Chapter 22
Chapter 22
Saturday, February 8
Peter’s thankful that the last two days have been mostly cloudy in his memory. He doesn’t want to remember May’s face when she saw him so sick with machines and tubes and wires all over, and he doesn’t want to remember the specifics of the dreadful, failed attempt at coming off of the BiPap, how the apnea spells returned and sent him into a horrific panic attack that was made worse by having to be back on the BiPap machine in order to breathe for most of Thursday.
He’s happy to be in his own bed by the weekend, albeit with continuous oxygen and around-the-clock treatments again, including the annoying vest treatment. It wasn’t his asthma this time, but the reaction sparked a flare of his asthma, and he hates the idea that he is starting from what feels like scratch again, even though Bruce has assured him that he isn’t.
All because he ate a single shrimp at the gala.
MJ shows up with a movie, microwave popcorn, and a bag full of boxed candy. It brings a welcome smile to Peter’s face, even if he does think Good N Plenty should be banned.
“Hidden Figures,” she says, holding the movie up. “Science, kicking racism in the ass, and women in STEM.”
“MJ,” Peter says, but MJ won’t look up, is rifling through the bag of candy.
“I wasn’t sure if you were a Milk Dud or Sour Patch Kids person, so I kind of bought up the dollar section,” she says, ignoring him.
“MJ.”
“What?” she asks, finally lifting her gaze.
“I can tell that you’re trying really hard not to bring up what happened, and I appreciate that…but you’re also not looking at me, and you never used to do that before.” He takes a deep breath, thankful for the oxygen, and leans his head back against the pillow. “I promise I’m fine.”
She sits on the side of his bed, doesn’t crawl in beside him like usual, and Peter isn’t quite sure how he’s going to make this better, make it okay, because dammit, none of this is fine.
It never was, even though everyone has been telling him over and over that it is, but it really isn’t fine now.
“You're fine here in this moment, but Peter…you weren’t at the gala, and you weren’t in the car.” And she’s crying, but not in the way Peter’s expected. Her face isn’t twisting like Tony’s does, and her hands aren’t coming up to wipe her tears away like May does, and it feels wrong. All of it feels so wrong. She’s stoic, isn’t even looking down, and for a moment, Peter questions whether or not she’s actually crying. But then there are tears dropping onto her jeans, and he reaches for her hand, but she’s pulling it away, and now he’s debating just asking her to leave because it feels like maybe she can’t handle this, like maybe he shouldn’t want her to, shouldn’t expect her to.
He doesn’t want to think like that, but of course he is.
Peter knows he can’t even handle this, and he’s somehow supposed to expect MJ to after what happened?
“I’m sorry, MJ,” Peter’s offering, his voice worn from medicine and sleep, but the words feel flat and unaffecting. “I’m sorry that it happened and I’m sorry that it could happen again, I…I can’t control it, it just…h-happens?” Tears are rolling down his own face even though he was sure he was cried out.
She turns toward him with a sniffle, looks him in the eye. “I know you can’t, Peter. That’s why I’m so upset! I’m not mad at you, I’m just mad that you have to deal with all of this.”
“I don’t really remember much else, because I blacked out, but I know you saw all of it and I’m just…really, really sorry, MJ. I’m-,” he chokes out, the tears streaming down his cheeks as he sobs. These moments keep happening, take over when Peter is sure he’s fine, and it’s been the ultimate blow to his confidence. “You don’t have to stay. With me, I mean. I get it. This is a lot. I’m...I’m a grenade like Hazel and I’m…”
“You are not a grenade, Peter, and you have no reason to be sorry.” She wraps herself around him, Peter leaning away from the pillows and into her. “You didn’t know,” she whispers, squeezing tightly. “It’s okay. You had no idea about the shrimp.”
And then she sobs, big, ugly sobs that Peter was not expecting. He hugs her back, places a hand on the back of her head to steady her, and kisses her forehead.
“I should be comforting you,” she half-laughs, half-cries, which slows her sobbing down.
