Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Hey, Parker, c'mere for a minute.”

At the sound of Coach Wilson’s voice, Peter looks away from the absolutely fantastic sight of Flash sulking where he’s sitting cross-legged against the far wall, out of the game thanks to a hit to the shoulder from Peter, to see Coach waving him over.

Every time the other boy gets back in the game, he’s out again within seconds, and Peter can honestly say that he’s not the only one responsible.

It’s pretty great.

If he thought he could get away with it, he’d use the ball he’s holding to aim for and conveniently miss the player standing a little to Flash’s left, just to hit him one more time. But Coach is waiting, so he resolves to fulfill that dream another time and tosses the ball to Ned as he trots over the the sideline.

“Hey, uh.” He decides to ignore the way his voice cracks, the way it always does when he’s nervous (he really does need to get better about that), and focuses on presenting a calm, composed exterior. He’s mostly successful. “What’s up, Coach?” 

The man pats the bench next to him and Peter sits warily, trying to remember if he’s done anything worthy of reprimand lately. Well, anything worthy of reprimand that Coach would know about.

Thankfully, he can’t think of anything.

Ever since Aunt May found out about his nighttime adventures as Spider-Man, he’s been trying really hard not to get in trouble at school. She doesn’t say it, but he can tell by the way she looks at him sometimes, the way her hugs last longer than ever before, that every time he goes out, she worries he might not come back. It's only fair to make sure she doesn't have to worry about his attendance record too.

“How've you been, Parker?” Coach asks, and every muscle in Peter’s body tenses, whether to fight or flee he doesn’t know. Either way, it probably isn’t a very healthy response when someone asks after your wellbeing.

“Good,” Peter says. He hunches his shoulders and laces his fingers together, avoiding eye contact while trying not to be too obvious about it.

He tries to tell himself that Coach’s concern is genuine. That just because one adult in his life tried to kill him doesn’t mean they all will. But, well.

It’s hard.

Coach slaps a hand to his shoulder and Peter lets himself sway a little at the force.

“I don’t mean to pry, but I have to ask. You’ve been off lately.”

“Have I?”

This is bad.

“You come to class tired every day, and don’t think I haven’t noticed those bruises.”

This is really, really bad.

“What bruises?” he asks as he pulls at one of the loose threads on the hem of his shirt to give himself something to focus on while he waits for Coach to respond. He’s done his best to be careful, to hide what doesn’t manage to heal in time, but apparently it hasn’t been enough.

“I know you don’t want to have this conversation, but I need you to tell me the truth.”

If Peter was feeling up to it right now, he’d tell Coach that having this kind of conversation on the sideline of an in progress game of dodgeball probably isn’t the best idea.

“Right,” he says instead, because adults generally want a response when they’re about to talk about Serious Business. “The truth. Uh, I can do that. Definitely.”

“Is everything alright?" Coach asks, and his voice is so earnest it almost hurts. He's not used to anyone but Aunt May using this tone with him. Not since- "You know, at home?”

“What?” He should have expected that question, but it still catches him off guard. “Yeah, of course.”

“Any problems at school you wanna talk about?”

Honestly, he’d rather watch another one of Captain America’s motivational PSAs than sit here and have this conversation right now. He doesn't say that, though, because he's sure that Coach would be all too eager to whip another one out for him.

“Um.” Peter hears Flash cheer as he gets back in, only for the sound to be cut off by a loud smack as he’s hit again. The tension in his shoulders eases just a little, and he actually manages a grin. “Nope. I’m okay.”

Mr. Stark is always telling him not to lie to the people who want to help him, but Mr. Stark is also the one who brought him along to fight the Avengers while telling his Aunt they were in Berlin for an internship retreat, so.

It's whatever.

Except.

He’s not okay, not really.

In fact, he’s self aware enough to admit that a lot of the time, he’s the complete opposite of okay. 

If Ned was here, he’d be giving him the whole disappointed best friend look. But Ned isn’t here, he’s on the court getting his ass kicked by MJ at dodgeball, so Peter can lie about his wellbeing all he wants, thank you very much.

Considering the fact that most of his problems stem from that awful homecoming night rather than any of the juvenile (and sometimes awful) shit Flash pulls every day, there’s not much Coach or anyone else can do about it. So, honestly, it’s better if they just don't worry about what they can't change.

Really. 

Lying is the best option for everyone involved. Except maybe Peter. Because if no one knows he's struggling, no one knows to try and help him.

It’s super.

“Alright, then.” Peter’s certain that Coach isn’t entirely convinced, but as long as he doesn’t keep trying to make Peter talk about this, he’s cool with that. “If any of that changes, you know where to find me.”

With one more encouraging slap to Peter’s shoulder, the man releases him back into the game, and Peter hops up from the bench, eager to get back to ignoring his problems and crushing the other team.

Later, as he and Ned leave their last class of the day, Peter catches sight of Coach Wilson leaving the front office.

“I’ll be right back,” he tells Ned.

He hears his friend ask what's going on, but Peter just waves away his concern and jogs through the hall, weaving through the crowd of students.

“Parker,” Coach greets him when Peter slows to a stop before him. “What can I do for you?”

“Um, I just wanted to say thanks for uh, you know, checking in on me earlier.” He clutches at the straps of his backpack and rocks back onto his heels. “I, um. I really appreciate it.”

However awkward it was in the moment, he's had some time to process since then. As capable as he is, and as capable as he desperately wants everyone (that is, Mr. Stark) to think he is, the thought of people giving a shit if he's alright feels nice.

He figures he can always use another adult in his corner.

“Anytime. You’re a good kid, Parker.” Coach claps a hand to his shoulder and looks proud for a reason Peter doesn’t quite understand. “You just need a little help, is all. After all, as my good friend Captain America once said, it’s not whether you fall down but whether you get back up again.”

He's not sure what that has to do with their earlier conversation, and he's reasonably certain that Captain America has never actually said that before (although, to be fair, he has only met the man once). But, still.

“Thanks, Coach.”

He appreciates the thought.

Chapter Text

No matter how many times it happens, Peter continues to be surprised when people on the street are nice to him.

The first time he meets Sra. Mejía, her granddaughter is perched on his shoulders, telling him the story of how she got separated from her abuela in a mix of English and Spanish that makes him grateful he chose Spanish as his second language last year.

Somewhere along the way, her story transforms into an anecdote about her favorite animals to see at the zoo (lions and crocodiles and tapirs). She’s describing an encounter with a baby tapir when he spots a concerned looking woman who matches the description Cam gave him (dark brown skin, salt and pepper hair in tight coils, and wearing yellow scarf) standing on the other side of the street. He hates to interrupt the girl’s story, but he’d like to have her back to where she belongs as soon as possible.

“Is that your abuela?” he asks, pointing at the woman.

Cam kicks her feet out in excitement, and he wraps gentle hands around her ankles to keep her shoes from falling off. They light up when she hits them against his chest, and he’d hate for her to lose them.

Normally, he’d leap across the street in a single jump, but he’s not comfortable doing that with a child on his shoulders, so even though Cam is disappointed she doesn’t get to fly today, he looks both ways before carefully crossing the street.

“Excuse me!” he calls once he’s in hearing range. Cam is too busy cheering him on for finding her abuela so quickly to be of any help getting the woman’s attention. “Is this your granddaughter?”

The woman turns around and any doubts Peter may have had about her being who they’re looking for are laid to rest by the look of pure relief on her face.

He lifts Cam off his shoulders and holds her out, and she all but leaps into the woman’s arms. Where Cam is giggling, clearly not too traumatized by her little adventure, the woman is clutching at the child in her arms like a lifeline.

“Thank you for finding her,” the woman says, reaching out to grab Peter’s wrist before he can leave now that his job is done. “I was so worried.”

“Happy to help,” Peter says, grateful for the mask that hides his blush. Cam squirms out of the woman’s hold and trips over to him, wrapping her arms around his thighs and pressing a kiss that’s mostly drool to one of his knees. She smiles up at him, and Peter taps her gently on the forehead. Her dark hair is woven into tight braids against her skull, and he doesn’t want to ruin the style by touching it.

He’ll have to clean the saliva off of his suit before Mr. Stark sees it. He’s not sure how the man will feel about a child drooling all over his super expensive tech, but he’s reasonably certain it won't be positive.

