Peter Parker was that kid, the type who always smiled, got amazing grades, played video games not to an excess and visited museums with his best friends, tutored his classmates in need, had lab days with one of the smartest people on the planet, loved his Aunt May more than just about anything, and volunteered at the animal shelter. Peter even walked little, old ladies across the street- with their consent, of course—both in and out of the Spider-Man uniform.
The time in uniform was another level entirely—All of New York knew about Spider-Man, but Queens held a special place for him in its heart. After all, he was always the first to arrive on the scene to help anyone—between the hours of 5pm and 11pm on weeknights, 5pm to midnight on Fridays, and 11am to 4pm then 6pm to midnight on Saturday and Sunday, unless it was a school break or around exams, not that anyone would say they’d definitely noticed the pattern—and the best superhero have around to help when the situation involved anyone under the age of twenty-one. That didn’t mean the bodegas and food cart owners didn’t love him. No, it was universal. Spider-Man was like a light in the darkness. He was a one of them—and Queens took care of their own. Crime had gone down in the borough, community engagement had gone up, and people were sitting on their stoops into the evening, visiting with friends while kids played on the sidewalks. Spider-Man was a blessing to anyone who knew him.
As an Avenger, Peter was the great unifier. The battle at the airport had been rough, Siberia had been worse, not that Peter was supposed to know about that, but the snaps—yes, all of them—had changed all of them. Losing to Thanos and being dusted for five years had been devastating to everyone. Dr. Banner getting injured and then almost losing Vision, Natasha, and Mr. Stark had been an unsurprisingly difficult time for everyone. With the compound destroyed in the final battle, Mrs. Stark had invited everyone who had gathered to recover and heal back at the tower—which had been gratefully sold back to the Starks shortly after the first snap all that time ago. Peter suddenly had unfettered access to all of his heroes, and they all loved him—for his chattiness, and humour, and kindness, and optimism—and because they all loved him, an effort like none before was made to ensure that everyone was kind to everyone. The Avengers called it the ‘Peter Effect.’
But Peter, in his apparent perfection, chose to never speak of his other half—
Because Peter knew—he knew that the perceptions other people had of him were so positive and wonderful and so, so wrong, that Peter could only pray to whatever god would listen to him that no one would around to see his imperfections when he inevitably fell from grace.
/-/-/
The funny thing was that it had started even before the world had gone to shit.
Peter knew there was a family history. Yes, his parents had been killed in the plane crash when Peter was four years old, but he could still recall his father sitting in his armchair, looking out at absolutely nothing.
Peter sometimes wondered if he was still breathing.
His mother would flutter around the house, doing whatever it was that super secret scientists do, but upon seeing her Richard there, she’d scuttle Peter off to his room telling him only that, “Daddy’s just having a bad brain day,” and, “Give him some privacy, love.”
And Peter had wondered.
Then, one day, Peter felt the inklings of a bad brain day himself, but only after he was old enough to know that people didn’t talk about stuff like that if they wanted to have friends to hang out with once they hit middle school... and especially high school. It was better to put on a mask, hope it didn’t crack—
Just like Uncle Ben. He had recognized the signs as he shifted into his new reality after... with Ben growing quiet, disappearing into himself, and then into his own room. Peter was never scuttled away to his room. No, Peter just had to pretend that it was important to be quiet while his uncle took a days long nap...
He was familiar with it all.
But sometimes it wasn’t about bad brain days.
No.
Sometimes, the world sucked ‘just because’ and it was too easy to explain away the darkness when the world was still in chaos after Thanos, or Flash was still a dick at school, or Spider-Man had failed to save someone even though he’d never tried harder to save someone in his entire life.
/-/-/
Peter looked down at his useless hands.
He’d failed.
/-/-/
“Peter?” Ned gave Peter a gentle poke in the shoulder, bringing him back into focus. “Are you gonna pass those back for the rest of us?”
