Disorderly Conduct

For the record, Peter didn’t hate his body. At least, he didn’t think he did.

In fact, ever since the bite, his physic was incredible. Abs, biceps, triceps, even ankles-For once in his life, he actually looked like one of those photoshopped models that girls his age would cut out and tape to their walls. Of course, all of this he hid under dorky sweaters and slightly baggy thrifted jeans- If he couldn’t before, he couldn’t now. The mantra that ruled his life at this point.

It was the food thing that caused the problem.

In reality, Peter felt guilty that he didn’t feel guilty about eating everything in sight. After all, Peter didn’t ask to get bitten. He didn’t ask for superpowers that rendered him a overstimulated couch potato. The excess food was compensation! However, as he began to get a hold on his new abilities, the need for “compensation” from his pain ebbed away and instead… he was left with a self-conscious prickle on the back of his neck whenever he asked for seconds. Because really, he didn’t TRULY need that much food. Everyone else got along fine with normal amounts- even Captain America commented on his eating habits. But as Mr. Stark had once said “Guilt does not necessarily cause action, and action does not necessarily cause guilt”. Of course, he had said this about Clint stealing his favorite cereal from the communal kitchen, but the point still stood. Peter may not have felt guilty about eating everything in sight, but he refrained from it, to be polite.

Maybe it was the money thing.

It wasn’t that he and May were poor, to be exact- they lived in a relatively nice part of Queens, in a relatively nice apartment, and he went to a relatively nice school. On the other hand, to maintain all of this, May had to work two different shifts at the Queens Memorial Hospital.

Whenever he would be able to sneak a peek at May’s worried expression when she was paying bills, he would feel a solid, hard, painful rock of guilt settle in his stomach, one that quickly ate of his appetite. Sure, it wasn’t his fault that he had an enhanced metabolism, but it was his fault that he was eating his way into more shifts with May. So he started eating less.

For the money. For May.

He would manage it perfectly- just a little less potatoes, only a slice of pizza, a glass of milk not three, no after-school food. Just enough to satisfy him but not at all enough to fill the gaping void that was his hunger.

He was fine. A lot more people were dealing with a lot more than just being slightly hungry.

“You sure that’s all you want?” May had asked one night, staring concerned at Peter’s strangely normal portion of soup. Peter smiled in a way that he hoped was convincing. It wasn’t.

“MJ brought like, the best brownies ever to Decathlon practice today and they had extras,” he responded nonchalantly. It wasn’t exactly a lie, she had brought brownies, but they were for the soup kitchen she was working at after school, “They were really good. It kinda ruined my appetite.”

May laughed and shook her head, “And you’re sure its not just because of my awful cooking?”

Peter shoved a huge spoonful of soup into his mouth, “It’s deweshios.”

May threw a handful of napkins at his face as soup dribbled out of his mouth. In the corner of his eye, he smiled at the tupperware container of leftovers. They would have that the following night, and Peter would have the half-portion the night after that.

Then it was the weight thing.

He didn’t know why he obsessed so much about the weight thing- his health ever since the bite was impeccable- but it was a safe goal, one separate from Spider-Man and one safe from everyone else. He had always been a skinny kid (and he didn’t necessarily want to be a skinniER kid) but nevertheless he made it a goal.

It was safe. It was separate.

Besides, who would ever blame him for wanting to make the number go down? He wasn’t even that centered on it. Once a week he would sneak into May’s bathroom and stand on the scale. 123.45 lbs. Then 120.91 lbs. Then 118.76 lbs. Then… then…. Then….. Alright. It wasn’t exactly a weekly thing. But May never caught him, MJ never noticed, and Ned never worried, so how big of a problem was it? He was being safe. Healthy, even. Karen would be proud of him, if he ever told her his method. She would say something like “Watching your calories and monitoring your weight is important to your health.” Or at least she hoped she would.

Did he hope? Maybe. Possibly.That night he weighed himself again. It was a nagging pinch in the back of his neck that drew him back again. Beforehand, he had been watching TV- no snacks, just a glass of water. Then he felt it. He wasn’t doing anything productive or worthwhile. Just watching TV. May wouldn’t ask questions- she wasn’t even home. No one would know. Peter stood up, abandoning the cold water, and stumbled past the kitchen. It wouldn’t even mean anything, really. He was just curious. Faintly, he registerd the sounds of the apartment door opening, but he didn’t He walked into the bathroom, the cold linoleum tiles. The colder surface of the scales, the scales that were so important. The momentary pause on the screen, before he saw it- 121.62 lbs.

121. Basically 122. It went back up.

He went back up.

“Peter?” May called from the living room. Peter swallowed thickly. He could already smell it-

“I brought home Thai!” she called, and he could hear the crinkle of the plastic bag as she set it down on the table. The sound of her dropping her keys in the little dish he and Ben molded back when Peter was seven. The smell of the rice, the sound of the cabinet being opened to pull out plates, and he was so hungry but-

“Oh.. its fine May! I already ate!” he said, then pushed past the half-closed bathroom door to his room. He could hear May talking, and maybe he felt bad, but right now all he felt was failure. He opened the window, then climbed out.

He was doing so good. How did it go back up?

“Hello, Peter,” Karen greeted him warmly, as Peter ascended the side of a building, “How was your day?”

“Fantastic,” Peter said with a fake grin (Tony- he calls Iron Man Tony, what is his life- watched the footage), the words of the following sentence falling off his tongue, “Ned brought like, the best ever home-made hot pockets for lunch, and he gave me some.”

The suit was silent for a moment.

“My scanning indicates you haven’t eaten since 7:32 this morning,” Karen said, voice somehow disappointed for a motherly robot, “Would you like to stop somewhere before your patrol? Mr. Stark would not mind the charge to his card.”

Peter’s face flushed, “We are not spending Mr. Stark’s money on food, Karen.”

“Why not?” Karen asked, “Mr. Stark wired his card to your suit for necessities, and your caloric intake over the last three weeks has been lacking for someone of your age and nutritional requirements.”

“I’m fine, Karen,” Peter said, perching on the top of the building, more winded then he usually was. It probably was just the cold fall air. Or maybe his number. Weighing him down…

“A lack of food can affect your abilities, Peter,” Karen reasoned, which made Peter pause. That was news. It made sense however, that with less food, he would have less energy, which meant less… superpowers. But it was fine- because Peter wasn’t dealing with a big lack of food. He was just eating like a normal person for once. He even saw it in a news article before. When people go on vacation, they eat more, and their stomachs get bigger. That’s why when they go back its hard for them to go back to their normal diet. Peter had just been on vacation for too long.

“Good thing I’m eating a normal amount of food then,” he said with a shrug, “Can you patch me in with Ned now? He said he saw something shady on some security cameras.”

“Can do, Peter,” Karen said, “But do try to eat more.”

“I will do my absolute best,” he said.

But when Peter got home later that night, and weighed himself like he did every night, he realized he had lied. It was still 122. He didn’t eat breakfast that morning. He doesn’t eat breakfast the next morning. Or the next. In fact, he stopped eating breakfast period. He didn’t even notice anymore. He didn’t know if that was a good thing or a bad thing.

He was tired.

Deep down he knew it was the food thing. He wasn’t an idiot. You needed… food, for energy. Carbohydrates are broken down for ATP molecules that fuel the body. It was simple science.

“Karen, what’s the tea?” Peter wheezed. While his mind screamed Move Move Move, he heaved himself up and under the metal surface just as he cleared 432 Park Avenue. The air must be thinner from this high up, he mused, because every breath was harder and more labored. Around him, he could see the red-orange flashes of guns going off, but they never met their target. It must be hard to aim from this high up-

“You are currently hanging from a private helicopter 1,000 feet in the air over a no-fly zone, Peter.”

“You are so observant.”

Peter crawled the side of the helicopter and scrunched up as soon as the tiny voice in the back of his head told him to stop. A storm of bullets flew past him again, but they all pierced the open air and fell to the ground below.

“Hey, I think this is a little illegal,” Peter yelled over the sound of the blades. There was no response from the pilot or the two men who were current reloading. Peter shook his head. Criminals these days. Always so preoccupied with crime. Maybe if they didn’t focus on crime they wouldn’t commit it.

With two fingers to his palm, a slimy ball of web appeared in his open hand like a perfectly shaped snowball. It landed against the outside of the door with a sick splat that was audible over the sound of the propellers slicing through the air. It seemed through his fingers in the grossessed way possible, but after a few seconds it hardered like hot glue.

With one yank, the door came loose and the criminals began to yell to each other.

“Can you please…” Peter made the mistake of glancing down as he gestured with his door hand, “Land this, or something? Its against the law to fly over New York!”

One of the criminals raised his gun again. Peter sighed.