Once she takes a step back, he drops to a crouch so he doesn’t have to talk down at her.

“Will you be good for your abuela now?” he asks. Cam nods solemnly, and it takes everything Peter has not to clasp his hands over his heart and coo. “Promise?”

She promises to do her best and Peter moves to stand again, only to be stopped by her patting the top of his head to keep him in place. He looks up at the woman, but she seems just as confused as he is. At least, she does until Cam stands on her toes and pulls her down to whisper in her ear. Then, a smile lights up her face and she laughs before nodding as she reaches into her purse.

He wonders if he should be concerned.

The woman pulls out a sheet of Lisa Frank stickers.

Scratch that. This is the greatest thing that’s ever happened to him.

Cam takes the stickers and, ever so carefully, peels one off. It’s a sparkly unicorn with a rainbow mane and tail. He’s never felt so honored in his life.

After careful deliberation, she gestures for him to turn his face to the side and presses the sticker to his cheek, patting it gently to make sure it stays.

Peter thinks he might cry.

He hears the shutter snap sound effect and looks up to see the woman has taken a picture of the moment. He wordlessly holds out his own phone, and she takes it with a smile, obligingly taking a picture for him to keep for himself.

He watches them leave with a strange, buoyant feeling in his chest. Not even the ring of people surrounding him, all with their own cellphones out to record the moment, can ruin his mood. With a hidden, giddy smile, he throws himself into the air, does a flip, and swings away.

Later that night, he stops an armed robbery.

The men are armed with weapons from Toomes’ operation, and one flare of purple is all it takes to send him back to overwhelming fear and the feeling of being buried beneath a mountain of concrete and steel.

He fights through it.

He has no other choice.

But when he sees his reflection in a murky puddle and catches sight of the unicorn on his cheek, still stuck there against all odds, the fight gets a little easier.

The second time he meets Sra. Mejía, he’s curled in on himself, huddled on the steps of a fire escape one chilly November evening.

Footsteps pass below him, but it’s only when they stop and come closer again that he takes notice. He peers down at the ground and smiles when he recognizes Cam’s abuela from a couple weeks ago. She’s wearing the same mustard yellow scarf, and her dark eyes hold the same gentle warmth.

She waves him down and he sighs before pulling himself to his feet and dropping to the ground, biting back a whimper when he lands a little too hard on his torn up leg. It’s better than it was an hour ago, but it’s still not completely healed.

“Good evening, ma’am,” he greets cheerfully once he can stand straight without flinching, “What can I do for you?”

“What are you doing here, conejito? It’s late and cold. You should be sleeping.”

Peter links his hands behind his back and rocks back on his heels. He shrugs.

“It’s not that cold,” he says. She tsks at him and links her arm with his.

“If you must be out tonight, you can walk me home.”

He doesn’t bother protesting.

“Is there someone waiting for you?” she asks once they reach what he assumes to be her apartment building. Peter bites his lip and thinks of Aunt May curled up under a blanket on the couch, waiting, listening for the sound of his window opening.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Good,” she says. She enters the code to unlock the door and Peter holds it open for her. Before going in, however, she unwinds her scarf from around her neck and wraps it around his. “You are young. Don’t bother trying to lie. I know. You need someone to wait for you.”

Peter ducks his head.

“You should go home, conejito.”

She’s right, of course, but the thought of going back to the apartment, of lying awake in his bed, head too full of nightmares he can’t talk about and memories he refuses to think about, makes him want to scream.

The woman makes another tsking sound.

“If you will not go, then you will stay.”

He follows her into the apartment building and ghosts through the halls after her, climbing the stairs on silent feet as if afraid that her welcome isn’t really for him. That if he breathes too loud, he won’t be allowed any further.

When she opens the door to her apartment, Peter is hit with a wave of warmth that almost brings him to his knees. Her apartment is small but bursting with signs of a life well lived. Every surface is covered, shelves and tables full of family photos and ceramic figurines. The woman presses a finger to her lips, nodding her head to a closed door from which he can make out the sound of someone snoring, and leads him to the kitchen, directing him to sit at the table that takes up half the room.

When she finally sits down across from him, she places a cup of tea in his hands and watches carefully as he pulls his mask up and takes a sip. The warmth from the tea seeps through him, and tension he didn’t even know he was carrying falls away.

“Thank you,” he says, and it’s not enough but he has nothing else to give her. If the look in her eyes as she sips her own tea says anything, it’s that she understands.

They sit in silence for a while, and Peter feels more relaxed than he has in weeks. He doesn’t even flinch when the woman pushes her chair back and stands. Instead, he just blinks sleepily and watches as she moves through the room.

When she comes back, she’s holding a piece of paper with a name and a number written in loose cursive.

“This is my information,” she tells him when he accepts the piece of paper from her. He traces the name with his finger and says it aloud.

“Rosanna Mejía.”

She smiles, and he finds himself smiling back at her.

“Whenever you are in trouble, I want you to call me,” she tells him. He doesn’t know exactly what she's reading in his body language, but whatever it is, it makes her sigh with fond affection. “Or, if you will not call me when you are in trouble, then you should call me when you cannot sleep, and we will talk.”

“Why?” he asks.

Sra. Mejía shrugs and asks, “Why not?”

“You don’t know me.”

“I know you brought my granddaughter back to me. I know you are out every night saving people like me and my family. I know you are too young to do this alone.”

“My name…”

She covers one of his hands with her own.

“Hush,” she says, “I don’t need to know more.”

Peter blinks back tears.

“Thank you,” he says again, and again it isn’t enough. But Sra. Mejía just smiles and pats his hand.

“You are welcome, conejito. Now, I believe it is truly time for you to be getting home.”

Instead of leading him to the door, she opens one of her windows for him. Before he can climb through, however, she stops him.

“Wait!” she says, urgent but still quiet. She heads back into the kitchen, and when she returns, she’s holding another sheet of stickers. “Camila made me promise to give you another sticker the next time I saw you.”

She peels off a sticker of a rabbit with magenta patches and sticks it to his mask in the same place her granddaughter put the unicorn sticker before.

“Will you tell her thank you for me?” Peter asks, his voice thick, as she takes a picture to show her granddaughter.

“Of course,” she says, rearranging her yellow scarf around his neck and knotting it in place. “Now go. Be safe.”

When he finally gets back home, he takes his suit off and places his newest sticker on his door next to the unicorn. He keeps the scarf on when he changes into pajamas.

When he leaves his room, he finds Aunt May exactly where he expected.

In the soft glow of the lamp, she looks peaceful where she’s curled up on the couch beneath a blanket, and he hates to disturb her but he knows she’d want him to wake her up.

“Hey, Peter,” she mumbles when he gently shakes her awake. “Time ‘s it?”

“Late,” he says, “Sorry I didn’t come back earlier.”

She hums in reply and wraps a heavy arm around his shoulder, pulling him down to rest beside her.

“Where’d you get the scarf?” she asks.

“From a friend,” he says after a moment of deliberation. “She made me tea.”

“That’s nice. You could use more friends.” She opens her eyes halfway. “How was patrol?”

He tucks his toes under her legs and leans back, getting comfortable as he begins telling her about his night.

He’s certain neither of them will be able to stay awake for long.

Chapter Text

On the bad days, he wraps his new scarf around himself like a shield, arranging it so when he hunches his shoulders and ducks his head, he can tuck his nose into the fabric and let the lingering scent of Sra. Mejía’s apartment ground him.

When Ned asks about it one afternoon, Peter hanging from the ceiling with the ends of the scarf nearly reaching the floor and Ned sitting at his desk and watching him with fascination that has yet to fade no matter how many times he sees Peter on the ceiling, he does his best to explain why it helps.

He’s frustrated by his inability to find the right words, but Ned doesn’t seem to mind.

Instead, he just nods and starts telling Peter all about the new lego set he’s got his eye on.

When MJ sees his scarf for the first time, he expects her to laugh at him, to tell him it doesn’t match and tease him in the way she always does (never spiteful but still stinging, sometimes). Instead, she gives him a thoughtful look and the smallest of smiles pulls at her lips.

“Nice scarf, Peter,” she tells him. “It suits you.”

It really doesn't.

The color doesn’t match his style at all and it’s too long for him to wear it in any way that might look fashionable.

He thanks her anyway.