Peter blinked as he turned to Ned and tried to figure out what he’d missed, but Ned was the greatest and, with a subtle nod over Peter’s shoulder, he realized. “Sorry, man.” Peter mumbled, and turned back to take the stack of new papers from Abe sitting in front of him. “Here you go.” He passed the stack back.
Ned grabbed two sheets and passed the rest back behind him then smiled kindly at Peter. “You forgot to grab one, too, Pete.” Ned whispered and handed the extra back to his best friend. “Don’t worry, I got you.”
Peter smiled softly, and almost thanked him, but was interrupted by Mr. Harrington. “Alright, everyone, please pay attention. I want eyes forward and pens and pencils out. I know how excited you are for your first pop quiz of the semester! You have twenty minutes. Let’s see how much you’ve retained since the start of term, people. You can start—” Mr. Harrington glanced at his watch, then announced, “NOW.”
Peter blinked again, this time Mr. Harrington pressed a firm hand on Peter’s forearm. “Are you doing okay there, Peter?” His eyes looked a little sad.
Peter nodded. “I’m good,” he answered like it was a promise.
“Perfect,” Mr. Harrington replied. “How would you feel about heading over to the nurse’s office, Peter? I’d like to speak with your guardian while you’re there. Is that alright with you?”
Peter didn’t answer. He simply stood, gathered his bag and pen, and wondered where his paper had gone. It couldn’t have been important because the thought was gone before he could turn around to follow behind his favourite teacher.
He wasn’t surprised to hear the whispers as he made his way to the door, though. People had treated him differently since... well, he couldn’t bring himself to complain. He knew exactly how bad it had been since this all started. If this was a consequence of his mental instability, then Peter was going to suck it up and deal.
/-/-/
“I do not want to hear you tell me how difficult it is to find a way to formulate the physicochemical properties of an antidepressant suitable for a fucking Avenger. I do not pay what I do for you to complain about how hard it is to do your job!” Mr. Stark hollered at his phone. “You’ve managed harder shit, Gary! Get this done now!” He promptly disconnected the call and dropped his shout-reddened face into this empty hand.
Peter remembered a time when a phone call with Aunt May meant her sitting at the kitchen table, keeping half an eye on a giggling Peter as he zigged and zagged around their tiny apartment while she tried to avoid garrotting the boy. Every so often, May would be on a call with someone—her own Aunt Selma, if Peter remembered correctly—and there’d inevitably come a point in their conversation where Aunt May would start sounding a little like Mr. Stark right now. She’d tell her aunt that she was staying in Queens—that she didn’t mind working doubles—and that she didn’t mind being guardian to one Peter Benjamin Parker at all. Peter was a blessing, and nothing Aunt Selma could say would convince her otherwise.
And when that didn’t stop her Aunt Selma from pushing?
SLAM! Even knowing it was coming, Peter had always flinched.
It seemed strange to Peter that the ending of Mr. Stark’s phone call, without that slam, left him unsatisfied.
And then Peter wondered if Aunt Selma had been at the—
“Hey,” Mr. Stark’s form swam into view. He sat himself on the edge of the coffee table, close enough to Peter to reach out and ruffle his lifeless curls. “I’m sorry about that, Roo. They’re still trying—but for now, how’s about we talk to Dr. Cho about weaning you off of this particular med so you’re ready for the next one, okay?”
Peter smiled small and nodded. There really was no point in complaining. He knew exactly how bad it had been since this all started. If this was a consequence of his mental instability, then Peter was going to suck it up and deal.
/-/-/
“Peter?” Mr. Stark whispered close to his ear. “If you think you’re done, I’m going to carry you back to your bed now, okay?”
Peter blinked awake and tried to figure out what had happened. Why was he on the— And then Peter remembered the sudden rush of nausea, the panic to get to the bathroom before he ended up making a mess no one should have to deal with, and then vomiting—vomiting—vomiting. His stomach and chest still ached from all of the spasms and the heaving.