“No, MJ. I...I think I needed this. To comfort someone else. I’ve done more than enough thinking and crying about this. Trust me.”
“But you shouldn’t have to comfort me when you’re the one who went through it!” she’s blubbering.
“Yeah, well, it was a lot for you, too. At least I blacked out,” he says with a small laugh. “You didn’t get that option.”
She pulls away just enough to make eye contact with him, their red, glassy eyes meeting. Her lip quivers. “You couldn’t breathe.”
“Breathing now, though,” he says softly, fixing her hair. “See?” He takes a deep draw from the oxygen and lets it out slowly.
“Show off,” she jokes with a sniffle, kissing him on the lips. Peter can taste the salt from her tears, but he doesn’t mind. She goes in for another kiss, and then another, until her and Peter are sliding down the pillows to lie flat on the bed, MJ resting softly atop his body.
“You’re cute when you’re like this,” he flirts.
“I’m cute all of the time, thank you very much!” she asserts, going in to kiss him again.
He’s smiling now, letting his hands caress the small of her back. He almost forgets the oxygen beneath his nose, the breathing treatment he has to do soon.
“Can’t keep up with me, loser?” she taunts when his breathing grows heavy and uneven.
“Need a...minute,” he wheezes, closing his eyes as he tries to catch his breath. With anyone else, he’d be embarrassed, mortified, even, but with MJ, he lets those negative feelings trying to claw their way into this moment melt away.
“Is it like breathing through a straw again?” she asks softly, nestling herself beside him so that his lungs have space to expand. He nods, eyes still closed, and feels MJ take his hand in hers. “Just let me know when.”
He wants to ask her when what, but he doesn’t. He worries it’s her asking if she should leave, like she did during break, and the thought scares him because he wants her here, holding his hand, helping him get through this.
They lay there, Peter’s wheezing filling the room as he pants softly.
He’s always wheezy now.
Peter closes his eyes again, tries not to cry at how shitty he feels. He doesn't want to, not after he and MJ both sobbed and talked about what was arguably the worst night of his life. He’s tired of doingthis, of doing this painful thing to everyone he loves. So fucking tired.
They do that thing where Peter sleeps through a treatment and much of the movie, exactly as they did most of break. He’s wheezy even after the treatment, but he can breathe. He catches snippets here and there, mostly when the music swells or someone is yelling, MJ there with her head on his pillow, periodically adjusting his oxygen when it slips because he keeps turning onto his side toward her. He wants to apologize, but he can barely keep his eyes open, can’t form the words on his lips.
It’s more than enough to make anyone leave, but she stays like she always does, gives commentary on the music choices and costuming. She asks him questions without him having to answer, rhetorical ones, mostly, where she speaks for him to agree and disagree with a playfulness that makes him smile. He clings on to the normalcy in it, breathes it in.
“You doing okay?” she whispers when the movie is finished, when it’s just regular TV programming turned down low on the screen and he’s in her arms, lying on her chest, her chin resting atop on his head. “Be honest. You know you don’t have to lie just to make me feel comfortable.”
He looks up at her with sleepy eyes, too tired to speak, and blinks, squeezing her hand. Yes.
X
Wednesday, February 12
By mid-week, Peter is back to his pre-reaction state, with a few extra preemptive breathing and vest treatments added into the mix. Tony stands in Peter’s doorway a little after nine in the evening on Wednesday, still in his suit and tie, his hands in his pockets, watching as Peter finishes homework and does a treatment at his desk. Peter can sense that Tony’s there, even over the buzzing of the nebulizer, which means his spidey senses are slowly coming back to him. He turns toward the door with the nebulizer mouthpiece between his lips and smiles, nodding for Tony to enter.
“Hey, kiddo,” Tony says tiredly, sauntering over. He glances at the open textbook and notebook on the desk. “Molarity, eh? Need any help?”
Peter pulls the nebulizer mouthpiece from his lips to say, “No, think I’ve got it, thanks though,” before returning it.
“You do your vest?”
“Before dinner. Didn't wanna puke again.”