Coach Wilson doesn’t let him wear it during gym for safety reasons, but he seems to understand how much it means to Peter anyway. When he catches Flash tossing it toward the shower floor in the locker room one day, he snatches it out of the air before it can get dirty and the warning look on his face is enough to make Flash raise his hands in surrender and grab his backpack before rushing to his next class.

“Thanks, Coach,” Peter says as he takes his scarf back. Ever since that first conversation with him a few weeks ago, Peter’s been unsure how to act around him. It’s nice to know the man cares, but most of the time he just feels bad for making him worry.

He presses his face into the fabric of the scarf and breathes.

“Like I said before, Parker.” Coach rests a hand on his shoulder and Peter carefully doesn’t flinch. He’s gotten much better about that recently, and he’s pretty proud of himself. “Anytime."

The next time MJ mentions his scarf, almost a full week has passed and they’re waiting for Mr. Harrington to arrive so they can start practicing for their next competition. Usually, when Peter wears his scarf to school he keeps it on himself at all times. Today, however, his scarf is wrapped around Ned’s shoulders.

At first, he was afraid it might make him anxious to let someone else wear it, but instead it just makes him happy. He’s certain that if it was anyone else, it’d be a different story.

The scarf looks even more ridiculous on Ned than it does on him, and he makes sure to let his friend know. Ned just rolls his eyes and tosses the end of the scarf over his shoulder.

“‘Sup, nerds,” MJ greets them as she hops up to sit on the tabletop beside them.

“Hey, MJ,” Peter says as he exchanged an amused glance with Ned. “You’re looking positively enthusiastic today.”

“Don’t insult me,” she says dryly, and Peter can’t help the giggle that slips out. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees her duck her head and smile. When he glances at Ned, his friend is watching them with raised eyebrows, chin propped up on his hand.

“What?” Peter asks, still laughing. Ned just shakes his head at them.

“You’re both ridiculous,” he says.

“Right. Says the guy who built a lego Millennium Falcon in the band room during lunch the other day.”

“Hey,” Peter protests. “Don’t knock the Falcon, okay? We spent hours working on that.”

“It’s okay, Peter,” Ned tells him, patting him on the shoulder. “She’s just jealous because she doesn't have a cool scarf.”

“What’s with the scarf, anyway?” MJ asks, sounding carefully disinterested. She twists the lace of her shoe around her fingers and doesn’t meet his eyes.

“Oh, um.” Peter feels his fingers twitch and clenches his hands into fists. “It, uh. It makes me feel safe, you know?”

He can't quite decipher the way MJ is looking at him.

“So it’s like a security blanket,” she says, and Peter is relieved to hear her voice is absent of judgement. She doesn’t ask what he’s gone through to make him need one.

Sometimes, he’s willing to bet everything he owns that she knows he’s Spider-Man, but she never says anything. It makes him nervous.

“I guess,” Peter mumbles, shrugging his shoulders and pressing his chin into his knee as he picks at a nearly healed scab on his wrist. Whenever he feels uncomfortable, he’s noticed that he tends to curl in on himself, contorting his limbs to take up the smallest space possible. Today is no exception.

“Then why is Ned wearing it?”

At that question, Ned reaches up to touch the scarf.

“Yeah,” he says. “Why do you let me wear it?”

“Oh, um.” He looks up just enough to meet Ned’s curious gaze. “Ned is safe too, so.”

It’s hardly an explanation, and it probably doesn’t help them understand all that much, but it makes Ned sit straighter and beam, looking proud and happy.

The sound of a clipboard falling to the floor startles them out of the moment, and it’s only Ned’s hand wrapped around his leg that keeps him from flipping back and up toward the ceiling. He’s been jumpy the past couple days, more so than usual, and it’s a struggle not to freak out and accidentally do something spider-ey.

He’s doing his best to keep it under control, but no amount of breathing exercises has been enough to quiet the low thrum of panic that spikes whenever he’s caught off guard.

They turn as one and see Mr. Harrington standing in the doorway, holding a box of various school supplies.

Peter isn’t sure how much he heard, but the way he’s looking at them makes him think it was more than enough to cause some concern.

“Do you know where everyone else is?” Mr. Harrington asks as he sets the box down on a nearby table.

Apparently they’re not gonna talk about it.

“Um, there’s still about ten minutes until practice starts,” Peter says. “We’re just early.”

Mr. Harrington checks his watch.

“Ah, I see, well.” He claps his hands together and looks around the room before his gaze settles on the box he brought with him. “MJ, Ned, why don’t you go down to the office and grab the rest of the supplies for today’s practice. They should be in a box next to the front desk.”

Ned and MJ are visibly reluctant, but since there’s no real reason to refuse, they both stand and leave. Peter watches them go with a sinking feeling in his stomach.

“I’m fine,” he says as soon as the sound of their footsteps fades. Mr. Harrington leans back against a table, near enough so they don’t have to talk too loud but not close enough to crowd him. He doesn’t cross his arms. He also doesn’t reply. “What?”

“You know, when I was your age.” Peter looks away, fighting the intense need to roll his eyes that phrase inspires. “People weren’t afraid to ask for help.”

Peter snorts. He can’t help it.

“Sorry, Mr. Harrington,” he says. He’s certain that isn’t true, but he doesn’t feel like getting into an argument about generation gaps and nostalgia's effect on perception right now. MJ spent practically the whole lunch period dissecting that topic, shamelessly taking advantage of the fact that Ned and Peter have no one else to escape to. “It’s just, uh. I don’t need help, is all.”

Mr. Harrington looks disappointed, and Peter almost feels bad for him.

“I mean.” He clears his throat to buy himself some time. “I guess there’s something.

“Lay it on me,” Mr. Harrington says. He stretches his shoulders out like he’s prepping for a fight. “I’m tough, I can handle it.”

Peter laughs and forces himself to uncurl, letting his legs fall over the edge of the table to swing back and forth.

“I guess I just. I mean. I still feel pretty bad about nationals. The team won so it’s okay, but...”

It’s not his best lie (it’s barely even coherent), but it’s far from the worst ( band practice? ), so he can’t complain.

“Ah, you’re worried about your place on the team.” Mr. Harrington nods sagely. “Don’t worry too much, Peter. You’ve since proven your renewed dedication to the cause, and I’m certain no one is holding any grudges.”

At Peter’s incredulous stare, the man clarifies.

“Well, no one but Flash.” Then, before Peter can say anything else, he continues. “Look, Peter, I’m gonna be serious with you for a second. We both know there’s something going on with you, and you don’t have to tell me what it is, but you need to tell someone. Alright?”

“Yeah,” Peter says faintly. Later, he blames surprise for when he says, “Alright.”

“Good.” The serious look on his face melts away. “Any other soul-wrenching troubles you’d like to share?”

Peter shakes his head rapidly.

“No, thanks,” he says. Beyond Mr. Harrington’s shoulder, he can see MJ and Ned standing in the doorway, peeking inside. When Mr. Harrington turns to see what he’s looking at, Peter flashes them a thumbs up, and the smile on his face comes naturally. “I think I'm okay.”

Chapter Text

Ever since Mr. Stark gave him his suit back, Peter has been careful not to bother Happy with too many updates.

He can’t help but think that maybe if he hadn’t texted so often, if he hadn’t been so annoying, he wouldn’t have had to take on Toomes alone that night.

When he gets it in his head to look back through the texts he sent Happy, all 137 of them, he almost throws his phone through the wall, a sick coil of embarrassment making it hard to breathe.

Aunt May would probably take this opportunity to tell him that it’s not his fault the adults weren’t around to do their job. But this isn’t about blame, not really. This is about how he could have died countless times that night and how, next time it happens (because he knows there will be a next time), he doesn’t want to be alone again.

If he gets in trouble, he wants the threat to be taken seriously.

That won’t happen if his distress signals are lost in a barrage of meaningless updates.

So, he sends less messages. Enough people are paying attention to him now that if Mr. Stark really wants updates (and Peter doesn’t see why he would), he can get them online.

Apparently, he had the wrong idea.

It’s been about a month since he met Sra. Mejía, almost two weeks since he sent his last text, when his phone buzzes during lunch. He almost doesn’t check it, because he’s trying to win an argument with MJ about the relative attractiveness of the Avengers (rogues included) and he can’t afford to be distracted, but if it’s his aunt, he knows she’ll want a response.