“Really? I’m trying to keep all of us from dying and you just-” The gun didn’t even make a sound over the drowning roar of the propellors, but he could feel the bullet run across his arm. It shouldn’t have bothered him, it barely hit him, but nevertheless he lost his grip. Falling, Falling, Falling.

With his free hand, Peter turned on his back and shot a web to the bottom of the helicopter. Great. Now he’s back at square one. One of the criminals stuck his head out of the door-less side of the helicopter, before disappearing. The hairs on the back oh his neck raised in warning, and with an awkward arc he swung the door over him like a shield just as a tiny pop verberated across its metallic surface.

With his other hand, he began climbing his own web like a rope.

“You-”

He hefted himself up, barely clearing another tall-standing building, before letting his legs fall again.

“Guys-”

His free hand inched up the webbing, but slipped on the slick of the wet material. Note to self: talk to Tony about improving the grip on the gloves on wet surfaces. His own powers can only take him so far.

“Need-”

Faintly, he heard the sound of repulsors in the distance. Not to self: work up the confidence to talk to tony.

“To-”

He really needed to figure out a plan, because once Tony got here there would be no escape. If he can just get to the next block before Iron Man intervenes, then he’ll be golden-

“Let the Big Guys figure this one out? Good idea, kid,” A voice supplied, and in the corner of his eye he could see the gold and red-clad figure land inside the helicopter. Peter threw his head back in defeat, before letting go of the web and landing a considerably small distance on top of a building. With a flex of his fingers, the hardened webbing crumbled, and the door fell with a large thump. He watched the helicopter fly into the distance. When he was sure it wouldn’t turn around, he dropped down to the alleyway.

On days like these he could almost pretend everything was normal.

----
39 missed phone calls, 12 texts, 2 Happy-driven cars he ignored, and 1 close encounter with Iron Man, and Peter still couldn’t work up the nerve to talk to Tony. The worst part was that there was no fight. Tony didn’t ask about the food thing. Neither did May. Or Ned, or MJ. Hell, Flash didn’t even mention it, which was breathing proof that it wasn’t a problem.

As far as Peter knew, Tony didn’t even know about the food thing. Peter just… he had a tendency to word vomit around people. And Mr. Stark had the tendency to give him a once over and immediately zone in one whatever was troubling him. And then they would have a sit-down conversation and Peter would cry and so would Mr. Stark and it would all be over nothing, because this is nothing, isn’t it? It wasn’t a problem, it was just a goal. The only reason he felt so off was because he was getting used to it. It was like conditioning for soccer or football. The first few weeks suck, and then its easy, right?

He’ll talk to Mr. Stark eventually. He just had to get used to everything. Like how May knew about Spider-Man, or how MJ actually sat with them during lunch and participated in conversations instead of periodically glaring at them from over the edge of that week’s newest book.

He just had to get used to his smaller diet. He didn’t expect the new hunger to feel this fuzzy. Its like someone has been slowly drawing a blanket over him, and every day it grows heavier and heavier, dampening everything. For the first time he woke up and couldn’t hear the annoying alarm music the man two floors down played every morning. It should have scared him, but it didn’t. He was just being overdramatic. It was nothing. He was fine. This was safe.

The only reason Karen was freaking out over it was because it was a change in Peter’s normal. After his diet became consistent she would stop worrying about it. For that reason Peter blocked any health updates regarding his weight or diet. Karen needed to chill. What did she know, anyways?

The weirdest part was that some days he felt fine. Like the helicopter incident that was covered on every news station and magazine for a week.

SPIDER MAN: HANGING BY A THREAD?
MASKED VIGILANTE’S INFLUENCE DECREASING, IRON MAN INTERVENES DURING HIGH SPEED HELICOPTER CHASE (More on Page 6).

The only reason Tony hadn’t shown up at the apartment was because of the hushed conversations Peter heard May have on the phone at night. Yes….. he’s fine….. He hasn’t said anything? He looks fine…. Exactly!.... No, I don’t think he would have hacked the suit again… Tony, he looks up to you so much…. I will ask him to call you….. Yes, I will…. Does Pepper know? No? Well…. I would tell her, yes…. I just said I would ask him…. He’s a teenager, Tony… sometimes…. I’ll tell him you asked about him…. Alright? Now get some sleep. Bye.

It should have made him feel guilty, but all he felt was tired. And fuzzy. One moment he could hang from a helicopter all day, and the next he was on the scales again (He was currently sitting around 118 lbs). More days it was the latter more than the first.

Breakfast was essentially deleted from Peter’s schedule. When May asked if he had eaten anything, he claimed he would buy a snack on the way to school. When Ned would give him a once-over with a raised eyebrow, Peter would assure him that May made the best pancakes before work, Ned, you wouldn’t believe how fluffy-

The lying thing, it was hard, but so was keeping his number in check. And if he didn’t keep his number in check, all that reckless energy would spazz somewhere else. He was sure it would. That’s why he focused so hard on his number. Because he had to. Even if it caused him to be three minutes and forty-seven seconds late to chemistry class, something MJ counted and relayed to him everyday alongside some snarky yet affectionate comment.

“A new record, Parker,”
“Don’t let Flash beat you to class, Peter, that’s just sad,”
“No one told us life was ever going to be this late… Thanks for clapping, Ned”

Today’s friend-generated comment was a mixture between masked concern, inside jokes, and friendly annoyance. Brought to you none other by the personification of those three things.

“You look like… a building fell on you,” MJ regarded nonchalantly as she measured out droplets of water into a test tube. Peter shook his head, pausing when the motion made his vision swim. In the corner of his eye he could see a light smile dancing on her lips, hidden by the ringlets escaping past her messy ponytail and too-tight lab goggles.

“Ha ha,” Peter deadpanned, “Very funny.”

“She’s right. Your eyes are deader than…” Ned glanced around the classroom, eyes landing on his wilted bean sprout of an experiment,”...little ava here.”

MJ snorted, before shaking her head and shooting Peter a meaningful glance, “If Ned had given Ava water, maybe they wouldn’t have wilted.”

“I am a grieving plant parent,” Ned exclaimed, pouring his solution samples into the soil of the other experiment plants, “Do not criticize my ways.”

“Rest in peas, little plant Ava,” Peter whispered solemnly as he stared at the tiny sprout. Ned set down his tubes to stare longingly as well, and after a few suspiciously quiet seconds MJ abandoned her work to pay her respects to the plant as well. Then the bell rang. The spell was broken, and Mj began cleaning up her materials and grabbing her bag. Peter’s eyes still remained on the plant, through the flurry of the movements. How had class passed that fast? He was sure he only got here like, two minutes ago.

“See you losers, I have pre-cal,” MJ said, before shoving her abandoned pencils into her pocket.

Ned shook his head, “Oh may the lord have pity on your soul.”

As she turned to leave, she held up one, distinctly tall and straight, middle finger.

“Love you too!” Ned yelled, before turning to Peter, “Teenagers. They grow up so fast…”

“If anything, she’s more of the mom friend,” Peter argued back, as he forced his shaky hands to put his materials back in his backpack. Shaky hands…. Shaky hands? His hands were shaky? He forced his fingers to relax and moved his hands quickly to collect all his pencils without activating Ned’s Mom Mode.

“I don’t see it,” Ned shook his head, “MJ would trade me for a half-eaten burrito if the occassion arose.”

“I mean, me too,” Peter said nonchalantly as he quietly attempted to recall the last time he had a burrito. Some of them had such high calorie counts…

“Wow, thanks.” Ned threw up his hands, “Glad to know my friends love and care about me.”

Peter pushed air out of his lungs in a half-wheeze that would mimic laughing, then shoved his shaky hands into his pockets, trying hard not to teeter from side to side. Was his whole body conspiring against him? He can’t even function right- and last night he was hanging from a helicopter.

He had to get the zoning out under control. It was that simple. Figure out the hands, the time, the shaky hands, and then his number. It was a simple, separate, list, and he could handle it. He had to. All heroes had crosses to carry.

“Hello? Earth to Peter? We have to go to Spanish,” Ned laughs, but underneath his smile is a friendly concern.

“Si mi amigo,” Peter affirmed.

“No estudiaste para el cuestionario, ¿verdad?” Ned asks, and Peter blanks.

“Yes,” he says slowly, and Ned shakes his head, and they head off to class through the raging sea of teenagers. Class after class pases, the day zipping by quicker than Peter would have imagined, giving him a feeling of operating on autopilot. The sun moves in a lazy yet hurried arc overhead, until it hits the tops of the manhattan silhouettes and dips beneath the auburn sky. Patrol begins and ends sooner than it always has, which he guilty feels disappointed for. He shouldn’t be excited for crime. He should be excited to stop it.

He consults his text messages instead.