“No.” He pushed Mr. Stark’s hands away. “I can do it,” he slurred in his exhaustion, only to stumble into the vanity as he tried to stand, Mr. Stark’s strong arms around his waist being the only thing between him and a concussion.
“I know you can, buddy. Just let me help, okay?”
Eyes filled with tears, Peter could only beg for respite, “I’m so tired of this, Mr. Stark. Please. My head... I can’t do this anymore... I can’t...” Peter was on the verge of hyperventilating.
Those strong arms tightened around him, lifting him up. “Yes, you can, Peter. You’re so strong, and you’re so brave, and you’ve come so far. Please, let us try one more time. We’re so close, sweetheart. I can feel it!”
Peter felt a wetness falling against his neck.
He wouldn’t allow himself to complain. He knew exactly how bad it had been since this all started. If this was a consequence of his mental instability, then Peter was going to suck it up and deal.
/-/-/
“Hi, Peter. I’m glad you decided to be here today.” Ms. Rosa said, just like every other Monday, Thursday, and sometimes Saturday if the week had been particularly rough. “Tony was telling me that the latest attempt at a medication was a wash. I’m sorry to hear that. Did you want to talk about it?”
Peter sat silent.
“Those side effects can be a real pain,” she offered. “How is the weaning off going?”
Ms. Rosa waited, just like every other Monday, Thursday, and sometimes Saturday if the week had been particularly rough.
“Tony told me that you’ve also decided to take a step back from in-person schooling for a bit. That’s got to be hard. How do you feel about that?”
Peter picked at the cuticles of his chewed down fingernails.
“Have you made plans for Ned to keep coming by? My niece was just showing me a Lord of the Rings Lego set she’s saving for. I’ve heard rumours you’re a Star Wars guy. Have you seen any of the new sets from the new movies?”
Ms. Rosa waited, just like every other Monday, Thursday, and sometimes Saturday if the week had been particularly rough.
But then, Ms. Rosa cleared her throat—sat up straighter.
“And Tony mentioned that today is your Aunt May’s birthday.”
What?
Peter’s mind blanked.
Not really, but it was so close—on the cusp of it.
No.
He would not—could not—
Peter closed his eyes.
For the first time in a long time, since all of this began, Peter felt a hint of... something.
He knew exactly what she was doing. Ms. Rosa had mentioned once that she thought Peter needed to push himself more. Yes, there’d been no success with the medications so far, but talk therapy, cognitive behavioural therapy—hell, even art therapy was on the table and yet, Peter chose to do nothing—at least for her.
Bad brain days and all that...
Peter wondered briefly, if she’d just seen something in him to try this now because, for the first time since Mr. Stark had arrived at her door when this all started with a non-disclosure agreement in one hand and a catatonic teenager in the other, she tried again.
“Peter? You must be having a lot of feelings around today. Do you have plans to do anything special to commemorate the day? You’re guardian mentioned something about ordering Thai for dinner?”
Peter had unintentionally heard that plan already today as Tony’d had his customary pre-session conversation with Mr. Rosa. They both knew that he’d hear it, Peter’s spidey-hearing made having even the most secret conversations difficult. It was simply a courtesy that they not discuss him in front of him.
But suddenly, a memory of the recent past popped into his head, his eyes opened, and Peter spoke. “Larb.”
Ms. Rosa crooked a brow. “I’m hoping that’s a dish and not you having a medical emergency?”
The tiniest huff of a laugh escaped from Peter’s mouth.
Then he slapped a hand over it to keep more from escaping.
He would not—could not—
Ms. Rosa leaned forward in her seat, clasped her hands together, and heaved a sigh.
And Peter braced himself. There was no point to complaining. He knew exactly how bad it had been since—
“Peter, I need you to stay with me, okay? I’m about to drop some serious wisdom here and I need you to be present, okay?”
Peter furrowed his brow in confusion.
This wasn’t how the session was supposed to go.
“I think what we have here is a cataclysmic collision of awful events happening here and we’ve been trying to manage everything all at once instead of just eating the elephant.”