Tony nods, acknowledging that that’s been an issue. “Smart.”
Peter’s nebulizer runs dry, so he turns the machine off and sets the mouthpiece aside, pausing to study Tony for a moment. “You look...exhausted.”
“Wow, that’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me,” Tony jokes, ruffling Peter’s hair and leaning over his homework again. Peter laughs, gets back to his work. “Remember, kid, you have to perform metric conversions before you plug in for volume,” Tony comments.
“Milliliters to liters, I know. King Henry Doesn’t Usually Drink Chocolate Milk.”
“Hmm. Interesting acronym. Just keeping you sharp.” He pauses, leaning against the bed post, but Peter’s too busy to sense the tone shift in the room. “Hey, um, did you want me to leave an Ativan in here tonight?” Tony tries to ask gently. Peter’s pencil stops mid calculation on the page, his body frozen.
Last night’s intense nightmare had left him inconsolable, screaming and shaking with absolute fear. He can’t remember the details, but he remembers the way that the fear gripped him and wouldn’t let go, Tony there and holding him tight, giving him an Ativan when fifteen minutes had passed and he couldn’t stop hyperventilating. And while it wasn’t an asthma attack, didn’t even require breathing meds to correct, Peter had woken up groggy, slivers of fear lingering when they weren’t welcome.
Peter’s eyes well up with tears. “Tony, I’m -”
He puts a hand up. “I’m gonna stop you right there because you are not apologizing for having another nightmare,” Tony says, sitting on the kid’s bed with a sigh. “Look, I know that I haven’t been around as much as I should’ve been this week, and I’m sorry about that. Work has me stressed to my gills right now and I wanted everything settled before we took our trip. Last night-”
Peter’s eyes a wide with panic. “I-I shouldn’t have woken you.”
“Peter, come on. You know that you can always wake me or Pepper if something is wrong. Always.”
“You need your sleep, Tony,” Peter rambles. “I heard Pepper yesterday after dinner, and you look so tired! You’re not well, and...”
Tony waves a hand in the air. “Forget about me for a moment. You know that the gala, and the nightmare last night, aren’t your fault, right?”
“I don’t know.”
Tony sighs. “Underoos. Come on. We didn’t come this far for you to suddenly think every flare up is your fault again.”
“It’s just,” he starts, bouncing his leg in anxiety.
“It’s just...what?” Tony says, nodding his head for him to continue.
“It’s just that I thought I was getting better, and now I’m realizing that it could happen again. That it will happen again.”
Tony gives an empathetic grin, and sighs. “Bruce told us that it might, kiddo. Actually, not might, would.”
“Yeah, but I didn't think it’d be so bad that I’d almost die again!” Peter argues, closing his eyes as he exhales quickly to calm down. He controls his breaths, thankful for the treatment he’s just done. “I wasn’t ready for the reaction. I was already so tired with treatments and school and everything. It’s just really sucky, I guess.” He plays with a loose thread on the end of his t-shirt. “I was looking forward to Disney, and now I don’t know if I even want to go.” He hates the words as they come out of his mouth. Tony has done all of this for Peter, the planning, paying the money and scheduling other things for their trip, too. All of this to cheer him up, to give him something to look forward to after he asked for it specifically that night in MedBay. He knows letting this disease take Disney from him when he’s physically well enough to go would be stupid, but he’s also emotionally exhausted. He’s tired of making it look like he’s got everything under control when he knows he’s falling apart on the inside.
Last night, he knows, was a stark reminder of the fact that he’s not handling this as well as he wants to, and he doesn't understand why.
He doesn’t get why it has to happen when he’s asleep and vulnerable.
“I’m just gonna leave this here, okay?” Tony asks, pulling a pill bottle from his jacket and placing it on Peter’s nightstand. “I have it set for FRIDAY to wake me. I really don’t mind. You know that, but I need you to believe it, kiddo.”
Peter nods, looks down at his hands.
“I promised I’d get you to Disney.” Tony has a hand on his shoulder, but Peter can’t get himself to look up at him. “When I said that, I meant physically and emotionally. I know this is hard for you, Underoos. I know and I’m so sorry. I wish things were different.”
