Chapter Text
Peter Parker had a love-hate relationship with sleep. While some days he craved it deeply- sitting in his AP biology class, chin resting propped up on his palm and feeling as though his eyelids weighed a thousand pounds, other days he was too anxious, too jittery to sleep, feeling utterly useless and unable to close his eyes for a moment, because if he did, someone was going to suffer because of him.
Most of the time, these two feelings were on the same day. He’d always groan as his alarm went off in the mornings, it seemed like he’d just blinked then woken up, daydreaming of a nap all throughout school, but as soon as when the opportunity finally arose for rest, his body suddenly felt energized, unwilling to sleep.
So he just threw on his suit instead. He’d read before, in a book, The Outsiders, that working yourself to the bone and letting yourself collapse from exhaustion might keep you from having those repetitive nightmares- the ones where several tons threatens to crush you; the remnants of the collapsed warehouse (courtesy of The Vulture and a parting gift as he’d taken off, leaving his daughter’s boyfriend for dead) nearly killing him, the ones where his mentor looked at him with such extreme disappointment Peter nearly cried on that rooftop when Mr. Stark asked for the suit back, the ones where Peter was reminded that he’d failed as he held his Uncle Ben, the man taking his last shuddering breath, leaving Peter there, alone with no one but his Aunt May and the blood on his hands, which, to Peter, felt permanently stained no matter how much time had passed it how clean his hands appeared and how desperately he had scrubbed them, because to Peter, whenever he thought of that and saw his hands, he could still see his blood dripping from them, smothering his pale palms and fingers.
Peter realized he was no longer referencing to Ponyboy Curtis, and now was just talking about himself. He shook his head, as if to physically knock the taunting memories from his brain, make them leave him alone, let him sleep in peace for once.
He eventually gave up trying to close his eyes a few minutes later, considering the only results he was getting were ones of daunting flashbacks and the ways he had failed.
The sophomore considered grabbing his suit and pulling it on, going out for patrol, but he felt so unbelievably tired yet not at the same time. Plus, if he tried leaving the Avenger’s Compound, FRIDAY would alert Mr. Stark, waking him up, and Peter couldn’t bear to see the worry not-so-expertly concealed behind the billionaire’s eyes.
So he decided against it. He’d have to settle to migrating into the kitchen/living room- his room feeling suffocating- finding himself a snack to munch on, watching the microwave clock stay the same minute for what felt like an eternity before the green digits finally altered.
Peter more often than not found himself in the kitchen, eating a sort of granola bar or package of goldfish while he stared outside the floor-to-ceiling windows acting as a wall, watching the city stretched out below them cease to ever sleep.
New York was the city that never slept, after all, and apparently it’s rubbed off on Peter. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d gotten a whole two hours of sleep at once. He wanted to sleep, he felt so exhausted, but for some reason he just couldn’t.
The layout of the conjoined living-room and kitchen was mansion-esque, everything modern and stylish, yet not over-the-top in the way Peter was used to expecting from Mr. Stark- he could only infer Pepper designed or at least oversaw the construction of this particular room.
The counters were fine marble and the stools spin-able and comfortable, the grey couch even more so.
FRIDAY automatically turned on a few, dimmed lights in the kitchen, low enough that it would wake any of the other sleeping Avengers, and bright enough Peter could see his way around the room without stubbing a toe or walking into the corner of a counter.
Shuffling into the kitchen as his long Hello-Kitty pajama pants swished against the wooden floorboards, he pulled open the refrigerator door and stared, its light illuminating his face.
After settling in and grabbing an apple, the boy situated himself on one of the previously mentioned stools, slumping over the counter and rubbing at his bleary eyes. He exhaled and bit into the fruit, it giving a satisfying crunch and its naturally sweet juice tickling his tongue.
Body deciding not to hold still, Peter slid off the stool, still holding onto the apple, and walked over closer to the windows, taking another bite, gazing down at the view.
He still thought the view he often was privileged with during patrols was better, but this wasn’t half-bad, for sure.
The familiar city helped relax the sleep-deprived boy for some mysterious and unknown reason, as finished the rest of his snack, picking the red bits of skin from his teeth.
After tossing the core into a trashcan like it was a trick-shot, he went to the corner of the room to crawl up onto the ceiling, still facing the window, and sat down crisscrossed.
Peter let out a sigh of relief, supporting most of his weight on his palms as he kept his arms extended behind him, enhanced senses allowing him to see the city closer, see that blue car make a right turn, see a mob of pedestrians cross the intersection, even from a considerable height.
When he finally felt like his nerves were settling, a thought entered his mind, one he didn’t even realize passed by, triggering some sort of invisible hand to start squeezing his chest. Peter gasped for air, shocked at the oh-so sudden feeling, clutching at his shirt and wincing, suppressing a groan.
The invisible hand persisted, bringing undesirable feelings along with it, removing any traces of momentary relief Peter had felt five minutes ago.
Peter found himself crawling into the corner of the ceiling, breath ragged but never enough to fill his lungs, although Peter felt as though they might just burst.
Was he dying? Was he poisoned? Was this a heart attack? Peter’s thoughts raced, eyes going wide as he folded into himself.
“FRI- FRIDAY,” Peter wheezed, looking hopefully to the sensor on his side, eyebrows pulled tight together still. “What’s- what’s happening to me?”
“It seems you are having a panic attack, Peter,” FRIDAY diagnosed. Panic attack? Peter’s thoughts echoed briefly.
“I will notify Mr. Stark,” FRIDAY continued.
“No! No,” Peter rasped. The last thing he wanted was to see that unbearable look of disappointment on his mentor’s face again. He didn’t want to be seen vulnerable, pathetic like he was now. He didn’t want to have to wake the man up just for this stupid act Peter had going on. These thoughts only made him bite back a yell of pain as his heart gave another painful wrench.
“I’m sorry, Peter, but the “Protect Spider-Boy From Himself” protocol overrides any personal preferences you might have. Will it assure you in the slightest if I let you know the Boss is still awake in his lab?” FRIDAY tried to help reassuringly.
Everything was too loud, his heartbeat thundering in his ribcage, hands shaking so hard he thought he might fall off the wall, head hurting so badly.
“Mr. Stark had been notified,” FRIDAY chimed after a moment.
Oh, shit.