Ned was on silent, he always was, just as a precaution. After the incident during Liz’s party, well… it was a silenceable offense. Besides, Peter didn’t have the time or headspace to elicit a thirty minute discussion on comic books or star wars. That was for fully rested and engaged Peter Parker. Right now tired autopilot Peter Parker was steering the helm.

Next was MJ, who had shared a totally of two individual messages with him before leaving him on read two weeks ago. The next day she had said something about valuing human interaction more. Peter decided not to text her.

Next was May, who was at work. Nope.

Then there was Happy Hogan, entered in with two capital H’s and and out-of-character lack of emojis. Peter paused, thumb hovering over the call option of the contact. What would he say? Carry on like normal and tell him about the lack of churro lady today? Apologize for not answering? What if he picked up and asked Peter to explain himself? What reason would he have? Sorry Mr. Happy, I’m just going through conflicting emotions and I’m trying to find one goal to focus myself on so I don’t freak out every two seconds?

Perfectly normal and cool, Parker. Tony Stark will be begging to team up with you.

In the end, its Happy that tries calling him again. Peter watches the phone ring until it declines the call for him, then webs home. Later on, after eating a small salad and a slice of pizza for dinner, he realized he barely took notes in chemistry, which unfortunately wasn’t a rookie mistake for him.

“Peter? Why are you calling me in the shower?” Ned asked, a mixed reaction of confusion, slight annoyance, and genuine unimpressed energy.

“Could you send me the chemistry notes?”

“I mean sure? We didn’t really do much before you got there,” he replied, “Late night last night?”

Peter’s mind flashbacked to the image of Tony flying the helicopter away, “You wouldn’t believe it.”

“I saw it in the paper. Someone got a picture of you falling. Are you sure you’re alright?”

“It wasn’t that far,” Peter lied, a little to Ned and a little to himself. He wasn’t hurt more than usual, just the normal brand of banged-up black and blue Peter Parker, “I’m fine.”

“Now I doubt that.”

“When would I ever lie to you?” Peter asked.

“Well, starting with this week you lied about having a whole batch of May’s brownies at your apartment, which quite frankly Peter, as your best and only friend, I’m a little disappointed in. I thought we would share in each other’s joys and hardships, but someone kept them all to himself, quite like the red and blue neighborhood friend we all know and trust, Peter-”

“Hey.” he warned, “You don’t deserve me.”

“Sure,” Ned mused, and a few seconds of silence passed between them. “I’ll send them your way. Now get clean, you filthy spider.”

Peter stuck his tongue out.

“I can feel your sass from here. Take care of yourself, Parker.”

“You as well, Leeds.”

The second he climbs out of the shower, he gracefully dives face-first into his bed, chemistry notes be damned.

------

That night its his restlessness that wakes him, not his hunger. He sat up immediately, blinking hazily as his eyes sluggishly adjusted to the darkness of his room. He was such an idiot for falling asleep after a shower. It only made sense that he would wake up at -a quick glance at his spider-man clock confirmed it- 3:37 a.m.

At least he was awake, really awake. He didn’t feel like he was floating anymore. In fact… he could go out right now. He could go out.

He goes to the scales instead. 112.4 lbs.

“Karen?” Peter asks, from the top of the roof. His feet are dangling over the edge as he briefly mulls over jumping completely. Not as Spider-Man, but as Peter Parker. He shoots down the idea as soon as it appears. Sure, he feels awful, but not the final kind of awful. He would get better. He could get better.

Deep thoughts about falling are saved for a certain hopelessness Peter entertains when he’s too tired to don the suit and swing away from his number.

After all, Spider-Man is weightless. He’s immortal. He’s the pride in a community, the love for others, and looking out for the little guy. Anyone can be Spider-Man, Peter beats into his brain, anyone, anywhere, at anytime. If he didn’t get bitten, someone else would. Maybe Gwen in his third period physics. Maybe his neighbor Penni, who goes to the elementary school down the road. Or Miles who sat behind him in World History. Spider-Man, sure, was a person, a physically breathing thing, but the spirit of what Spider-Man stood for was in every person he’s saved.

“But you’re the one that saves them, Peter,” Karen gently adds, “You give them that spirit.”

Peter paused. Had he been speaking?

“I don’t think so,” Peter whispered, “But, thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” Karen says, and she sounds so motherly. So concerned. So real. Like if Peter were to lean forward and reach out, she would grab him, and save him. She could be Spider-Man, she could save Peter.

Except right now he was wearing the suit, and Karen didn’t have a body, and if Peter leaned forward he would fall, and Peter didn’t know if he had to energy to save himself. So he held back. He leaned back, and turned his direction to the stars. Ben always loved the stars. Ben always loved him.

Why was it so hard to love Peter Parker? Why was everything about his life off? Why can’t he ever do the right thing?

Why was he on this roof, at three in the morning when no one but Karen was there to console him. Why was he there.

Peter Parker was cursed from the beginning. He was chosen to be unhappy, to have something fundamentally wrong about him. If he truly were destined for a life greater than Spider-Man, than he would have two parents to go home to, and both an aunt and uncle to visit whenever he had the chance. He would have a real internship at Stark Industries, and he would be able to look at himself in the mirror without immediately gravitating to every blemish and mistake.

But no, he was programed to seek out the bad. He was programmed to know what desperate looks like, because he himself was desperate too. He was desperate to love himself.

“Karen, do you like the stars?”

“Many find them appealing.”

“But do you like them? Like personally, you. What do you think about the stars?” Do they remind you of anything, Peter didn’t add, because deep down he knew Karen wouldn’t be able to answer that question. All Karen knew was Peter, and he hadn’t taken Karen stargazing much. She couldn’t be reminded of anyone when she saw them.

“I think they comfort you.”

“Do they comfort you?” Peter continued.

“I haven’t been in distress before. I doubt scanning the constellations could help me process information more efficiently,” Karen relayed, “But if they help you, they help me.”

“Karen,”

“I think something’s wrong with me. I think I need help,” Is what Peter should say, but he doesn’t. When the AI hums in response, Peter glances down to the road below him, lit up like a glowing, pulsing, chasm of energy, indifferent to whether he falls of not, and takes a deep, jittery breath.

“How much do I weigh?” he asks.

She relays the words matter-of-factly, as if she didn’t just shatter any hopes of getting better.

Peter Parker stood up, teetering on the edge of a building, and went inside. He brushed past May, who had just returned from her late-night shift, past the leftovers sitting lukewarm on the battered kitchen table. He brushed past the concern and words that floated in and around his head in a cloud of white noise. He brushed past the ringing cell phone and the bright city lights filtering through his window. He collapsed in his bed, tired and drained.

And Peter Parker took one broken, jittery breath before sobbing himself to sleep.

The next morning he floats through the day, like an apple bobbing on the surface of a barrel at a halloween party. He could feel the stares, the pokes, the prods for attention, but the ever-shifting core of gravity kept him spinning in the dark water. He’s oblivious to the wave of quizzical looks MJ sends him and hushed voices conversations between his two best friends. It doesn’t matter anyways. He skipped breakfast, forgot lunch, and picked at dinner. When he sat down at his desk to open his textbook and study, he found his notebook blank as his stare. Again. He couldn’t call Ned, MJ never texted, and even if he had the courage to talk to Mr. Stark he couldn’t even help with this anyways, and the lines of the notebook had blurred, washing away the blue and red and leaving a blank, distorted, notebook.

There’s nothing there. Nothing of Peter, nothing of his notes, nothing of his appetite, and nothing of his energy. He’s empty.

At precisely three-fourty two a.m. Peter wakes up, alert and buzzing with energy. He clambers out of bed, breath ragged, before bee-lining for his suit, stashed haphazardly in the corner of his closet. The window opens without a creak, and within seconds Peter is free-falling through the crisp air.

His fall turns to an arc as his arms maneuver him into a swing, and the city rises and falls around him as his altitude shifts. His muscles feel no pull at the unexpected exertion, his lungs feel no limit. It's just him and New York, Spider-Man and the world. He’s himself again, he’s full.

The lights burn his retinas, flaring as they shift in his viewpoint inbetween swings. The darkness swells around him, like a brothy ocean full of stinging sea salt that keep his eyes awake. The cars, the people, the sounds swirl around him in an augmenting evanescent tune, the smells of the city form a musty perfume that’s new and familiar in the best ways. He feels alive, truly alive, the way he felt back before Germany and Homecoming when it was just him and the suit. There were no eyes watching him, no concern for his well being, no stress pressing down on his chest, closing in on his lungs and heart. No strings pulling him down to earth, down to life, down to Peter Parker.

