chest like a precious family heirloom and not a faded coffee cup that read ‘no.1 Ironman’ on the side.
Quietly, although he doubted the kid would mind, Tony walked over and took the mug, setting it aside. He genuinely lay Peter down and pulled the blanket up to keep him warm.
—
Once the clock on the wall displayed an appropriate time in the morning Tony left the work shop, not before writing a note explaining where he was for when Peter woke up. He'd not slept in a while but it was fine, what was two days when you had stuff to do?
Tony headed towards the elevator and pressed the button labeled 83. The top twenty floors, 80 to 100 were private, for him or other Avengers or select loved ones. The lower seventy nine were for Stark Industries, workshops, physics, law, mechanical engineering departments etc, as well as the food courts and parking. It helped to keep things nearby but still have privacy.
Once he reached the private kitchen slash dining area he was pleased to find the man he was looking for. Alone too, that was a bonus.
Tony walked over to Bruce and sat down opposite him at the table.
Bruce raised his eyebrows, swallowed the piece of toast he was chewing and spoke.
“You look terrible.”
“Thank you, I'm trying out a new look.” Tony said snarkily. “But seriously, I want to talk to you about something.”
“Alright then, what's urgent enough you need to talk about it at seven thirty?” The other man asked, sounding more serious this time.
“Have you noticed anything off about Peter at all?” He began.
Bruce paused for a moment. “I mean, there's something a bit off about most people here, did you mean something in particular?”
“Yes,” Tony took a breath before launching into his observations and ideas. “He just seems, I don't know, unlike himself sometimes. Like he goes all quiet when he thinks nobody notices, he asks for help doing things I know he can do, he just– and last night he came into my lab having a complete breakdown!” Tony rambled. “He was crying and wouldn't let go of me for at least half an hour until I got him to calm down, I've never–” his voice broke a little. “I've never seen him like that and I thought, I mean maybe you knew something?” Tony finished and took a deep breath, trying to fight off the tight feeling in his own chest. Now was not the time for anxiety, he had a kid to look after.
For a few seconds Bruce didn't say anything at all, then.
“And has he said anything to you? What he thinks is going on?”
Tony shook his head. “I didn't even know he was struggling so much until last night.” He felt so guilty about that, how could he have not noticed??
“I can't say I've noticed enough to make a good guess, and I'm not really an expert in trauma but I have read a few books.” Bruce stated cautiously. “But when kids and young people go through more trauma than they can handle, sometimes the brain just can't process it, it has to find a way to soften the blow.”
“You mean like dissociation?” Tony asked quickly. Gods he hoped it wasn't that bad.
“Not exactly, judging by how Peter is acting day to day I'd say something like repressing memories or some form of regression.” He answered.
Tony had heard those phrases before, the first more than the second, but he couldn't exactly place it. “What do you mean by regression? Like he's losing skills?”
“No,” Bruce explained, “in this context it's more like the brain protecting itself from traumatic memories, or processing things, by reverting to a younger frame of mind, before the traumatic event.”
The two men sat in silence for a moment, Bruce eating his toast and Tony trying to come to terms with the new information. What made it worse was that it seemed to fit, it explained a good deal of the odd things Tony had noticed.
Then, finally, he broke the silence. “How do I help him?”
“Honestly Tony for this situation I'm not sure, I think you should have a chat with your kid.”
“Yeah… okay sure,” Tony agreed, “and he's not my kid.”
Bruce gave him a look that he couldn't quite decipher. “Sure he's not.”