“I know. It’s okay.”
“It’s not okay.”
Peter sighs. “Well, we can’t really do more than we already are. Bruce said that at my appointment on Monday. So…”
“We can still go to Disney,” Tony says, kissing him on the head. “But I understand if it’s too much.”
Too much.
Those words.
The Nucala injections? Too much. The vest machine? Too much. Thinking about BiPap? Too much.
But Disney?
“I think I still wanna go,” Peter says, looking up at Tony.
A smile spreads across Tony’s face. “Yeah?”
Peter laughs. “Yeah.”
“Make a small list, like Bruce said. All the things you really want to do.” In case you can’t do everything.
Peter doesn’t want to admit it, but he’s already started a list in his phone. He’s been trying to keep his mind off of the obvious by digging into Disney blogs.
He just hopes this trip is enough to get him past the awful flashbacks from the gala.
x
Wednesday, February 19
Tony’s worked hard to keep Peter’s mind off of things. They geeked out at Griffith Park and the California Science Center on Monday. Yesterday, Tuesday, they’d made it a little under an hour at the La Brea Tar Pits before Peter started getting wheezy from the fumes, spent the rest of the day sitting around the pool being lazy. Or rather, Peter was lazy, alternating between bobbing in an inflatable tube and napping in the sun; Tony was preoccupied with reading everything ever published on nanotech and fielding SI emails.
Their morning at Disney starts nearly two hours before the parks open, with Peter sleeping through most of the car ride from Malibu to Anaheim. When he wakes, Tony forces a smoothie on him (he can taste the hidden kale and immediately knows Pepper has put Tony up to this) and handful of his pills from his pill organizer. He takes puffs from his inhalers and occupies himself during his four-minute morning breathing treatment (thank you, Tony) by scrolling through the list of rides and snacks he’s determined to accomplish today.
Rides:
Splash Mountain
Space Mountain
Big Thunder Mountain
Haunted Mansion
Pirates of the Caribbean
Snacks:
Churro
Mickey Ice Cream
Dole Whip
Cotton Candy
He’s keeping it small, like Bruce has recommended, in case he can’t make it the full day. At first, it had been upsetting, but then he’d read about FastPasses and Disney snacks, and he figures the less time standing and more he breaks for snacks, the more he can space the day out to get on more rides.
Peter wants to be excited, knows he’s been working his butt off most of the last week trying to get back to where he was before the gala, but he also knows that familiar pull in his lungs at the three-hour mark between treatments a little too well now, and he hates to think that his body might not let him fully enjoy the day as he, and Tony, intend to. Walking through the gates, though, brings a smile to his face, the colors and lively music helping him focus positively on the day ahead.
They skip Main Street and veer off in the direction of their first FastPass.
“You will get soaked,” Tony reads from a sign once they’re in the queue for Splash Mountain. “Huh.”
“Drop your socks and grab your Crocs, we're about to get wet on this ride!” Peter jokes, trying to get into the Disney spirit, and Tony looks over, amused by the fact that Peter’s quoting something he said during a battle with Rhodey against the Hammer drones at the Stark Expo years ago.
Tony’s eyes narrow as he tilts his head. “You hacking into FRIDAY and watching old footage?”
Peter’s eyes widen and he stiffens. “Maybe?” he asks slowly.
Tony’s sharp facial features soften. “It’s fine, actually. Figured you might want to see some of my suit’s footage since I can see yours.”
“So, I’m not that good of a hacker, then?”
“Nope. Planted that bait for you and you took and it ran.”
Peter sighs. “Thought maybe I was catching up to you.”
“You’re fifteen, Peter. You have loads of time to catch up to me.”
“Still going to get wet on the ride.”
“Oh, I’m counting on it!”
It doesn't take them long to get to the front, thanks to Tony’s FastPass skills, and before long, they’re sitting in a log flume, cracking jokes about the puppets and music.