No one sees Peter Parker, just Spider-Man. The feeling of small greatness was so old it was almost foreign. He could breathe. He could escape. He could fly. Fly to the Tower and beg for help, to talk to someone. Fly back to the apartment and stand at the foot of May’s bed like he did whenever he had a nightmare.

He could eat.

He should eat.

He needs to eat.

The hunger pulls down, a force stronger than gravity until eventually Spider-Man stops on the great expanse of a rooftop. He takes his mask of with a slight hesitation, and Peter Parker re-emerges. For an indescribably long moment, Spider-Man debates walking into a 24/7 store and getting a sandwich. It's tempting… the taste of tomato on rye, with turkey and pickles and pepper sounds tantalizing, but….

He can’t. Its not a want thing anymore. Its not a goal. Its a roadblock. Its an impulse. Its a desire not to, to stop, to hold back. To refuse. To reject, vehemently, against anything like it. It scares him. It scares both of him.

Spider-Man could buy a sandwich, but Peter Parker couldn’t. Spider-Man could swing three miles away from home in a heartbeat, and Peter can’t take notes. Spider-Man can quip from the dangerous end of a helicopter, but Peter can’t let Iron Man to pick him up after school. Its an endless list of cans and can’ts both pushing him closer and closer to the edge of the dark expanse, the one that plunges a hundred feet down into a dark alleyway with no webs or suits to catch him.

Peter stays where he is. He stays, and he falls to his knees, and he sits on the rooftop, all energy and adrenaline gone. He puts the mask on, so he can talk. The skin-tight pseudo spandex also smothers his tears before they can fall.

“It appears you are in distress, Peter. Should I contact one of your three emergency contacts?”

When Peter doesn’t answer, Karen whirrs mechanically in what one could translate to a sigh, already engaging in a long series of protocols with one goal in mind: grounding Peter, physically and mentally. Spider-Man, however, still wanted to be flying. In fact, if he closed his eyes hard enough, then he could see himself soaring again, past Midtown, past the tower. He could see the stolen helicopter, and he could see himself knocking both the goons out with a graceful, harmless punch, before webbing them up and safely landing the stolen vehicle. He can see his name in the headlines “PETER PARKER DOESN’T MESS UP” he sees, “WHAT HAPPENS NEXT SURPRISES EVERYONE”

“Contacting May Parker.”

Silence. Peter is soaring away.

“Contacting Happy Hogan.”

Silence. Spider-Man is soaring away.

“Contacting-”

“I’m fine, Karen,” Peter whispers, just loud enough to be picked up, “I’m always fine.”

That’s right, isn’t it? He’s always fine. He was fine when he was six, when his Aunt and Uncle cried all night on the living room couch. He was fine when he was bedridden with an irritated bite and a splitting headache. He was fine when he was fourteen, when Uncle Ben didn’t come home. He was fine when he was fifteen and Tony Stark walked into his apartment and asked him to come to Germany. He was fine when he dug himself out of the debris of an old warehouse. He was fine when Tony Stark and May Parker butted heads at nine p.m. over Spider-Man as Peter watched idly, only commenting when either side seethed his name. He was fine then, right? He can be fine now.

Peter closed his mouth, only then realizing his confession had been tumbling out of his mouth in slow motion.

“Contacting Tony Stark.”

“Don’t.” he choked out. Tony can’t see him like this. He can’t see Spider-Man like this. He can’t see the separate goal that successfully blended Spider-Man and Peter together in the worst way possible. He can’t see the hole Peter dug.

“What’s up, kid? I feel like I never hear from you anymore-”

“Karen, hang up.”

“What?” Tony is confused, he can hear the tools being set down and the music fading from his end. He can see the concerned face look at FRIDAY’s camera and into Peter’s eyes.

“Hang up!” Peter screamed, voice raw and cracking.

“Kid what's going on-”

Then the hurt blue and grey face of Tony disappeared, and although he was breathing erratically, Peter was alone again. When he finally opens his eyes again, he sees the stars. They’re the same stars he and Ben used to look at, and Peter can’t help but feeling so alone. Ben would notice that he’s struggling. Ben would pull the words Peter can’t bring himself to say from his mouth, and make a bulleted fool-proof plan on how to fix it. Not that May was ignoring him, of course, but Ben could look you in the eye and understand you faster than anyone else. Ben was his anchor, May’s anchor, everyone’s anchor when they were struggling like this.

God, Peter missed Ben.

And when Peter opened his eyes, he realized he didn’t recognize these stars. He couldn’t point out the constellations. He couldn’t point out the buildings, or the roads. He didn’t recognize the ground he was sitting on. He didn’t just leave Queens, he left… his radius. His zone. Spider-Man’s circle of activity.

“Karen?” Peter asked tentatively, like a child standing at the foot of their parent’s bed after a nightmare, “Where am I?”

“You’re outside the Avengers Tower,” Karen relies, and as Peter spins around he sees it. The large, imposing A that illuminates the darkness like a beacon. And in front of it? Two bright eyes, fierce and loyal, with glowing palms and orange-blue streaks left by repulsors speeding towards him. Iron Man.

Peter’s eyes widened, and his breathes got caught in his throat. He was a deer in headlights, unable to move. Iron Man was just seconds away… then what? Peter didn’t have an excuse, a reason to be out. He didn’t have a cause to be crying outside the tower. He didn’t have an excuse to not eat. He didn’t have anything. All he had was himself- and that was not enough to placate Tony Stark.

The suit landed.

If Peter was a braver kid, he would have stood there as Tony stepped out of the suit and hugged him. If Peter was a braver person, he would have told him everything from the beginning. If Peter was a braver hero, he never would be in this mess. But Spider-Man was the brave one. Peter was a coward, and cowards always run.

Iron Man was fast, incredibly so, but an emotionally starved vigilante on a school night is faster. Peter jumped off the building, indulging in the rush of air for only a second before swinging into action, zooming along streets and back alleyways in a desperate attempt to throw the glowing hero off his trail. He was slowing down, tiring as the mention of a sunrise peaked over the horizon. But every time the whirring of the repulsors got too close, he moved just a little bit faster. Just a little bit more, he thought, just a little farther, just a little less, just a little sleep.

The apartment was an orange-black rectangle in front of him- practically in his grasp. He webbed against a neighboring wall, before pushing off swimmer-style into the still-open window of his bedroom. He clipped the corner of his bed and he flew in, sliding across the floor as the rush of wind caused the window to slam with a thud. Peter held a shaky breath as he rolled over.

One, two-

Repulsors passed over the building. They were deafening.

Three, four-

They paused overheard. No normal person would be able to hear them, no normal person would notice them. No one but Peter. They scorched his ears.

Five, six-

They moved away, fading, disappearing. Peter exhaled softy, laying his head against his closed door with a soft thud, allowing himself to close his eyes. That was extremely close, even for Parker standards.

“Peter, what was that?”

Peter, groaned, head hitting the door with a guilty thunk.

“Nothing, May! I just tripped while I was getting dressed!”

Footsteps emerged from the second bedroom, closer and closer until they pulled back the door, causing Peter’s head to fall. When he opened his eyes again, he was greeted by a pair of inquisitive wide-framed glasses peering from within head of hanging brown tendrils, mousy hair like his, ruffled by sleep and stress.

“Are you ok?” May asked, staring down at Peter, eyes fixating on the brazenly obvious spider emblem exposed on his chest. Her eyes narrowed, just as Peter’s widened, “Were you-”

“No! No its way to early for that. I had… I had slept in the suit, last night… after a nightmare,” Peter rushed, flying forward and scooting against the wall, cringing at how easily the lie rolled off his tongue, “It helps me feel… safer.”

For a second Peter was sure she didn’t believe him and was about to call Tony, but her eyes softened at his admission and she slid to the ground beside him.

“You’re having nightmares?” she asked softly, and Peter nodded as his eyes flicked to the closed window, to the rooftops he had only been flying over moments ago. For a second, the waving banner of a tell-tale web passed over his window, blocking in the first ray of sunlight, but May’s eyes were very far away, dwelling on some untouchable subject, a feeling indescribable to him, as he combed her cold fingers through his hair, “Why didn’t you tell me you had nightmares?”

“They aren’t that bad,” he responded dejectedly, instead focusing his attention on the ceiling, “They just keep me up at night sometimes.”

“Are they about…” her eyes drifted to the web designs on his suit. She traced them with her vision, memorizing the way his chest rose and fell. This was the most she had seen Peter in a couple of days- he couldn’t blame her, supporting a superhero and yourself in New York was hard by itself, but adding on the bills and an expensive science high school? His only regret was that he didn’t have the time or energy to help her as much.

“Sometimes,” he replied, and he wasn’t sure if he was lying anymore, “Other times they’re about normal stuff. School, Decathlon, you.”

“Me?” May was deathly serious.