From Unknown: What’s with the silent treatment, kid?

From Unknown: You’re freaking Happy out.

He thinks maybe he should be confused. Or surprised. Or…something. Instead, he stares blankly down at the screen.

Mr. Stark is texting him.

To Unknown: oh

To Unknown: sorry

Then, because he still has no idea what’s going on but figures it’s probably important.

To Unknown: im fine

“Who’s that?” MJ asks, leaning forward to get a peek at the screen.

Peter shoves his phone into his pocket and does his best to look innocent.

“Oh, um, just someone with information about the Stark internship.”

When he meets Ned’s gaze, his friend mouths, Happy? Peter shakes his head, and jerks his head toward the ceiling. Ned’s mouth drops open.

“Okay then,” MJ says, giving them a weird look. “Can I get back to explaining how all of your opinions are wrong, now?”

Peter snorts. “Is that what was happening?” he asks.

Secretive texts forgotten, they spend the remainder of lunch shamelessly doing their best to drag Ned into their argument.

A few days later, it happens again as he’s leaving fourth period.

From Unknown: You broke your leg in three places last night.

To Unknown: yes

To Unknown: that is a thing that happened

From Unknown: Why didn’t you call for help?

To Unknown: idk i didnt want to bother anyone

From Unknown: Call for help next time.

Even though it was just to scold him, every time Peter reads through the texts later in the day, a feeling of warmth spreads through him. Not even Flash pulling his usual shit is enough to ruin his good mood.

Later that week, he sends a text without prompting for the first time in over a month.

To Unknown: hey so

To Unknown: if happy is so concerned why doesnt he text me himself

Mr. Stark doesn’t reply.

Although his question remains unanswered, the pattern of Mr. Stark texting him at random times throughout the week continues, escalating until he’s in contact with the man at least once every day.

He’s still afraid that one day he’ll annoy Mr. Stark so much he’ll go back to ignoring him, but the longer this continues without incident, the more comfortable he becomes. His texts get longer, his emoji use increases dramatically, and he starts texting Mr. Stark about things that aren’t Spider-Man related in addition to his usual updates.

He knows things have truly changed when he texts Mr. Stark a picture of a dog with an Iron Man backpack that he sees on the street one day and, instead of telling him off, the man replies with a picture of Vision holding a puppy and looking very confused.

He’s still not very good at asking for help, but hey.

At least now he’s reasonably certain that if he does, he won’t be ignored.

Well, mostly.

It comes and goes.

Apparently, Mr. Stark isn’t as satisfied with this as he is. Less than a week later, he gets a text from Happy. Normally, the man only texts him when he has a question about something in Peter's report, so he's immediately curious.

From Happy: Tony is planning an ambush for you after school. If you have plans I suggest you cancel them.

From Happy: And no, I won’t tell you what he wants to talk to you about.

To Happy: should i act surprised when i see him

From Happy: I think that would make him very pleased.

To Happy: cool thanks

At Ned’s curious look, he hands his phone over and is treated to the sight of Ned working himself into a fanboyish fit.

It’s pretty great.

The rest of the day is spent fielding all sorts of questions about what he and Mr. Stark talk about. He’s pretty sure Ned is disappointed to hear it’s a lot of Peter sending him memes or random strings of emojis and Mr. Stark doing his best to translate them into intelligible speech.

When he’s not answering Ned’s questions, he’s worrying what Mr. Stark wants to talk to him about.

Finally, school ends.

“Whoa,” Ned says once they push their way through the doors.

Parked right in front of the steps is a flashy, expensive looking car. What makes it even more impressive, however, is the man leaning against the door, one hand resting casually in his pocket as he holds his phone in the other, a pair of tinted sunglasses pushed up into his hair.

“When you told me you were getting picked up by Tony Stark after school today, I kind of expected him to be more discreet.”

“Yeah. Happy says he isn’t capable of being discreet.”

“I can see that.”

A crowd of people is gathered nearby, but no one has managed to work up the courage to go up to him. When Peter sees Flash among the crowd of admirers, he gets an idea.

“Do you wanna go meet him?” Peter asks.

“Uh, yeah?”

Peter laughs and grabs Ned’s arm, leading him down the steps and toward the awaiting billionaire.

“Whoa! Mr. Stark, what are you doing here?” he calls as soon as he’s within hearing range.

“Happy told you I was coming, didn’t he,” the man says with a disappointed sigh as he pockets his phone.

“Um, what? No. Would he do that? I don’t think he would do that.” At Mr. Stark’s dry look, he smiles in a way he’s been reliably informed makes him look all sparkly and innocent and pulls Ned forward. “Anyway. This is Ned, my best friend.”

“Hello, Mr. Iron Man, sir," Ned says breathlessly.

“Nice to meet you, Ned,” Mr. Stark says, holding out his hand for a handshake. “Peter’s told me a lot about you.”

After shaking Mr. Stark’s hand with a look of awe on his face, Ned turns to Peter.

“You talk about me with Iron Man?” he asks faintly. When Peter nods, he’s pulled into a crushing hug. “I’m so glad we’re friends.”

Eventually, Ned has to leave. Before he goes, however, Peter forces him to overcome his fears and pose for a picture with Mr. Stark, happily ignoring the impatient way the man is tapping his fingers against his thigh.

“We good to go, kid?” Mr. Stark asks once Peter finishes waving goodbye to Ned.

“Oh, yeah, sorry,” he says.

Mr. Stark holds the door open for him and then gets in after him.

As the car pulls away, Peter makes sure to lean out the window, calling, “Bye Flash!”

The look on Flash’s face is priceless and completely worth whatever Mr. Stark might have to say about it.

Once he settles back in his seat, he sees Mr. Stark watching him, looking amused.

“Not that I’m against rubbing your success in the face of your enemies, but are you gonna tell me what inspired that little show?”

“Um.” He considers telling Mr. Stark about the nicknames and the taunts, but ultimately decides against it. His goal is to make himself seem capable and mature, and he’s pretty sure whining about a high-school bully doesn’t qualify. “No.”

“Fair enough,” Mr. Stark says with a shrug.

They sit in silence for a few minutes, Peter fidgeting awkwardly and Mr. Stark watching him with an unreadable look on his face.

“Where are we going, anyway?” he asks before perking up. “Is this about another, you know, another mission?” He whispers the last word, and Mr. Stark snorts.

“God, no,” he says. “Your aunt might actually kill me. And anyway, things have been quiet since Toomes.” He eyes the fading bruise he can see beneath the collar of Peter’s shirt. “Mostly.”

When he hears that name, Peter’s teeth clench and his heart beats painfully in his throat. He closes his eyes and grasps for something, anything, to say.

“You talk to Aunt May?”

He wants to cringe at the way his voice cracks.

“Well, recently it’s been more getting yelled at than actually talking.” At Peter’s distressed look, he snorts. “Put those eyes away, kid, I can handle it. Besides, I’m pretty sure I earned it this time.”

“She never mentioned it,” Peter says. He slouches in his seat and tries valiantly not to pout.

“Uh-huh. Speaking of your lovely aunt.” He smiles when he sees the look of reproach Peter gives him. “May says you aren’t talking to her.”

“What! You guys are teaming up on me now?” He actually does pout this time. He knows it’s childish, but as so many people are fond of pointing out, he is a child, so he figures he gets a pass. “That’s so unfair.”

“Peter.” Mr. Stark is using his Adult Voice now, and Peter immediately bristles.

“I talk to Aunt May all the time!”

“So you’ve told her you’re not sleeping? You tell her when the panic attacks hit? You tell her about the broken bones and-”

Peter decides to cut him off there.

“I sleep!”

“Note how you didn’t address anything else I just said.” When Peter doesn’t meet his eyes, crossing his arms and staring out the window instead, he sighs. “Kid. Please. You’re talking to an expert on bullshit and unhealthy coping mechanisms, here. Don’t start.”

“Look, Mr. Stark, I really appreciate this, but I’m fine. I swear.”

Mr. Stark doesn’t reply. He just leans back in his seat, watching him with the same unreadable look from before.

“You like Thai?” he asks once enough time has passed for Peter to feel uncomfortable.

“What? Um, yes?” Peter says.

“Good. This is our stop,” he says. The car slows to a halt and he opens the door, getting out in one smooth motion.