The picture that appears on their digital PhotoPass afterwards is Tony screaming, eyes wide and face stuck in a state of absolute horror with Peter in the seat before him, hands up and a wide grin on his face.
Peter puts his phone to his chest and laughs. “We’re framing this.”
“We’re not,” Tony says, pointedly. “Also, I’m angry about the puppets,” adds, his still-wet shoes squishing on the pavement. “It’s 2020. That tech is unacceptable. Think Disney needs a new imagineer?”
“It’s called vintage, Tony.”
“It’s campy is what it is,” Tony huffs.
They share a churro and tackle Big Thunder Mountain, Haunted Mansion, and Pirates of the Caribbean before Tony announces that it’s time for a treatment and lunch. Peter’s not excited to take a treatment in public, though, so he drags his feet a bit as they walk until Tony finds a small table with an umbrella off to the side of a quick service restaurant. It’s somewhat hidden and shaded, and that’s when Peter realizes that Tony gets it, why he’s found this little hideaway. Peter figures that five minutes of “dealing with it,” it being his lungs, is better than having to cut the day short, so he takes his Atrovent puffs and does his treatment, tries not to think about how the taste of Xopenex brings him back to his allergic reaction, to waking up with his airways locked in a bright room in MedBay.
The last week has mostly been Peter trying to mitigate the onslaught of anxiety attacks without Ativan, because needing it to help him come out of it means getting Tony involved, which means he’ll know how often they're happening. Peter’s tweaked an algorithm in Karen and FRIDAY’s coding so that he can preemptively turn off the high heart rate alert before Tony receives it, and so far, it’s worked to his advantage. He’s been able to hide the two panic attacks in the subway before school, the other two before bed last week, and one case of sensory overload during lunch.
It hasn't helped keep Tony from waking him during the two nightmares since arriving in California, though, since Peter hasn’t figured out how to get the high heart rate alerts to stop all together.
His plan is to keep the rest of it from Tony for as long as he can, doesn't want him or anyone else worrying any more than they already are. Plus, they’re at Disney, and Disney is supposed to be the Happiest Place on Earth.
So he finishes his meds without complaint, packs up his bag, and announces that he’s starving.
A waitress leads them to a table at Blue Bayou inside of the Pirates of the Caribbean ride and asks if they’re celebrating anything special. Peter starts to shake his head as he takes a menu, but then he sees that Tony’s eyebrows are knitted like he’s thinking, and Peter’s heart sinks. He’s been waiting for Tony to bring up his being sick, make this trip feel more like a Make a Wish than a fun adventure for just the two of them, but instead, Tony says, “It’s the kid’s first time at Disney.” Tony’s suddenly all smiles, embodying his trademark Tony Stark exuberance. “I guess if there’s anything to be celebrated, it’s that!”
“Awesome! I’ll be sure to let Mickey know,” the waitress says, winking as she matches Tony’s energy. “I’ll be right back to take your drink and food order.”
“What…was that?” Peter asks.
“What was what?” Tony says, putting his reading glasses on to see the menu.
“The wink. Do you know her or something?”
“It’s Disney, Peter. Ever hear of pixie dust? And no, I don’t know her.”
“But she knows you.”
“Everyone thinks they know me, Peter,” Tony says, laughing. “Disney isn’t exactly the best place to go incognito as Tony Stark.”
Peter considers it, and realizes that Tony is right.
They order, Tony quietly mentioning Peter’s shellfish allergy, and the waitress winks again as she collects their menus. He takes in the candle-lit scene around him, can smell the chlorine in the water for the ride, hear the chirping crickets and twang of a banjo. He feels like he’s at the bayou, and he has to admit that he wasn’t expecting Disney to be so, well, entrancing and happy, but he has to admit that it’s a welcome change from the last few weeks.
x
“Nope,” Tony says after taking one look at the spinning teacups ride. They’re in the section of the park clustered with what Peter has coined the “baby rides,” but he doesn't care.
Peter’s practically pouting. “But you promised at lunch!”
“Definitely not after lunch, kiddo.”