“You grow giant teeth and turn into a lizard monster that can only be satisfied by clean dishes,” he joked and May threw back her head in an amused laugh, before lightly smacking him on the cheek.

“You’re unbearable,” she shook her head, staring at him.

“You larb me,” he replied sleepily.

“I do.”

She was plactated by his humour, his seemingly genuine smile, and retreated back to the kitchen where a fresh pot of dark coffee only she would drink bubbled. It was later accompanied by the sizzling frying eggs and greasy potatoes, seasoned with peppers and bits of meat May only bought on special occasions. The entire wall of delicious hit him like a tank, sending him reeling. Even worse, it reminded him of how hungry he was, and how scared he was. How little control he had.

Peter sighed, pressed the palm of his hand against his chest to steady himself, and released himself of Spider-Man and the ounce of bravery he still had left.

“What’s wrong with you.”

She finally corners him in the narrow racks of the research section of the student library. He didn’t hear her approach him, but then again, he didn’t hear a lot today. Karen was right- maybe this was affecting his enhanced senses. Maybe this was destroying Spider-Man.

A brown hand snaps inches away from his eyes, leaching his attention away from the abused technicolor cover of SOUTH AMERICA: UNTOUCHED TREASURES (2003). He blinks slowly, once, twice, before realizing she was waiting.

“Nothing is up with me.”

“I know whatever it is, it isn’t your internship,” he shoots her a confused glare, “Which makes it even worse. Hero angst? Makes sense. It comes with your territory. But this? I… you’re not ok, Peter.”

Peter keeps his eyes focused intently on the almanacs and maps books wedged into the dusty back corner of the library. His white knuckles curl intently around the tight straps of his relatively new backpack. He can’t see MJ’s face, he can’t see the mask of anger tightening around her face that covers the most vulnerable emotions of all: concern. He can’t see the way her hand hovers uncertainty towards Peter, stuck between reaching out awkwardly and keeping them tucked over her chest in an imposing manner. Peter can’t see these things because he’s too busy dazedly watching the dust motes suspended in the orange-gold sunlight filtering through the window, not MJ.

“Did Ned tell you about it?” Peter finally replies, wincing as the wrong words tumble out of his mouth. MJ shakes her head, causing ringlets of hair to fall out of her messy ponytail and over her eyes.

“You suck at secrets,” she said matter-of-factly, ”Which is why whatever you’re doing is bothering me.”

“I’m fine, MJ,” Peter laughed, “It's just… sophomore stress, you know? We have to start looking at colleges, and all that, and you know…” It was brazenly obvious that neither of them “knew”, Peter’s only luck at going to a nearby school was on a full ride and out of state tuition would have him in debt until he left his forties. MJ had never spoken of the prospect of college, either by her choice or her family's financial state’s, a fact that Peter neither ignored nor pressed. After all, he was in no position to ask his friend to think about her future. Every time that he went out he risked his chance at having one.

“Bullshit, Parker, and you know that,” When that still fails to spark a reaction, she steps closer and shoves him slightly, but the unexpected force sends him stumbling, “You’ve been staring at the same book for twenty minutes.”

Something on her face caught in the glint of the sunlight, leeching Peter from the ground to her face, to the tears threatening to spill and the words that they would both regret threatening to come out as well. Mj wiped her face.

“I don’t know if its some repressed teenage shit or something, but if you need help you better talk to me or Ned, alright?” She takes Peter’s stunned silence as a reply, and nods before turning on the ball of her heel, “Nice chat.”

She lingers a few minutes at the edge of the isle, before disappearing into another dusty section of the library. Shaken with stupor, Peter follows her from a distance. Dog-eared textbooks illuminated by grainy yellow overhead lamps wall him in. He takes enjoyment in wandering the isles, in the quiet environment of the library. It was familiar, and slightly warm in a comfortable way, and the soft hum of fifteen or so other people moving slowly calmed him. Its hard to find quiet places in New York.

Eventually he stops on the long imposing corridor formed by the mental health books.

IMPROVE YOUR LIFE IN FIVE SMALL WAYS

HAPPINESS FOR THE WORKING MAN

HOW TO BALANCE IT ALL

THE WEIGHT OF YOUR WEIGHT

His fingers brush along the plastic-covered titles and his eyes flicker to the west-ward window facing the school parking lor as he muses the concept of checking them out. The bemused expression of the minimum wage librarian’s face when she saw a skinny fifteen-year-old dwarfed by a sizeable the stack of self-help books. The concerned gaze of MJ as he struggled to fit them all in his backpack, right behind his suit. The worried murmurs of Aunt May on the phone to Mr. Stark- Self-help books, Tony! Self-help! Why does he need those? He has us, he always has us- the car waiting outside of school.

The Audi waiting outside of school.

Peter sucked in a deep breath before walking in the opposite direction, directly into MJ, who had somehow found a heavy stack of research articles on whatever topic they were supposed to be writing about. Her eyes make contact with the MENTAL HEALTH titlecard above Peter’s head before Peter himself, before tilting her head to the side.

“I… uh- What are we writing about again?” he asked, in the kind of voice someone would use when they were doing just exactly what you thought they were doing.

MJ studied him for one long, judgemental minute, “Trade in Southeastern Asia.”

Peter nodded before stumbling off deeper into the library, far from the parking lot windows. Eventually a red and cream cover grabs his attention, and he snatches it off the shelf before running off to intercept MJ as she made her way to the door.

“Is this good?” he asks. MJ stares at him long and hard, and for a minute she looks like she’s going to wordlessly push past him and into the dimming light of the afternoon. She glances down at the cover, and her shoulders drop, just a little bit.

“Yea,” she said, “If it were five-fifty B.C.”

She shifted the weight of her books in her arms, before grabbing two off the top and placing Peter’s book in the return box near the door.

“I’ll walk home with you. Take these, I want them back by Monday.”

That was the end of that conversation, and if he walked a little bit quickly as they left the view of the parking lot, she never said anything. He falls asleep when he gets home, but nobody notices, not even Peter.

“Hey Karen.” Peter swayed in the center of his bedroom like a ship searching for a moor in the eye of a storm, or something poetic like that. He had been thinking about something important earlier, or he had been dreaming about it, but he couldn’t remember now. All he felt was the heavy weight of an untouchable feeling sinking in the pit of his stomach.

“Good Morning, Peter. Your heart rate is elevated. Would you like to go through some breathing exercises or call one of our emergency contacts?”

“What? No,” Peter leaned against his bedpost as he pressed his fingers in his eyes. He was such a spaz. He couldn’t… focus, or breathe, or move, or do anything. And he was so hungry. This was a stupid idea. Everything was a stupid idea. If he had half a mind, he would go back to bed, but the bed was where dangerous thoughts happened, rooftop thoughts, and he had to get out, “We’re good, it’s all good.”

“I sense sarcasm.”

“You sense a lot of things.”

“Yes,” Karen responded, “I was programmed to sense a lot of things.”

“Just-” Peter needed to take a few deep breaths, or at least find a way to open the window. He stumbled forward, fingers hitting the glass with a baritone thud. He pulled up, and nothing happened.

“It appears your adhesive pads on your fingertips have been compromised,” Karen added quietly. Peter wanted to scream.

“Yea, I think so too.” He laughed, and pressed his forehead against glass, and even through the mask he could feel its coolness. He couldn’t eat, he couldn’t take notes, he couldn’t sleep, and now he can’t even open a window. He’s losing it. He’s losing everything. Get it together, Parker, a small voice says, but barely can barely hear it. All he hears is a storm.

There aren’t a lot of thunderstorms in New York around this time of year, but there is one now. Every so often a nail of light will illuminate the sky, lighting his room as if it were day. Bullets of rain assaulted the window in pummeling blows, blurring the night lights of the city into diluted swathes of watercolor paint. All Peter wants to do is get out. But the window is heavy and Aunt May is sleeping and-

Peter needs something to distract him. Another nail of lightening plunges into the skyline, sending reverberating claps of thunder echoing in his head. It was, so loud. When the light faded, only one other thing was glowing in his room. It came from under the slit below his door, down the hall, to the left, and Peter’s stomach dropped. He didn’t want to. He didn’t want to. He had to.

Opening his bedroom door, signing off to do what he was going to do, should have been harder than it was. He was getting better. He was using Spider-Man to stop obsessing over it. He should stop worrying about it, there’s so many horror stories online about what happens when you worry about this, when you do what Peter does, and besides, he’s only a teenager! Its normal to.. To hate yourself.

The door opens easily, and the light from the bathroom door almost blinds him. He should be having second thoughts as he shifts quietly in front of the door, but all he worries about is how he’s going to open it without the creaking waking up Aunt May. It doesn’t matter anyways, because the bathroom door opens silently, like an old friend pulling you into a warm embrace.

