Peter was fine. At least, that’s what he told everyone. And hell, they believed it, even after the shitstorm that was his life in middle school, so why shouldn’t he? And so he started to, little by little, over the next couple of years. And little by little, he got better.
But that didn’t stop the nightmares that would awaken the 14 year old boy nearly every night as the echo of a gunshot in a grimy alleyway echoed through his brain, his frail body covered in a sheen layer of sweat.
That didn’t stop the hollowness that wracked his frame every second-- a hollowness that could only be blamed on the lack of true parental figures in his life.
It didn’t stop the survivors guilt that gnawed at his brain after watching his uncle’s bleeding corpse stiffen and cool under his shaky grasp.
It didn’t stop the intrusive thoughts, that it was his fault, that they died because of him, that he was poison and everyone who suffered his touch got hurt, that everyone would be better off without him, that he would be better off dead--
And then a certain spider crawled its way into the orphan’s life and everything did a 180. As a vigilante, he could save people. He, useless Penis Parker, could make a difference. He was no longer forced to watch everyone around him die. He had an opportunity-- no, a responsibility -- to save these people. And, of course, this led to bigger and better things.
Mr. Stark was brought into Peter’s life when he was 15. And frankly, it was the best couple of years the boy would ever experience.
Granted, there were struggles; fighting Captain America among other crazy-powerful heroes, having a building dropped on him, having his idol tell him he was useless without a suit, and not being able to live a normal life were some dampers on the whole “being mentored by an Avenger and becoming a professional hero” deal--but hey, Peter was grateful for the mask he could slip on to escape his own mind from time to time.
But a certain purple-skinned bastard decided to fuck it all up for him.
Honestly, Peter shouldn’t be the one complaining, as at least he wasn’t one of the unlucky few that either died in battle or didn’t come back from the snap (sadly, he lamented). He didn’t even remember most of the whole being dead thing, besides gripping the edges of his mentor’s metal suit and rambling about how he didn’t want to leave because oh god dying was so painful and he couldn’t breathe and he was being ripped apart atom by atom and he could feel all of it--
According to Dr. Strange, he was dead for five years. He didn’t recall any of it though, all he remembers were the painful seconds leading to his death, darkness, and then immediately being pulled back into reality, faced with a completely different scenario than the one he had left with. The sorcerer opened a blazing merigold portal and those who were on Titan alongside him entered it, only to end up in the middle of a battlefield. Peter could remember the pure and unfiltered joy that ran through his veins when he saw Mr. Stark, alive and well. This joy only multiplied by 100 when his mentor decided to choke up and wordlessly embrace the boy in a tight, comforting hug--a hug both probably needed years ago.
The next few events were among those he would rather not dwell upon. Let’s just say that watching your father figure, coated in blood, sweat, grime and dirt die in front of you could fuck you up. And that’s exactly what it did for Peter.
Please, Mr. Stark, we won! We won, Mr. Stark, you did it….
Yeah. You could say that again.
Much like the spider-bite, Peter’s life changed so quickly he could barely register it--this time, for the worse. Peter was thrown back into the mindset of that when he was a young teenager. He patrolled as usual, but it sure as hell didn’t give him the same sense of satisfaction and joy as it once did. Not to mention he only became more reckless, resulting in more and more bruises that decorated the face around his increasingly dull eyes. Eyes that no longer held the spark of what they did when he was alive. When they all were alive. The boy soon enough found himself drowning in a pit of helplessness, hopelessness, depression, and general numbness. It seemed his mental capacity wasn’t enough to handle the deaths of nearly all of his loved ones at such a young age. Flash’s insults only got worse, which didn’t help the dangerous thoughts that already ricocheted off the walls of his head.
He could tell May was worried. He could tell Ned was worried. He could tell Happy was worried. Hell, he could even tell MJ was worried, no matter how hard she pretended she wasn’t.
He didn’t care. He couldn’t bring himself to.