Peter scrambles out after him.

“I had lunch, like, less than three hours ago,” he says.

“Yeah, well, you’re not eating enough.” Before Peter can ask how he knows this, he says, “I know everything. Also: Baby Monitor.”

Peter huffs and shoves his hands in the pockets of his sweatshirt.

If he wasn’t being offered free food, he’d be out of here. Except that’s not true because it’d be really rude to leave in the middle of a conversation and he doesn’t want to be rude to Mr. Stark. But he’d definitely consider it.

The restaurant isn’t super fancy, thankfully, but it’s definitely not the kind of place Peter would end up on his own.

They spend the first thirty minutes talking about school and various projects Mr. Stark is working on, and Peter gladly takes advantage of the opportunity to pick the man's brain. Eventually, however, he begins to feel anxious and decides he can’t take this small talk anymore.

Mr. Stark was quick to drop the topic of his sleeping habits in the car, but he’s pretty sure the man isn’t actually done.

“Not that this isn’t interesting, Mr. Stark, because it is so interesting, but what’d you really bring me here for?” Peter asks as soon as they reach a point in the conversation where it doesn’t feel too rude to interrupt.

“Well, if you want to be blunt about it.” Mr. Stark stops eating and folds his arms on the table. “You’ve been breaking a very important rule, kid.”

Peter looks confused, and Mr. Stark sighs in mock disappointment.

“I’m pretty sure I told you not to do anything I would do. Well, one of those things I do do- Stop that,” he snaps when Peter can’t hide his smile fast enough. “God, teenagers .”

“Sorry, Mr. Stark,” Peter says, doing his best to keep a straight face, propping his chin up on his hands. “What were you gonna say?”

“Stop keeping people at a distance, kid. Take it from someone who has fallen into that particular trap many times, it sucks for everyone involved.”

“Mr. Stark, we text every day and Happy gets anxious if I don’t talk to him at least once a week. Plus I see Ned every day in school and I actually live with Aunt May, so”

“C’mon, kid, I know you know what I meant.”

“Actually, I really don’t. I mean-”

“I swear to god, kid, if you try to tell me there’s nothing wrong-”

“Even if there was,” Peter starts, cutting him off. He takes a breath, trying to calm his racing heart. “Even if there was, who the hell am I supposed to talk to? You?”

It’s as if he’s hearing himself speak from far away.

His voice is strained, incredulous, and yeah it sounds mean when he says it aloud, but he means it. At that thought, he feels as surprised as Mr. Stark looks. He thought he was past this, but apparently he was wrong, and it’s awful but he needs-

“So you don’t trust me,” Mr. Stark says. He takes out his phone as if getting ready to tell the driver to come pick them up. “Alright, well-”

“That’s not- Stop ,” Peter interrupts again. “You can’t guilt me into talking to you.”

“Kid, c’mon.”

“No.” He says harshly, “You don’t get to- You don’t-”

His breath catches on the words and he’s left gasping, angry tears pooling in his eyes.

“Peter, hey, it’s okay.” He’s never heard Mr. Stark use that tone before, like he’s talking to some sort of scared, injured animal, and it loosens something inside him, makes it easier.

“I was alone.” The words are all but torn out of him, leaving his throat burning. He wonders if the world is trembling or if it’s just him. “Don’t you get that? He almost- I could’ve-”

He cuts himself off and does his best to breathe through it. Through this ugly, breaking thing that threatens to strangle him if he lets it.

Mr. Stark is silent, and Peter- He can’t.

“Everyone’s been telling me that I need to talk to someone,” he says once he trusts himself to speak again. The words come out like gravel spilling from his mouth, but they come. “They keep saying that I’m not alone.”

“You aren’t.” Mr. Stark sounds earnest, like he really means it and Peter appreciates it, he really does, but it’s not enough .

“But I was. I was and I- I almost-” He hides his face in his hands, afraid that if he has to look at anything or anyone right now, he might lose it for real.

“You almost died.”

“...Yeah.” He takes a deep, watery breath. “It really, um. It really sucked, Mr. Stark.”

He feels faint, weak in a way he hasn’t since before the spider bite, like one blow could knock him to the ground, and he hates it.

“Jesus, kid,” Mr. Stark says, letting out a heavy breath, and if Peter had any sort of grasp on his own emotions, he might be able to feel bad but he doesn’t and he can’t. “How long have you been carrying that around?”

Peter just shakes his head.

“I want to go home,” he says, “I’m tired.”

“Alright,” Mr. Stark says, and he’s using that voice again. “We can do that.”

Distantly, he hears Mr. Stark wave down a waiter and ask for the check, but it’s as if he’s listening through water. As if he’s barely even here at all.

He stands and the world tilts around him, but then Mr. Stark’s hand is on his shoulder and he’s being led outside to where the car is waiting.

He doesn’t remember the drive home.

He should probably be worried about that.

“Peter, hey. Look at me, kid.” He feels Mr. Stark’s hands on his face. “Is your aunt home?”

Peter shakes his head.

“Okay,” he hears Mr. Stark say, “Okay.”

Again, the man guides him with a hand on his shoulder, and part of Peter wonders how he knows the code to get in the building, how he has a key to get into his apartment, but most of him doesn’t actually care.

As soon as he gets inside, he heads for the couch on autopilot, collapsing face first and burying his face in the cushions. A moment later, he feels a blanket fall over him, and he curls beneath it, pulling it up to cover his head.

When he hears footsteps come close again, he peeks out from under his shelter.

“You can go,” he forces himself to say.

“No way, kid. The last thing you need right now is to be...” Mr. Stark hesitates then says, “By yourself.”

Peter lets his eyes fall shut.

His eyes are burning.

“Thanks,” he says, quiet enough that he’s certain Mr. Stark doesn’t actually hear.

He hears the scrape of wood across the floor and squints his eyes open to see Mr. Stark pulling one of the armchairs closer toward the couch.

When he feels Mr. Stark’s hand against his forehead, he sighs, and all the tension in him drains away.

He feels as if he could sink right to the center of the earth.

“Don’t worry, kid,” Mr. Stark says from far away. “I’ve got you. You’re gonna be alright.”

Chapter Text

When he finally comes back to himself, he wakes to see Aunt May sitting in the chair Mr. Stark was occupying earlier.

“Hey, sweetheart,” she says when he opens his eyes. She runs a gentle hand through his hair, and he leans into the touch.

He feels shivery, still, but it doesn’t hurt to breathe anymore.

“Hi, May,” he says faintly. He pulls the blanket tighter around his shoulders. “Mr. Stark?”

Aunt May nods her head toward the kitchen where Peter can hear the teakettle going off, and Peter swallows heavily, a rush of shame flooding through him.

“Hey, none of that,” she says, tapping him on the nose in a gentle rebuke. “You did nothing wrong.”

When he hears the sound of Mr. Stark’s footsteps coming closer, he closes his eyes again. Aunt May sighs but doesn’t give him away.

“Did he wake up?” he hears Mr. Stark ask.

“Briefly,” she says, petting his hair again. “Thanks for staying with him.”

“Don’t thank me,” he says. Peter’s heard him angry and kind and afraid, but he’s never heard him sound so tired. “I couldn’t just leave him. Not like that.”

“You could have,” she says, quiet but firm, “But you didn’t.”

When Mr. Stark replies, Peter can’t quite make out what he says.

He drifts off again to the sound of them talking quietly to each other, Aunt May’s hand running soothingly through his hair, feeling warm and heavy and safe.

As much as he’d like it to, that feeling doesn’t last forever.

The worst part about breaking down in a public restaurant, Peter thinks nearly a week later as they’re forced to watch another one of Captain America’s PSAs by the substitute who lost their teacher’s lesson plan for the day, is that he can no longer pretend nothing’s wrong.

He thought maybe he’d be better, after, but instead, things just keep getting worse.

He’d almost gotten used to the spikes of panic from before. Now, though, it’s a constant, steady thrum, as if the fear and the stress have settled deep inside him, and nothing he does can get it out.

He’s hyperaware of everything around him. The slightest of sounds is enough to make him flinch, and he shies away from the softest touch. He knows it’s really bad the first time he ducks away from Ned’s outstretched hand as the other boy comes in for their signature handshake. The look on his best friend’s face every time it happens after that makes him want to scream, but he doesn’t know how to fix it.