The bathroom tiles were cold, and the fluorescent lights were hot. Everything was blotted in a cheap, ugly, yellow light, the kind that made Peter squint until his eyelashes blurred together. For a moment he speared a glance at the mirror ahead of him- annoyingly reflective in the harsh lights- and faltered. He looked awful. His hair was messy, worse than the loveable bed-head way, and his eyes were surrounded by a blueish-black smudge that bagged under his eyelids. The normal teenage acne looked more intense, more like wounds than the typical temporary skin problem. His hands traced the excess skin around where he neck began, pinching at where it scrunched up a bit. The hands traveled to his stomach, his thighs, his arms, and landed on the wall. He continued this three or four more times, hating more and more much skin was excess. Unnecessary. A waste. Maybe he did hate his body, just a little bit.

Maybe he hated himself, just a little bit. He paused- the idea that this problem- situation, could all be his doing, something he was in control of, was so enticing and awful at the same time. But it was true. Peter Parker hated himself, just a little bit. He hated his problem. He hated the way he wasn’t overtly overweight, but his old and forgotten stress eating habits still remained in the skin he still couldn’t loose. He hated the way his hands shook in the day from exhaustion and how they shook at night from fear. He hated it, so much. He hated how he could never feel normal, now matter how hard he tried.

He couldn’t be a functioning human without weird DNA. He couldn’t be a normal teenager with normal problems. He couldn’t be straight, or the right kind of smart or cool- he couldn’t have the right interests, never could be talented or good looking or all the stuff he didn’t care about- enough.

He could never be enough for himself. Maybe that was because he was secretly prideful. Maybe the genuine comments about his intellect from Mr. Stark that he brushed off secretly validated what he thought- that he was smart. Maybe the way that MJ smiled at him made him think that he could have a chance with someone. Maybe all of that had gone to his head, and when it was all a fluke he finally broke. Maybe.

He shut the door behind him, silently, and stood on the scales.

He waited.

And waited.

And when the number popped up, he didn’t look at it at first, he just leaned against the smooth drywall and steadied himself. Why did he do this. He didn’t want to. This wasn’t relaxing anymore. It was terrifying. He opened his eyes, and the thick lenses of the mask follow suit.

96 lbs.

Peter didn’t react. Shouldn’t that make him happy? He was achieving his goal, right? He should be happy. This is what he wanted. He should be happy, because this is what he deserves. Instead he feels nothing, which is kind of fitting, because this isn’t a good thing. He should be, he should be, God, he should be so many things. A good Spider-Man, a good student, a good nephew, a good friend. When was the last time he really felt normal around Ned and MJ? When was the last time he and May had a movie night? Called Mr. Stark? Aced a chem test? Peter doesn’t know. He can’t remember.

He hits his head against the bathroom wall lightly. Then he does it again, a little harder. Then again, and again, and again-

“Peter!” two voices yell at the exact same time, and Peter throws his head against the wall so hard it leaves a dent. The mask is ripped off his face, and then there’s only once concerned voice audible through the ringing, the ringing-

His eyes focus, and he sees May. Her hair is a mess, sticking up all over the place, and her night-shirt is wrinkled and hanging off her right shoulder as if she just jumped out of bed. Her chest is moving up and down frantically, faster than his, and even through the ringing he can hear her heartbeat- fast erratic, scared. Her eyes are wide and white, like a deer in a headlight. Her mouth moves quickly, first in what look likes hurried breaths, which, oh, are words, she’s been talking to him.

“-ou ok? I heard the banging, and I was… What’s were you doing?”

“I wasn’t-”

“What were you doing.” She repeats, in a tone of voice Peter had only heard one other time, not too long ago. It was the kind of voice you used when you see someone on the edge of a cliff, teetering back and forth. What were you doing. What were you going to do.

“Its just the storm, May,” Peter mumbles as she pulls him into a bone-crushing, life-squeezing, thank God you’re alright hug, “Everything is fine.”

“No its not,” she cries, holding him close in the only way she knows how, “Something’s wrong. You won’t talk to anyone, not me, not Ned, not Tony. Something is so wrong, Peter, and I can’t.. I can’t help you. I don’t know how. There’s so much I don’t know.”

Somehow he finds the strength to wrap his arms around her, to limply reciprocate the hug.

“We’re going to figure this out,” she murmurs into his hair, stroking his back as if he would turn to dust if she didn’t, “We’re going to be ok.”

Peter wanted to tell her that he had already tried, that the source of all his problems was bigger than Peter, and if he tried to confront them he was afraid that they would swallow him whole. He wanted to tell her he was drowning, and if he took one second to rest, to stop swimming, he would sink under the surface.

Instead, he lets himself be held in the dead of night, the only sounds being two heartbeats and one thousand claps of thunder. It feels nice, if Peter would let it.

The next morning, there is nothing left of the storm. The sky is clear, save for a few rebel cotton-tailed clouds, and the sun cuts through the cool air with comforting warm rays that rouse Peter from his sleep. The tear tracks have long since dried, the only evidence of last night being his still-throbbing forehead (which should have long since healed) and a single text from an unknown number appearing on his cracked iphone.

Unknown: Happy will pick you up after school today. 2:35 Sharp. He’ll park where you can see him.

A vague pit forms in the bottom of his stomach, stronger than his fear and hunger, pushing at his organs in a languid attempt at guilt. Or shame. It fades to a chalky uneasiness after a few deep breaths, and within seconds the text is far behind him, in the back of his head where he doesn’t have to overthink it, or think about it at all.

He starts his day the same way he starts any other day: Clean shirt, relatively clean jeans, deodorant, teeth, hair, busted-up converse, backpack. His eyelids are puffy and heavy from crying last night, but there’s an energy in his step he hadn’t felt in a while. He feels like he might be alright. When he turns the corner into the living room and kitchen, there’s a person there.

May.

“Aren’t you supposed to be at work?” Shouldn’t his Spider-Sense tell him when he’s about to be surprised, or set off? He should have none she wasn’t alone. He should have heard her, or smelled her, or something. But no- May’s presence in the apartment is a total surprise, and when he strains his ears he finds he can’t even hear one apartment over. It was eerily quiet, the sounds of the street and city more muffled then they’ve always been, the only detectable smell being May’s pungent perfume.

“I switched shifts tonight,” she replied, eyebrows drawn, “I told you that, didn’t I? I think I did.”

She waved her hand to collect her thoughts, “That doesn’t matter. Tonight Tony asked if you could stay at the Tower.”

“I don’t need to be checked out, I’m fine.” Peter balled his fists. She must have called Mr. Stark last night. She must have, because she doesn’t just switch shifts, and he doesn’t just spend the night at the tower.

“You’re not getting checked out. You’re getting a good night’s sleep-”

“Where Mr. Stark can prod me all night until I tell him some gut-wrenching sob story about my life so he’ll leave me alone,” Peter said, “I’m not going.”

May shook her head sadly, “That’s not why I’m sending you over there-”

“So you’re sending me there? I thought the internship was my choice.” He could feel himself getting irrationally angry, and he could feel himself being childish, but it didn’t make a difference. This was his problem to handle at his speed. He couldn’t even imagine having a conversation with anyone about this, about him, about Spider-Man, about the food. He could clam up, shut up, drown in his fear and cry, and nothing would change except the fact that everyone would know he’s just a little bit off the deep end. That wouldn’t help Peter or Spider-Man, even if May thought it did.

“This isn’t about the internship, Peter.” She’s trying to reason with him, like someone would do with a cornered animal. Well, he isn’t an animal, and he isn’t cornered. His legs start moving to the door, “Its about your nightmares.”

“There aren’t any nightmares.” He gritted.

“Then what happened last night?”

“I wasn’t supposed to wake you up.”

“You didn’t wake me up, the storm already did that,” May said, frustrated, “What were you going to do? Hit yourself until you passed out?”

“No!” Peter yelled back, “I wasn’t. I swear I wasn’t.”

“How was I supposed to know that? You’ve been so distant, and different-”

“I’ve been distant? You’ve barely been home,” Peter yelled back.

“I’m trying to support you.” She seethed.

“Well you’re doing a pretty bad job at it.”

“I know!” Aunt May screamed, closing her eyes so she wouldn’t cry, “I know. I know I’m not Ben and I can’t help your like Tony, but at least I’m trying. I’m trying so hard. But I don’t know anything.”

Her next words are very careful, and very quiet, “Please, just go to the Tower tonight.”

“Why? So someone else can figure out what's wrong with me?” Peter bit back, “I’m fine, May. I’m not hurt, I’m not sad, I’m not in any danger. Everything is ok!”