Peter blinked rapidly as he tried to translate what she’d said.
“Oh, come on. Tell me you’ve heard that before. ‘How do you eat an elephant?’ ‘One bite at a time?’”
Nothing.
She sighed again, “Okay, not the time. Got it.” She adjusted in her seat, leaning back and crossing her legs. “So—you are aware that Tony and I have been having conversations outside of our normal session time. Yes?” She paused, “Of course. Well, I have been given permission by Tony to share some of the things we’ve discussed, but only with relation to your treatment and treatment plan—just the same as for you... unless I fear for your safety and all.”
Peter waited.
“It seems, that while going through some of your Aunt’s paperwork yesterday, the Starks have come across some information that suggests we may also be dealing with a previously unknown family medical history and not only the grief disorder and CPTSD.”
His stomach sank. His secret was out.
“Peter? Did you know about your uncle’s depression?”
Peter shrugged, “Bad brain days,” he spoke softly.
Ms. Rosa stayed relaxed. “Is that what your aunt called his episodes?”
A head shake, ‘no.’ “My mom.”
“You’re mom called your uncle’s episodes bad brain days?”
Once more, a head shake, ‘no.’ “My dad’s.”
She stared at him a moment, then exhaled slowly. “And they were brothers?”
Cheeks pinked in shame, Peter nodded a ‘yes.’
He wanted to curl up into a ball and die. He should have been better- stronger! He had the spider bite and it had fixed everything that was wrong with him—the asthma! The eyesight! The weakness!
Why couldn’t it have fixed this, too?
He’d been quiet long enough that Ms. Rosa spoke up again. “Alright, then. I need you to listen to me, Peter-- actually hear my words.” She paused, assessing his current state.
Peter tried not to squirm.
Despite his discomfort, she must have been satisfied with what she saw, so she continued. “This is not your fault... just like all of the other horrible things that have happened in your life. And again, so you know that I’m serious. Your aunt’s death was not your fault.”
“But—”
She knew where he was going. “There is a police report that details the events of the accident, Peter—and that’s exactly what it was—a terrible, meaningless accident. The report also details the efforts you made to save your aunt once you arrived at the scene. There was nothing more you could have done to prevent this outcome. This was not your fault.”
They both sat with her words, then, “Do you believe me when I tell you that, Peter? Can you tell me that the accident wasn’t your fault and mean it?”
His throat tightened.
“You’re alright, Peter. Just breathe,” she coached.
Peter nodded but couldn’t speak.
“And the depression? – not your fault either. Can you allow yourself believe that?”
His chin quivered.
“Peter? What do you need, my friend?” Ms. Rosa was leaned forward again, his hands suddenly grasped firmly in hers.
And Peter knew, as clear as anything, exactly what he wanted, but he couldn’t have her so he would take what he could... “Mr. Stark? Please?”
The tears were falling before she could reach the door, not that he bothered to brush them away. How had he not wept for her? How had he let himself disappear into—
“Pete? Hey, bud,” He was there. Mr. Stark was there, knelt in front of him, solid and present and brushing his curls away from his wet face. “What do you need, sweetheart? What can I do?”
[And Peter didn’t deserve to complain.] “Oh, god, she’s gone, Mr. Stark! I tried to get to her, I swear, and I wasn’t good enough. I’m never good enough! But I swear I tried so hard!” His words were barely comprehensible through the sobs. [He knew exactly how bad it had been since this all started.] “I miss her. Every single day,” he moaned as he clutched at his stomach, trying to pull closed the giant hole she’d left. “I don’t know what to do. Please tell me what to do?”
Mr. Stark pulled Peter to his chest, fast and firm and holding on like both their lives depended on it. “We’re going to get you through this, is what we’re going to do, kid. Whatever it takes, you hear me? Me and Pepper and everyone who loves you—we are all here. You have all of us. We’ll get you through it, I swear.” [And if this was a consequence of his mental instability, then Peter was going to suck it up and deal...]