He calls Sra. Mejía, sometimes, on the nights when Aunt May is busy and he doesn’t want to bother Mr. Stark. Most of the time, talking to her helps. But whatever peace she can help him achieve is always too quick to wear off.

It affects him as Spider-Man, too.

Even before Mr. Stark gave him his suit, he’d often be found on the scenes of fires, helping to keep the building from collapsing and doing his best to aid in the evacuation of everyone inside.

Now, the groan of walls getting ready to collapse is enough to make his breaths come short and his pulse beat painfully against the skin of his throat, memories of being trapped weighing him down like concrete. He does his best, forces himself to work through it, but it gets harder every time.

He doesn’t know what to do.

He knows Mr. Stark wants to help him.

He knows Aunt May would never turn him away.

But the thought of telling them, of dragging these thoughts into the light and putting them into words, of making them real , makes him want to throw up.

Aunt May told him he has nothing to be ashamed of, and Mr. Stark apologized for pushing him too hard, but he still can’t shake the feeling that it’s his fault. If he wasn’t so weak , he tells himself, he wouldn’t even be having these problems in the first place.

He knows these thoughts aren’t rational, but nothing about this is rational.

He doesn't know how to fix it.

His phone vibrates, knocking him off that train of thought and startling him so badly he slams his knee into the underside of his desk. The substitute shushes him, and Peter slides lower in his seat, trying to ignore the looks people give him as heat floods his cheeks. He holds his phone in his lap, desperate for a distraction.

From Ned: u okay dude??

Peter glances over at his friend. Ned is staring fixedly at the video, but Peter spies his phone clutched tightly in his hand.

To Ned: not really

To Ned: don’t worry tho

From Ned: scale of 1 to 10?

To Ned: seven

From Ned: okay

From Ned: let me know if it gets worse so i can fake sick and have you take me to the nurse

To Ned: thanks man ur the best

In response, Ned sends him a smiley face and a thumbs up. Peter can’t help but smile.

He looks up to make sure the substitute isn’t watching before scrolling to a different conversation.

To Mr. Stark: what are the odds of godzilla attacking the city in the next five minutes

He gets an immediate response, something that never fails to make the bad thoughts go away for a moment or two.

From Mr. Stark: Zero.

From Mr. Stark: Aren’t you in class?

To Mr. Stark: yeah but we have a sub and he’s making us watch cap’s videos

Before Mr. Stark can respond, he feels the displacement of the air beside him and looks up to see the substitute looming over him. He looks nothing like Toomes, but it sends his heart racing anyway.

“No phones in class,” the man says flatly.

Peter shoves his phone in his backpack with a scowl, fiddling with the zipper on the pocket to give himself time to wipe the annoyance off his face before sitting up again.

When he looks over at Ned, his friend raises an eyebrow. Peter is tempted to take him up on his offer, but in the end he shakes his head.

It’s just one class.

He can handle it.

He does handle it, but the effort it takes to sit still and concentrate on not being aware of everything that moves is draining enough that he wishes he’d gone with Ned’s plan after all.

“I know I offered to fake sick earlier, but now you look sick for real,” Ned tells him as they stop by his locker.

Peter leans back against the wall beside him and closes his eyes, trying to will away the headache that’s sprung upon him.

“Thanks, man,” he says.

“I’m serious. You should go see the nurse so she can send you home.”

“I can’t,” Peter says, pressing the heels of his hands to his eyes, rubbing bursts of color against his eyelids. “They’ll call May and then she’ll just worry until she gets off work to come home and check on me.”

“Dude, she has eyes. I think she’s already worried.” At Peter’s annoyed look, Ned raises his hands in surrender. “It only bothers you because you know I’m right.”

Peter wants to argue, but he’s too tired.

“I just wanna go to class.”

“Okay, but MJ’s gonna be there and you know she’ll say the same thing.”

Peter groans.

Before he even gets a chance to weigh his options, however, he hears Principal Morita call his name.

“Now, Mr. Parker, I don’t know you as well as I’m sure some of your teachers do, but your grades speak for themselves. You’re clearly a very dedicated student, and after the incident a few months back, you’ve had no problems with attendance.”

Principal Morita drops his file onto the desk, but Peter only spares it a passing glance before looking up to meet the man’s gaze.

“Then why am I here, sir?” he asks, making sure to keep his tone polite.

“Because some of your teachers have expressed concerns.” When Peter’s shoulders slump forward, he says, “I’m assuming you know what I’m talking about.”

“Yes, sir, I can guess,” he says.

“Hmm. May I call you Peter?” the man asks after a beat of silence, his gaze steady.

“Um, yeah. Sure.”

“Alright then, Peter. Why don’t you tell me why two of my teachers have come to me, separately, mind you, to tell me they think a student of theirs is in some sort of trouble.”

He knows he can’t lie his way out of this one, not when the man has a list of what his teachers have said right in front of him, and that thought is strangely freeing.

“I’m tired all the time,” is what he starts with. When Principal Morita doesn’t say anything, just nods for him to continue, he says, “I zone out when I shouldn’t. Sometimes I come to school with injuries I can’t explain. I flinch when people touch me, even my friends. I-”

“Go on,” he says, using the same even tone from before.

Peter takes a breath, lets it out, and says, “I’m not getting better.”

Principal Morita glances down at the file, giving Peter a chance to compose himself.

“According to Coach Wilson, you say you aren’t being hurt at home. Do you want to change that statement?”

“No,” Peter says firmly. “Aunt May would never. She, um. She’s worried about me too, actually.”

He’s not entirely sure why, but it’s easier to talk to Principal Morita than he thought it would be. He thinks part of it might be that nothing he says seems to inspire a strong reaction. Throughout this conversation, the man has been calm. Curious, yes, and concerned, but calm.

“Do you want help, Peter?” Principal Morita asks. He folds his hands patiently on his desk.

Peter stills. For a brief moment, he feels a wave of something like fear crashing over him, pulling him off balance. That wasn’t the question he was expecting.

“What?” he asks faintly.

He feels lightheaded.

“It seems to me as if you have multiple people offering you help. Why won’t you accept it?”

“I-” Peter looks away, unsure how to answer. “I can’t.”

It feels like a lie. But if it is, he doesn’t know what’s true.

“Can’t,” Principal Morita repeats to himself.

With a heavy sigh, the man stands to grab one of the photos he keeps in his office. He holds it out, and Peter takes it carefully. He recognizes this man from their lessons on World War II, although he looks much younger in this photo.

“This is Jim Morita, my grandfather.”

Peter looks from the photo to Principal Morita and then back again.

“Why are you showing me this?”

“When he came back from the war, my parents say my grandfather suffered greatly from a multitude of aftereffects.” The man holds his gaze as he continues. “He was tired because he had nightmares. He would flinch at unexpected sounds, whether it was from fireworks or someone dropping a book, and flashbacks often caught him off guard whenever he was around something that reminded him of the war, regardless of whether or not he understood why.”

“I know what PTSD is, sir,” Peter says, feeling uncomfortable, like his skin is too tight, like he needs to run.

“My father says he was a proud man,” he continues as if Peter hasn’t spoken. “He didn’t accept help because he was led to believe it would make him weak, and he didn’t want to be a burden on his family.”

“Sir-”

“As soon as they were old enough to understand, his children did their best to help him. They offered him everything they could. But he never accepted it.”

Peter feels his hands clench, but the rush of emotion he’s expecting doesn’t come. He pulls his feet up onto the chair and wraps his arms around his knees.

“I’m not saying your situations are the same,” Principal Morita tells him, “They aren’t. They can’t be. But regardless of what you’ve gone through, it’s very clear to those who are paying attention that you’re not okay.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

The man sighs and taps his fingers against his desk before settling back in his chair once more, observing Peter carefully.

“Peter, do you want to get better?”

“Yes,” he says, “I do.”

“Then I want you to listen carefully. No matter how hard someone tries to reach out to you, it won’t do you any good if you don’t reach back. They can do everything in their power to help you, but, Peter, this is very important.” He leans forward, and Peter holds his breath. “Whether or not you accept it is a choice you actively have to make.”

“What if I don’t know how?” Peter asks, suddenly feeling as young as everyone always tells him he is.

What if I’m scared, he doesn’t say.

“Then you ask.”