“Would you rather we wait in line for Dumbo, Tony? Is that more your speed, old man?” Peter jokes.
Twenty minutes later, the two are seated in a giant elephant, ripping through the skies at a measly five miles an hour.
“I feel ridiculous,” Tony mumbles with his arms folded tightly across his chest.
“Wooooo!” Peter yells with his hands up.
“Is that really necessary?” Tony scoffs, but Peter knows he’s doing it in jest.
“Absolutely!”
They tackle Space Mountain next, wait in line for nearly forty minutes to get on while Peter rambles about the physics of rollercoasters.
“We have to do that again!” Peter rushes out as they exit the ride, is as energetic as Tony’s seen him in weeks, and he can’t find it within him to say no, but he’s not sure he can stand for that long again, is starting to fatigue from all of the walking. Luckily, a couple is trying to give away their paper FastPasses for two hours later, so Tony trades their Soarin’ passes, realizing that Peter might not fare so well with the artificial scents released during the ride. The kid is wheezy even though he’s just had a treatment three hours prior, but it seems to be from running and excitement, which Tony is fine with for now. He doesn’t seem like he’s struggling, has been letting Tony know when he needs a minute to catch his breath. A week ago, he wasn’t even sure Peter would be up for so much walking, and here they are, taking Disney by storm. There’s the smile of all smiles on Peter’s face, and it’s worth every penny Tony’s invested in this trip.
He buys Peter a Mickey Ice Cream as an excuse to sit in the shade and take some heart medication away from the crowds before they head toward the Cars/Radiator Springs area.
x
“You’re getting really wheezy, kiddo,” Tony comments during the fireworks as he places a hand on Peter’s shoulder. It’s only been two hours since his last treatment and puffs of Atrovent, which is concerning.
“It ain’t easy being wheezy!” he jokes, pointing playfully at Tony with a smile.
“Okay, no more cotton candy for you,” Tony kids, reaching for the cotton candy bag in Peter’s hand.
“No!” Peter says, laughing, pulling it away before Tony can grab it.
“Inhaler.”
“I wanted to watch the end of the fireworks!”
“We can leave and do a treatment in the car, would you prefer we do that?”
Peter groans, annoyed with the attention their argument is gaining. “Come on, Tony! There’s probably only, like, ten minutes left!”
“Peter, don’t get pouty on me.” Tony’s eyes are fixed, serious, and Peter has to hold his tongue and follow Tony toward the bathroom because he knows there’s no way he’s getting away with another snarky comment, not with the way his breathing sounds right now. They find a place off to the side near a set of pay phones and Peter rummages through his backpack with a heavy sigh. “Don’t half ass it, kid. Use your spacer,” he says when Peter pulls his Xopenex out, which earns him an eye roll.
He wants to argue that he doesn’t need it, but Peter shakes and uncaps the inhaler before inserting it into the slot of the spacer anyway, afraid that Tony will make him end the night early if he doesn’t comply. He presses down on the canister, careful to take one slow breath in and out, and then another, repeating the process before he packs everything up in his backpack and returns it to his back. Finally, he takes the water Tony’s holding out toward him and uncaps it to take a long sip.
“Better?”
“Actually, yeah,” Peter admits begrudgingly, capping the water and handing it back to Tony.
Tony gives small smile and ruffles Peter’s hair. “Still worried about you, Underoos.”
Peter looks down at the ground and bites his lip. “I know you’ve been checking in on me all day, with FRIDAY and Karen.”
“Just wanted you to have a good time,” Tony says. “Didn’t want anything to get in the way of that.”
“I know, I just…thought it’d be nice to be a normal kid for a day, you know? Turns out I can’t even do that right.” He feels tears press as he grips the straps of his backpack. The puffs he’s just taken are a reminder, and the frustration he’s been trying to hold back all day rises to the surface.
“Normal is overrated.”