“Then why can’t you sleep through one whole night? You know, you aren’t that quiet when you sneak out,” she pushed back her hair with both her hands, staring at the floor with incredulous eyes, “This must be a Spider-Man thing, right? You can tell me about the Spider-Man things too. You know that?”

“This isn’t about Spider-Man!” Peter said, “This isn’t about anything, because this isn’t anything.”

“Besides, you don’t know anything about what being Spider-Man is like.” You know nothing about me, the unspoken addition, hangs heavily in the air. May swallows thickly. She opens her mouth, then shuts it, like a fish out of water.

“You need to sleep well tonight,” she says softly. Peter blinks, and the real kind of shame, the real kind of guilt takes root in the cavity between his lungs and stabs at his heart, hard, “Its loud here, and with the thunderstorms… it would help.”

At first Peter doesn’t say anything, but then the familiar words bubble up, faster than he can stop them.

“I’m fine, May.” He grabs an apple off the kitchen table and leaves, and neither of them say another word. Outside the world is thick with moisture, humid in a way that promises more rain to come. In the near-imperceivable distance there's a thin line of imposing grey, and behind him he feels the warming rays of the sun. The apple from the kitchen is quickly handed off to a homeless man sitting on the gritty street corner. He needs it more than Peter does anyways. He feels light without it, free almost, in an awful kind of way.

Peter knew May would be ecstatic to hear that Peter would be under the scrutinizing eyes of a spy, therapist, Tony, and an intelligent AI. She would be ecstatic to hear that this… what Peter was struggling with, was just fatigue or a bad Spider-Man day or friend drama. She would just love for everything to be easy, to be fixable.. But nothing can be that easy. Nothing for Peter, at least. She should know that. She shouldn’t hope that this would be easy, because it wouldn’t.

The train to school takes a little longer than usual, and in waiting for his stop the weight of his words come flying back at him with full force. If May didn’t completly want him to leave earlier she sure did now. He was an idiot. Fully certified and all that.

He would have to go to the tower tonight. For some selfish reason, that was the worst part of this whole ideal. He would have to suffer through an uncomfortably mediumly-sized drive to the tower with Happy, who had been ignoring, then he would have to sit in the Stark Suite with Tony for 14-16 hours as if everything were normal and Peter hadn’t just gone off the map. Peter was an idiot.

“You’re not an idiot,” Ned said sympathetically, “Everyone argues with their family.”

“Yea, but this time it got a little personal. I think May is mad at me,” Peter confessed, staring down at the Chemistry quiz he had received upon entering the classroom.

“Mad at you? I’m sorry but you have the like, charisma of Magnus Burnsides,” Ned shot back, “It is literally impossible to be mad at you.”

“I agree with the nerd,” MJ whispered back.

“I’m not a nerd,” Ned whispered disdainfully.

“You quoted Adventure Zone.”

“You understood my quote.”

“I hate sitting next to you.”

“Then move.”

MJ looked Ned directly in the eyes as she walked from their small corner in the back to an empty seat near the front. As she passed Peter, she paused and whispered, “Things will be fine with you and May.”

“Bet,” Peter muttered as he crinkled his face in frustration. He made web fluid for Gods sake, he does chemistry every day. Why was it so hard to remember the Rutherford Model? He was that guy who shot electrons… or protons… hell with it… particles at tin foil, right? Maybe? Peter circled lucky choice C and moved on.

“That traitor,” Ned shook his head. But MJ couldn’t hear him, and even to Peter, he said it suspiciously softly.

Lunch was uncharastically silent, but maybe Peter had something to do with that. Sometime around third period he had petered out once his body realized he hadn’t eaten that apple today or yesterday or all of last week, and in protest it turned off every brain function. He couldn’t even tell you what room his spanish period was at, and at some point he had forgotten the username for his email log in. School was the worst.

And even… worstly worst was lunch, where students were free to mill around and were socially pressured to eat and drink and laugh and smile and do all the things that were somehow so fundamentally hard for Peter. Maybe that’s why it was weird, or maybe it was weird because of the twin stares he was receiving from the opposite side of the lunch table.

“I feel like I’m seeing double,” Peter said, but the joke fell flat when MJ frowned (more than usual).

“You’re not eating anything,” she said. Peter looked down. He had forgotten to grab a tray and some sides to placate his friends by picking at it slowly. Huh.

“Oh, uh,” he scrambled, “I’m just trying to save some money.”

She paused for a moment, but ultimately nodded, opening her latest book and flipping to her page with ease.

“You can have some of mine, Peter,” Ned offered, “Here uh… I got a half-eaten bag of chips, a PB and J, some grapes-”

“Its fine,” Peter said just as MJ looked up, “That sounds like a third grader’s lunch.”

“Hey.” Ned pointed an accusing finger at MJ, “My lunch is gourmet fifth grade.”
Ned gets up, peter watches him leave, when he looks down there is a bag of apples slices

Peter furrowed his eyebrows, “Hey I don’t-”

“Take them,” MJ interrupted, “I don’t like honeycrisp.”

That was a lie, everyone likes honeycrisp. What isn’t there to love about the soft crunch they make, the sweet flavor and the firm texture? Arguably, they’re the best apples. MJ loves honeycrisp.

Peter glanced down, memorizing the angles formed by a careful knife. The orange-yellow film caused by oxygen exposure covering the flesh, the droplets of juice forming congealing near the bottom like honey itself. Then he imagined himself taking a tentative bite, the flavor, the feeling of eating, or being full. He imagined it sliding down his throat, settling in his stomach like a stone, the concept of being full suddenly revolting, nauseating. He pushed the apple slices back to MJ.

“I’m not hungry,” he said plainly, and MJ stared at him long and hard, like it was a challenge. She set her book down, quietly, so quiet Peter couldn’t hear it hit the table, and leaned forward so close they could kiss if she wanted to.

“You are so full of shit,” she said, and nudged the slices back to him, “Eat.”

“I don’t want to,” he bit back, scared where he should be defensive.

“I don’t care. Eat. Or I’ll tell the nurse you’re sick.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re dead on your feet.”

“Why do you care?”

“Guys?” Ned is standing at the head of the table, head tilted to discern whether or not they were about to lunge at each other in passion or aggression. His eyes meet Peters, then MJ’s and as he sits down he slides his phone her way, a short and sweet message glowing against the white screen. Her eyes flick through it in a second, meet Ned’s again, in a silent conversation Peter isn’t invited into. He pushes the apples closer to MJ, then stares at his hands. As she pushes the phone back to Ned, the tension disappears, and MJ falls backwards into her seat with her eyes back into the narrative of page 36.

“Peter was just about to eat my honeycrisp.” she said casually, as if she wasn’t about force feed him.

“They’re yours.”

She pushed them towards Peter with her pinky finger, “Oh no. They’re on your side of the table. Now you have to eat them.”

“MJ,” Peter said, “I said I don’t want them.”

She blinked, “Yea, I don’t care. Bone appetite.”

Peter sighs, turns the bag over in his hands, and slowly puts it into his pant pocket, telling them both that he’s saving it for later. He isn’t, and they both know that, but its nice to play pretend a little longer, until he has to face the music.

When school ends, he’s flanked on either side by MJ and Ned, and a small part of him wonders if they knows he has the internship today, or that possibly May contacted them and asked them to make sure he doesn’t swing off. Maybe they’re just good friends, and they see Peter is tired. Maybe they care about Peter Parker. Maybe.

Peter pushes the feeling away, settling on the minute, fuzzy features of every student in the hallways. He catches sight of a couple familiar faces- Miles, Gwen, Harry- all people too cool for him who are stuck with him a majority of the day. If they recognize him, they don’t show it, but then again, it is the end of the day. Everyone is focused on ten things at once. Like how Peter is focused on how he will sneak out tonight, where Flash is, Happy’s reaction, Tony’s disappointment, how hungry he is, his overbearing load of homework he doesn’t know how to do-

“Hey Pen-” Flash starts, but Miles stomps on his foot before he can finish the insult. Flash buckled over and grabbed at his foot, hopping on the other to avoid falling over.

“Hey man, I’m so sorry, total accident, I’m new here you know and, the hallways are confusing-” Miles starts, but he doesn’t mean a word of the apology. Peter doesn’t react to the behind the back fist bump MJ gives him, but he doesn’t ignore it.

Seconds later they’re outside, and sitting shiny and conspicuous in the front of the pickup line of cars if an obnoxiously colored audi and an impatient Happy Hogan.

“I’ll catch you guys later.” Peter frowns, before breaking into a slow jog towards the cars. MJ and Ned both call out phrases of goodbyes before going their own separate ways in the tidal wave of student.

As he gets closer to the car, he feels eyes on him, eyes staring at him, Peter Parker, getting in a car more expensive than six months of rent and groceries. Why is Peter getting in that car? Peter doesn’t know anyone rich. Peter isn’t anything. Why should he get to ride in it? Why is he allowed to? Why?