He can’t help but think it’s a lot harder than Principal Morita is making it out to be, but considering he once worked up the nerve to jump off the top of the Washington Monument without a parachute, he figures it's at least worth a try.

Chapter Text

“Then you ask,” Peter says to himself as he stares at his reflection the morning after his conversation with Principal Morita. “What does that even mean?”

It’s barely five in the morning, and not even Aunt May is awake.

With a frustrated sigh, he leaves the bathroom, flicking off the light as he goes, doing his best to walk quietly and avoid the spots on the floor that creak.

Sometimes when he wakes up too early, he can fall back asleep with no problem. Today is not one of those days.

A good day used to mean a day where the thought of getting out of bed didn’t make him want to cry.

Now, a good day just means he gets more than five hours of sleep before nightmares or his alarm wake him up.

Apparently, today isn’t one of those days either.

In fact, the day has barely even begun, and he can already feel a headache settling in.

He spends the next hour counting the cars that drive down the street and doing his best not to listen in on the sounds he can hear from the nearby apartments. Time passes excruciatingly slow, but eventually he hears Aunt May begin to move around in her room, getting ready for the day.

He checks his phone.

Twenty minutes before she’ll expect him to be awake.

Twenty minutes of lying there, eyes closed, narrowing his focus until the world outside his apartment blurs away. On days like today, he’d give anything to have full time access to the sensory deprivation his suit provides.

Finally, it’s time for him to wake up.

“Morning, May,” he says as he wanders into the kitchen to make himself breakfast.

“Good morning, Peter.” She sets her coffee aside and leans her hip against the counter beside him. “I got a call from your school yesterday.”

“Yeah? What, uh, what’d they say?” he asks, not looking away from where he’s concentrating very hard on pouring cereal into his bowl.

“Not much. Just that you had a talk with your principal and that the nurse sent you home after.”

“Oh, uh, yeah. I wasn’t feeling great, so.”

“Peter, is there anything you want to talk to me about?”

He feels as if he’s standing atop a tall cliff, ready to jump but not knowing what waits below. Or if there's anything at all.

All he has to do is say yes. Just one word, he tells himself, and the rest will come.

He’ll tell her everything and she’ll cry and that will make him cry and then they’ll hug and then… Then what?

It’s not like all of his problems would just magically go away after talking about them. As much as he still wants to believe his aunt’s hugs can make everything better, they can’t.

So.

What’s the point?

He may not be okay, but he’s functional. Maybe if he just tries really hard, he can be better without having to bother anyone else.

“Nope.” He shoves a spoonful of cereal into his mouth. “I’m good. Thanks, though.”

He pretends not to see the disappointed look on her face.

It’s fine.

School passes as slow as ever.

By the time classes are out for the day, all he wants to do is go home and sleep for a week.

But if he does that, then Mr. Stark will take his absence from Spider-Man as a sign that he’s not okay, and that’s the last thing he wants.

So, knowing it’s a bad idea but resolved to doing it anyway, Peter finds a secluded spot and slips into his suit.

Thankfully, today is a slow day for crime, as if the universe has acknowledged how crappy his life has been up to this point and is giving him a break.

And then he sees the smoke.

By the time he arrives on the scene of the fire, it looks like the majority of the people inside the building have been evacuated. The grey smoke he saw earlier has faded to dark black, although he catches sight of some brown smoke too.

After checking in with the brigade captain, who tells him they couldn’t get up beyond the second floor before the fire spread to the stairs, Peter turns to the building.

“Karen, scan the upper floors for me,” he says, “There may be stragglers.”

Karen finds him four people, all on the top floor, and Peter doesn’t hesitate.

Once he’s inside, it’s as if he’s in a different world.

Thick, dark smoke fills his vision, and he’s forced to rely on Karen’s sensors to move throughout the building.

The first person he finds is still awake but barely coherent.

Everyone else he finds is passed out by the time he gets to them, but he still manages to bring them out alive.

It’s only as he sets the last person down on an awaiting stretcher that he hears someone nearby screaming. When he turns to find the voice, he sees a woman being held back by two firefighters.

“What’s wrong?” he demands as he jogs over.

“My daughter’s still inside,” the woman tells him as she grabs his arm. “I tried looking for her in the crowd but she’s not here. She must have fallen or gotten confused when we were evacuating. Please, you have to help her, she’s only four years old. Please.”

Peter turns to look at the building.

Before he can even take a step, one of the firefighters reaches out to hold him back.

“You can’t go in there,” she says firmly.

“But her daughter-”

“No. Do you see that brown smoke?” She points, and Peter nods. He’d noticed it earlier, but now there’s more and it’s coming faster. “That only comes from unfinished wood, and the only unfinished wood you’ll find in a building like this is in the walls. The whole building’s coming down soon. We can’t risk anyone going inside.”

Peter doesn’t move.

When the firefighter sees he’s not going to rush off, she pats him on the shoulder before going back to help console the woman.

“Karen,” he says faintly, “What do I do?”

“Scans confirm that the building is indeed at risk of collapse within the next minute. If you go inside, it is unlikely that you will be able to rescue the girl in time.”

“But what do I do?”

Karen doesn’t reply. A moment passes.

And another.

“Where is she?”

On the display, he sees a small form huddled a few meters away from the western staircase, too far away from any of the building entrances to reach her in time.

To get to her before the building starts to collapse, he’d have to go through one of the windows, preferably one that’s intact and not spewing smoke.

Fear paralyzes him.

He remembers what it felt like, months ago, to be trapped and alone, knowing that no one would come for him.

He remembers what it felt like to run into the fire after Toomes, how he burned his hands to lift his metal wings, how it felt to carry him free of the flames.

This girl is alone and trapped, and no one is going to save her.

This girl is four years old.

He takes a breath.

He runs.

Glass shatters around him as he throws himself through the window, and although his suit is fireproof, the heat is near unbearable as he lands and rolls to his feet. There’s less smoke down here than on the upper floors, but the groaning of walls ready to collapse is worse, and the floor is spongy beneath his feet.

“Karen,” is all he has to say.

“Go through the door in front of you. The girl will be on your left. Be careful, you have fifteen seconds to reach her.”

He doesn’t give himself time to think.

He finds her curled up in the space between the crumbling staircase and the wall. She must have been pushed aside by the crowd when they were evacuating and crawled here to avoid being trampled.

As he lifts the staircase off her, he’s afraid he might be too late.

She isn’t moving.

“Her pulse is steady, but she’s most likely inhaled a lot of smoke,” Karen tells him. “She requires medical attention as soon as possible.”

“Okay,” he mutters as he bends down to pick her up. “Okay. I can do this.”

“I suggest you exit the way you came in. If you try to leave through the entrance down the hall, emergency services will not be able to reach you in time once you’re buried.”

He makes it a few meters at a sprint before the wall to his right bends. Through the roaring of the fire that’s still burning above, he hears the building begin to fold in on itself, and he has no words to describe the sound.

He settles the girl at his feet and braces himself.

The building falls.

It forces him to his knees as he bears the weight across his shoulders.

“Don’t worry,” he tells the girl lying before him once the weight settles, doing his best to ignore the way his voice shakes, “I’ve got you. We’ll be out of here in no time.”

He shifts, and the debris above him groans in protest as dust and ash seeps down from above to coat everything in a film of grey. There’s barely any light, only a sliver shining through in the space ahead of him.

He doesn’t know if he can do this.

But the girl is breathing.

That’s all that matters, he tells himself. He almost believes it.

He closes his eyes, and it's as if he’s back in the warehouse again, desperate and crying for help that won’t come. He shakes his head violently.

“No,” he gasps out. “Not now, please.”

He doesn’t have time to panic.

Anger, hot and bright, floods through him, and he clings to it, letting it sear away the fear that threatens to choke him.

He grits his teeth and shifts the weight on his shoulders.

If he could just stand-

It hits him, then, and everything falls away, leaving him feeling strange, unmoored and lightheaded.

He can’t carry the girl and hold the building up at the same time. If he tries to lift it, who knows how the debris might shift. She could be crushed or pierced through by one of the splintered beams that’s still mostly intact.

They’re stuck here.

He’s stuck here.

Again.

The fear doesn’t return. Neither does the anger.

“Karen.” His voice echoes oddly in his ears.

He feels far away.  