There it is. Tony’s words hit deep, stir up the anger Peter’s been refusing to acknowledge. “You keep saying that but I don’t think it’s true, because all I want to do is be me, but I feel like I don’t even know who that is anymore! Not with all of this!” Peter hears his voice crack, has to swallow and hold his tears back because he really doesn’t want to cry at Disney. Not during the stupid fireworks show.
“You’re still the same Peter you’ve always been, kiddo.”
“That’s the thing, though, Tony. I’m not me like this, even if everyone says that I am! I wish people would stop saying that! I’m…I’m not…me…” he tries to get out, but he’s sniffling, his tears betraying him and falling down his cheeks. “I’m not…”
“Woah, woah, what brought this on?” Tony’s asking, concerned, but Peter can only sob, can barely catch his breath because the tears won’t stop and he can’t get his lungs to expand. It’s not his asthma this time, and he finds himself almost wishing that it was because the pain sitting in his stomach and chest is soul-crushing. “Kiddo, talk to me. Take a deep breath.”
He’s shaking his head as Tony guides him to sit on a low brick ledge near some bushes. “I-I…can’t…I’m not…” Peter is saying as Tony removes his backpack. “I...”
“Gotta sit up,” Tony’s guiding, helping him to straighten his back through his tight wheezing. “You’re sending yourself into an attack, Peter.”
“I-I’m okay, I’m j-just n-not…okay okay?” He knows he’s making zero sense, but the right words just won’t come to him.
“Slow it down,” Tony coaches, referring to Peter’s breathing. “You’ve already got the inhaler in your system.”
“Not asthma,” Peter says, shaking his head as he presses his palms flat into his thighs, his elbows locked. He closes his eyes, pretends he’s blowing out a birthday candle. In for three, out for six. In for three, out for six. He tries to make his mind blank, is glad that Tony is giving him some space to breathe this out rather than enveloping him in a hug.
By the time his breathing has regulated, and he feels okay enough to open his eyes, he’s not sure how long they’ve been sitting there. The fireworks are still going in the background, the booming making him flinch. He feels dazed, exhausted all of a sudden, and he’s absolutely sure that this is not how he wanted his first time at Disney to go.
“You wanna talk about it?” Tony offers quietly.
“I don’t know,” Peter answers honestly.
Tony scoots closer and lets out a slow breath. “You think taking your inhaler set your anxiety off? Is that why you didn’t want to take it?”
“Maybe.” Peter shrugs, suddenly uncomfortable.
“Has this happened before? After your inhaler?”
He’s wringing his hands, looking down at them as he bounces his right leg. “Yeah? And sometimes after I do a treatment?”
“Why didn’t you tell me you were still having anxiety attacks?”
“Because I didn’t know these were anxiety attacks? I thought they were…just me not being able to handle all of this well.”
“You’re handling this just as well as anyone else would. Actually, I think you’ve been doing better than you’re giving yourself credit for.”
“I could be better at it.”
“No, you couldn’t.”
“Most people don’t break down into a puddle of tears at Disney.”
Tony sighs. “You’ve been through a lot, Peter. After I came back from Afghanistan, I had a lot of flashbacks and night terrors. It was really debilitating for me. It took Pepper a while to realize that I was having anxiety attacks. She’s the one who helped me see someone about my PTSD.”
“I don’t have PTSD,” Peter spits.
“Peter.”
“People who return from war or…or survive a terrorist attack have PTSD,” he argues. “Refugees and people who lose their home in a tornado have PTSD.”
“And sometimes, people who get really sick and have a life-threatening medical event, especially repeated ones, also have PTSD.”
“I don’t have PTSD.”
“Okay.”
Peter thinks for a moment. “You survived a terrorist attack, Tony. You’re…allowed to have PTSD.”
Ah, Tony thinks. There it is. Kid doesn’t think what he’s been through is bad enough to warrant the label. “This has stolen your peace, Pete. All of it. The e-asthma, pneumonia, and anaphylaxis, the shots and treatments and inhalers and pills. It’s kept you from school, from your friends. From being Spiderman. It’s invaded every nook and cranny of your life, filling you with doubt and fear even during the most routine of tasks. Am I right?”