And fucking hell, the universe decided he didn’t have enough trauma to dwell on because soon enough he found himself thrown into the hands of a mourning, panicked world and oh--Nick Fury. Fantastic. How the hell did everyone--even Mr. Stark, for God’s sake-- expect him to replace Iron Man and become the lead Avenger? He was barely passing his AP Lit class, let alone deal with the gaping hole that was left by his mentor’s death!
He couldn’t do it. He wasn’t strong enough. At least, that’s what he tried to tell everyone, but unfortunately nobody seemed to care about the kid’s capabilities and threw the grieving child into yet another mission. Peter Parker found himself working alongside the capable Mysterio, and shit, it all hit the boy like a train (no pun intended). This was the man that would be fit to fill the void of Iron Man. This was the man that was ready for this kind of responsibility, not some 16 year old hero-wannabe from Queens.
But God, did he have to be so gullible?
Mysterio was easily able to manipulate the mourning child’s heart into thinking he was an ally, then betrayed him. Several painstaking battles were shared between the two, but thank God that Peter was able to pull his shit together and rein victorious over the villain. That didn’t prevent those remarks from seriously slicing through his thick skin, though.
If it weren’t for you, maybe Tony would be alive.
Shutupshutupshutupsh utupshutupshUTUPSHUTUPSHUTUP--
The teen found himself a great deal more jaded than he was before the entire ordeal--or at least more so that he already was. It turns out having your entire reality pull a Dr. Strange on you and dig into your worst thoughts and fears only to have them all exploited before your eyes can be pretty damaging. Not to mention the person he trusted wholeheartedly betrayed him on numerous occasions. So yeah, you could say that Peter wasn’t nearly as trusting or gullible as he once was. He subconsciously put up cold, stony walls around him and changed his entire demeanor to the point where his friends didn’t treat him the same out of fear of him lashing out (God, your friends don’t even want to be around you? And you call yourself a hero?).
Wow, life really hated him! Despite his attempts to do everything in his power to save everyone in danger’s path, the Gods really wanted him to suffer through a terrible, burdensome life. The next thing he knew, he was faced with a giant headline-- Spider-menice-: Defender or Dogmatist? -- and was being accused of being a fucking terrorist--
His iconic Peter Parker luck decided to make another appearance, as if to say “and you think things couldn’t get any worse?” and suddenly Spiderman’s secret identity was no longer so secret. Peter watched as his name and along with a picture of his face flashed across the huge screen. The boy didn’t think he had ever such a strong surge of panic as he did just then-- because this time it didn’t just endanger himself, it endangered everyone around him. All of his classmates, All of his friends, Ned, MJ--
--Shit, May.
Peter had no memory of swinging away from the shell-shocked crowd beneath him, but the next thing he knew he was atop a skyscraper, overlooking the bustling city of Queens, panicking like he had done oh-so-many times before. Fuck. Fuck. He had no idea what to do. His brain was completely shutting down, so no classic genius Peter Parker plans could make an appearance. He was at a complete loss. Thoughts racked his brain harder than they had ever before. He could faintly feel his phone buzzing but he was so beyond having any sort of capacity to pick it up and why did he have to be so useless--
So many people are in danger because of you.
Maybe they’re right, you know.
With all this trouble you’ve caused, you probably are a terrorist.
What would Tony think?
He’d be so disappointed.
His prodigee can’t even handle himself.
Useless.
Worthless.
You’d be better off dead.
The boy just completely shut down. Heavy sobs shook him to his core, sounds that should never be coming from a kid. Everything washed over him in waves: his parents’ deaths, Ben’s death, Tony’s death, his own death, and now this shitstorm. He was so trapped and God he couldn’t fucking breathe--
He faintly heard footsteps over the intense ringing in his ears and he felt himself being pulled into a tight hug, like the person who was embracing him was afraid to let go. He somewhat remembers looking up and seeing the distressed face of Happy, and Peter just let loose a torrent of cries and gripped the man’s coat and let out sob after sob after sob. And Happy just held him, because shit, the boy had gone through hell and back. The least he could do was be there for the one who was crumbling apart beneath his fingertips.
Because Peter didn’t know how much longer he could keep this up.