“Emergency services is attempting to dig through the debris. They don’t appear to know where you are.”

He blinks his eyes open, not sure when he closed them.

The girl lying before him is smaller than he remembers her feeling in his arms. Her brown hair is in pigtails, tied with blue ribbons.

In the darkness, the blue shines.

He can’t let her die here.

His eyes catch on the sliver of light.

“The gap,” he hears himself say, feeling more clear than he has in weeks. There’s no pain or heat, only an unnatural sense of calm. “Karen, send the drone through the gap and use it to lead them here.”

The drone flies out, and he tracks it by sound until it fades out of range.

As he waits for it to return, he counts the girl’s breaths, both to reassure himself she’s still alive (that he didn’t do this to himself for nothing) and to keep himself focused on the present.

He doesn’t know how long they’ve been down here.

Finally, he hears the debris above him move, and the sound of people shouting instructions to each other filters through. He curls over to cover the girl’s body with his own as everything around them shifts. The more weight is lifted off his shoulders, the harder it is to hold.

He’s shaking, and he can’t tell if it’s from relief or whatever remains of his brief moment of panic.

Light spills down from above.

Hysterical laughter builds in his throat, but he bites it back.

“Spider-Man,” a voice that isn’t Karen’s calls down to him. “Are you there?”

“I’m here!” he calls back, “I have a girl with me. She needs medical attention.”

Another piece is moved, and now there’s an entire patch of sky clear above him.

The sky is still blue.

He expected it to be darker.

“We’re going to throw down a litter,” the same voice tells him. “Strap the girl in so we can pull her up. If we dig too much further, we might shift the whole pile and lose you.”

Once she’s been lifted away and everyone is clear of the fallen building, Peter pushes himself to his feet and lifts. Without having to worry about crushing the girl, he’s out in minutes.

By then, the girl has already been taken away in an ambulance, but the paramedic who he talks to reassures him that she’s still alive.

It seems as if everyone wants to talk to him in the aftermath, but once he’s done giving a report to the captain, he ignores the reporters with their shouted questions and swings away.

He only makes it two blocks before he has to stop.

The strange, floating calm from before has yet to fade, and it makes it hard to judge distances, warping the world around him until he feels like he could reach out and everything would slip just beyond his fingertips.

It doesn’t hurt, but it would be unsettling if he was present enough to feel it.

“Mr. Stark is calling you,” Karen informs him as he anchors himself in place.

Peter sighs, but he knows the man is probably worried about him, so he accepts the call.

“Hey, kid, I saw the news. You feeling alright?”

“Yeah,” Peter says as he shifts, feeling the scrape of the brick wall at his back against his suit. “I’m fine.”

“Really,” Mr. Stark says flatly. “Are you sure about that? Your heart rate spiked pretty hight back there.”

“Mr. Stark, I swear, I feel fine.”

“Alright, I want you to take off the suit and stay where you are. Can you do that?”

“Why?”

“Because I’m coming to get you.”

“But I told you, I’m fine.”

“Yeah, I get that, kid. But you shouldn’t be.” Before Peter can reply, Mr. Stark says, “I’ll be there before you know it. Don’t move.”

Peter drops from his perch on the wall with a sigh.

When Mr. Stark arrives, he takes one look at Peter and frowns.

“I don’t know what’s going on in your head right now, kid, but you are the furthest thing from fine.”

Peter scoffs.

“I’m serious.” Mr. Stark comes closer and uses his phone to shine a light in Peter’s eyes. “You look awful.”

“Yeah, well, that’s what happens when you get a building dropped on you,” Peter says as he swats Mr. Stark’s arm away.

“Speaking of buildings getting dropped,” Mr. Stark says, “What the hell were you thinking? You could have died.”

“It’s not like it’s the first time.”

“That doesn't make it okay! In fact, I’m pretty sure that makes it worse.”

“A girl could have died,” he says. “What was I supposed to do, just sit there and watch it happen?”

Mr. Stark takes a moment to observe him, then he sighs.

“Your aunt was right. This isn’t working.”

Peter feels his breath catch.

“What? No,” he says, stumbling back. Mr. Stark looks alarmed, but Peter can’t stop. “You can’t- I didn't mess up this time, okay? I saved her. I made sure-”

“Kid.” Mr. Stark grabs his wrists, pulling him closer. “Peter, listen. That’s not what I meant. I’m not taking anything away from you, I swear.”

“Then why are you here?”

“Because someone needs to be.” When Peter just looks at him blankly, he sighs. “You’re hurting yourself, kid. I know you’re strong. I know you’re capable and whatever the fuck else you’re so determined to prove yourself to be, but this is killing you. You need to stop-”

“No. I won’t stop being Spider-Man. It’s too important.”

Before he even finishes speaking, Mr. Stark is shaking his head. His grip on Peter’s wrists tightens almost painfully.

“No one is saying you need to stop being Spider-Man. All we want is for you to stop hurting yourself.” His voice gets progressively louder until he’s all but shouting by the end. Peter can feel his hands shaking.

He watches with wide eyes as Mr. Stark releases him and takes a step back, pressing his face into his palms with a groan.

“You don’t get it, do you? This is bigger than just you, kid. Every time you throw yourself into danger, every time you work yourself beyond exhaustion just to get some sleep at night, it’s not just you that you’re hurting. Watching you do this to yourself is torture for the people who care about you, and it’s not okay.”

“That’s not fair,” Peter says, shaking his head. “I’m not- You can’t-”

All the anger seems to drain out of the man, and he takes a step forward, freezing when Peter flinches back.

“I know,” Mr. Stark says evenly. He reaches out slowly, giving Peter time to move away. He rests a hand on the back of his neck and uses it to pull him into a crushing hug. “I know.”

“It’s fine,” Peter says, his voice muffled against Mr. Stark’s shoulder.

“No, it isn’t.”

Peter closes his eyes.

He doesn't cry.

He doesn’t feel anything at all.

He walks up the stairs to his apartment like he’s in a dream, Mr. Stark at his back as if making sure he doesn’t fall.

When they reach his apartment, he opens the door on autopilot, and Mr. Stark ushers him inside.

“May,” he calls, “I have Peter.”

“How is he,” she asks as she appears before him. She grabs his shoulders and checks him for injuries. “I was watching the news when it happened, I thought-”

“Hey,” Peter says, attempting to smile reassuringly, “I’m okay.”

“Physically,” Mr. Stark adds, “he’s okay. Not sure about everything else.”

“Do I look like I’m upset?” Peter asks as he spreads his arms wide, tired of Mr. Stark talking as if he isn’t here. He does a twirl, just to prove he can, and feels dizzy.

“No, actually.” The man frowns. “That’s what concerns me.”

“Well, all that matters is that you’re alright,” Aunt May tells him. She wraps her arms around him and holds him tight. “You did so good, Peter. You saved that little girl. I was so worried when you went in there alone, but-”

Peter stops listening.

The smell of smoke lingers on his skin and for a moment he can’t think beyond that old, breathless fear, so bright he can’t see or hear or do anything at all.

He feels himself begin to hyperventilate.

The world tilts, and his knees give out from under him. When he falls, Aunt May falls with him, refusing to let go.

He doesn’t know what’s happening.

Every breath is a struggle, too short and too quick as sobs wrench themselves from his throat. He tries to calm down, tries to say something, anything, but this vicious, ugly thing that’s burrowed itself inside of him refuses to let him go.

He can’t do this anymore.

He can’t stop it.

He can’t-

He-

He can feel Aunt May’s hand in his hair.

He can hear her heartbeat, as steady as her arms around him.

“You’re safe,” she’s saying, and the sound of her voice makes it easier, somehow. “It’s okay, just let it out. I have you.”

He doesn’t know how long they stay there, crumpled on the floor and holding each other, but eventually, he feels his breaths begin to even out.

He thinks maybe he should be relieved it’s over, but all he feels is tired.

He’s so tired of doing this alone.

“May?” he says, and it hurts to speak but this is important.

“What is it, sweetheart?” she asks, almost unbearably gentle.

He clutches at her shirt and presses his forehead into her shoulder. He doesn’t know where Mr. Stark is, but he hopes the man isn’t watching. He doesn’t know if he could-

No.

He can’t think like that, not now.

He needs to do this.

He takes a breath, holds it, and lets it out slow.

“I need your help.”