“Well, yeah, but you’re gonna tell me that you understand because Afghanistan did that to you, too, but…but you carry all of your shit well now.” He doesn't even care that he’s cursed, just needs to get it out.
“That doesn’t mean it isn’t heavy, Peter.”
“It does feel really heavy,” Peter admits, the tears returning. “All of the fucking time.”
“And when you do something that’s seemingly small, like take your inhaler, you find that you’re sometimes okay, but then other times, you’re suddenly not. And you don’t know why.”
“Y-yeah,” he says, sniffling as he looks up at Tony, confused but also comforted by the idea that someone does get it.
“That’s part of PTSD, kiddo.”
“H-how did you…”
“Therapy. Lots and lots of therapy, and support from Pepper and Happy, and everyone else.”
“B-but you’ve got it all figured out…y-you…you’re sick, too, and you run Stark Industries, and you’ve got all of those grants and the internship program-”
“I definitely do not have this all figured out. I take it day-by-day, sometimes hour-to-hour or minute-to-minute. You’ve gotta give yourself grace, kiddo, and acknowledge when you’ve reached your limit or when you need to process. It’s okay to stop moving, to slow your brain down and sort yourself out. Doesn’t matter if it’s physical or mental. You can’t just expect yourself to bulldoze through life avoiding your symptoms or feelings.”
Peter gives a small laugh through his tears. “You do that all of the time, Tony.”
“Some of the time. Gotta give me some credit, because I do relax more than I used to. But you need to take that advice, too. You’ve got big dreams, Pete, but you’ve also got big limitations, and that’s okay. Seeking balance between those two things isn’t this perfect algorithm we imagine it to be. It’s messy and painful and it honestly sucks a lot of the time. You and I? We’re analytical. We like absolutes. But the stuff that we live with, that throws a wrench in even the most intricate plans. And it’s okay to break down when it feels like it isn’t okay. You’re allowed to feel like this is stealing things from you because it is. Remember MJ and her iteration of Heisenberg’s uncertainty principle?”
“Chaos theory.”
“Essentially. People like us have to find a way to live in the uncertainty.”
“I don’t want to have to do that.”
“I know, kiddo. I don’t want you to have to either, but that’s where we’re at.”
Peter takes a breath and rubs his eyes, the two sitting for a moment as the fireworks continue.
“How about we grab a Dole Whip and blow this popsicle stand?” Tony asks softly.
Peter’s feeling a little shattered, but he nods and slowly lifts off of the stone to follow Tony, who helps him put his backpack on. Usually, Peter would complain that he doesn’t need to be babied, or that he can do it himself, but he finds himself letting Tony wrap an arm around his shoulder and pull him close as they order Dole Whips. Despite the panic attack, he’s thinking that today was one of the best days he’s had. Hanging out with Tony, with no threat of work or Avengers business getting in the way, has meant the absolute world to him.
Like taking that first deep breath after a bad attack, today was enough to get him through. Enough to keep him working for the next breath, even if it isn’t going to be easy.
On the drive home, Tony has FRIDAY play Big Hero 6 on the dashboard display while they eat their Dole Whips. Peter fights to stay awake, can barely keep his eyes open, so Tony lets him skip his night treatment, lets him be the normal kid he wishes he could be for a short while, and mutes the movie so that the kid can get some sleep. He pulls Peter’s sweatshirt from his backpack and drapes it over him, thinks about how far the kid has come since this all dialed up to eleven at Christmas, how damn proud he is of him.
It’s all May, and Ben, Tony knows, but he likes to think that their time together has had as much of a positive effect on Peter as it has on Tony.
If you had asked him a year ago what his life would look now, he’d never have imagined late nights in the lab with Peter, Tony eager to share his love for microwaving grapes to create plasma, or answering to FRIDAY’s calls about his kid’s nightmares and asthma attacks.
Peter isn't his kid, but he’s the closest thing he’ll probably ever have to his own, and he wants to do this right. Even exhausted and preoccupied with his own health stuff, Tony wants to get this right.
For Peter.