Peter opens the car door and closes it before Happy can even react.

“Did you have to take this car?” he rushes out, “Because its kind of embarrassing. Really, actually. There’s nothing wrong with it- just me, but Happy, people stare, you know?”

“Duly noted, Underoos,” a different voice replies, and the list of expletives Peter thinks is way too short. He turns his head slowly in an attempt at casualness but it just looks creepy. Tony doesn’t react.

“Heyyyyy,” Peter said, “I didn’t know you were picking me up too. Thats… cool. Neat.”

“Don’t hold back your excitement, please,” he drawled, before leaning back and staring forward in the typical Tony Stark fashion, hands folded into a pyramid on his abdomen. For a second Peter realized he might ask about avoiding him, and his heartrate picks up speed like an award winning racehorse. How could he explain everything without explaining everything?

“So. Nightmares. Spill.” Peter released a bated breath. Thank God.

Peter turned his attention towards the window, watching as building upon building passed through in a slow, traffic-clogged haze, blurring into vague shades of brown, grey, and black. Something in the pit of his stomach ached, something inbetween hunger and emotion that he couldn’t quite place. Guilt? Shame? Or was it just hunger? Was that all Peter was now? Hunger? It dictated his life now, it told him when he could focus and when he could sleep. He couldn’t even Spider-Man properly without it. Or… with it. Did that make any sense? Did anything make any sense anymore? Or was he falling apart, just like his friendships and his alter ego and his father-sonship with Tony?

“Oh, well they aren’t that bad-”

“Bullshit, but continue.”

“They’re just about, I don’t know, they aren’t a big deal I promise. May is the one freaking out,” he hurried, looking out the window. Tony sighs.

“I can’t help you if you don’t talk about it,” he says softly, and Peter knows its true.

“I don’t need help,” he replied, “They’re just nightmares.”

“Yea, well, that’s a pretty dumb thing to say.”

“What?”

“I know you don’t want to confide in me-” Tony looked at peter pointedly before he could intervene,”- and that’s ok. I’m not going to force you to. But you can’t go around pretending you’re fine when you’re not.”

“But I am.”

“I hate to break it to you, but if you were fine you wouldn’t be in this car right now.” Tony said, “Its ok to-”

“You don’t need to get all sentimental on me to make me feel better,” Peter interrupted, “I get that you don’t want to be doing this any more than I do.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I mean its ok that you don’t care.”

Tony stares at him, and for a second a barely deciperable emotion- pain- flashes across his eyes. With an adjustment of his glasses it disappears, and a familiar frown, the ferry kind of frown, weighs down on his face. . Idiot,He thinks.

“Who’s been calling you for weeks?” Tony tilts his head to the side, as if he was actually expecting an answer, “Who’s been sending Happy to get you?”

“I-” Peter’s face burns.

“Who’s saved you from getting killed in a helicopter chase?”

“You… did,” Peter managed to mumble, before ducking his head and staring intently at this dirt-speckled converse.

“Don’t say that I don’t care just because you don’t, Parker,” Tony said, “And I hope to God you know that I’m not going to let you go down this road.”

He picks up his head at that, but Tony’s gaze is far ahead, past the confines of the car, almost in another time. Emotion bleeds into his voice, genuine care that Peter has barely heard in direct conversation.

“Nightmares can hurt people, Peter,” Tony replies, “I have nightmares, I’ve had them ever since Afghanistan. What were you then, four?”

“Something like that.” he offers softly.

“Exactly. They’ve been going on for a long time, and they... hurt. Sometimes they hurt so much I can’t breathe,” Tony pauses, as if he’s feeling them right now, fighting back, “Depression, anxiety… its a scary thing to fight. The first thing you lose is your voice. I don’t want that happening to you too, kid. You have a bright future ahead of you.”

“I don’t have depression.”

“Sure you don’t, but you aren’t exactly healthy, either. You’re struggling, and it didn’t take May for me to figure it out. I’m kind of a genius, if you didn’t know,” Tony laughs, but he’s the only one that does. Happy is focused on the road, and Peter is focused on… not crying. He’s fine. It’s not a problem.

“Yea, well…..” Peter doesn’t have a good rebuttal, and part of him wonders if Tony already knows everything, and is just waiting for Peter to confess, seeing how far he can go before breaking in real time. The suggestion makes something turn in his stomach and clamp down in his jaw.

“Yea, well, we need to talk about your suit hours, kid,” Tony said, pulling up a screen on a well-concealed starkpad that had been docked flat on the back of Happy’s seat. It immediately put up his vials- excluding his weight and blood sugar, much to Peter’s relief- and zoomed in on the activity logs, “I mean, these are just erratic, and you don’t even do much while in it. A lot of brooding, Bruce Wayne. I was hoping we would last a couple more years with the fluorescent red and blues, but hey, if you’re rebranding we can change the suit-”

“I put it on after…. after the night-mares,” Peter whispered, just enough to derail Tony. It was the most he was going to get to a confession, even if it was covered in euphemisms and not entire truths.

“Well I know that, but I’m just… confused, as why you would rather sit on a grimy ledge talking to a computer than, I don’t know, your gorgeous Aunt or even more gorgeous mentor? You’ve been blessed with options, kid.”

Peter could feel Tony’s eyes on him, pitying and sympathetic and fascinated- like he was only a window into a smaller, more broken version of himself, ready to be fixed by Tony like every other aspect of his life.

“It's not that simple,” he said, scooting closer to the window. Maybe if he tried hard enough he could become part of the car, incapable to add to the conversation or be forced to talk about his feelings.

“We’re almost to the Tower, boss,” Happy said like a saving angel, making meaningful eye contact with Tony. He set the starkpad down, turning in his seat to face Peter.

“Ok kid, so your Aunt dropped your stuff off on her way to work today-”

“Nice job on delaying her shift, by the way,” Peter said, not so nicely.

“Well I try. Anyways your stuff is here, but full disclosure, there’s a bit of a full house tonight. Turns out that when you pardon all your friends from treason and begin salvaging friendships they like, want to see you,” Tony trailed off, before shaking his head and continuing, “My point is that I need you to keep a low profile. Tonight you’re an incredibly astute intern with a smart-mouth and quick reflexes, and I’m your drop-dead gorgeous mentor with emotional baggage and a dad-complex. Capiche?”

“Isn’t that just every night?” Peter asked, glad to steer the conversation away from his issues. Tony grinned and ruffled his hair.

“Incredibly astute, intern,” he said seriously.

“Incredibly dad-complex, mentor,” Peter replied, just as the car passed over the clearance marker into the Stark Company parking levels. Once out of the safety of the car, Peter eyed supports of the extremely concrete parking garage warily. It was Mr. Stark’s, so it was borderline indestructible, but in the end it was made out of the same stuff as The Warehouse. The ceiling towered overhead in an overbearing manner, just tall enough to be spacious but close enough to take a quarter second to crush you. His fingers curled around the door handle in a fruitless effort for comfort- theortically, when it went down, there was a chance that the frame of the car could save them all- that of course considered the fact that it would be only a partial collapse of the building and help would locate them quickly. What if they didn’t? What if Stark Tower went down completely? No one would ever find them, not with the debris and electrical fires and dust that would choke them all completely. Simply put, if the supports were to be compromised, Peter would be dead where he stood.

“Intern?” Tony called from across the garage, waiting at an open elevator with an impatient Happy, “I know that ceiling is interesting, but we have Shwarma to eat!”

Peter let out a shaky breath, and let go of the car door to sprint to Tony. In the end, it turned into the afterthought of a jog and an unnatural amount of fatigue. Peter, however, was fine.

---
When the elevator reached the penthouse, Peter was met with a near-priceless vase being thrown a foot and a half away from his head and the childish shouting of a couple war criminals slash assassins.

“What in motherforking shirt was that for?” Clint yelled, from somewhere on the level as Sam vaulted a couch with ease and went in on the kill. Natasha sat at the empty dining room table, casually filling out a sudoku as Cap- Steve Rogers, in the flesh, cooked as he retold his day to the Winter Soldier via video chat. Bruce sat on the couch Sam had just cleared, eyes closed as he willed his skin to de-green-ify, as Thor twiddled his thumbs nervously next to him.

“Oi mind the language, a child is here!” Tony yelled above the chaos, and Sam and Clint rose up from behind the couch, obviously beating the shirt out of each other along with Wanda, who had appeared at some point.

“You flatter yourself, but you aren’t getting any younger,” Natasha sipped a small cup of tea without looking up, “Hello, Peter.”

“Hey its the Dipshit!” Clint grinned, “Where have you been?”

“Doin… stuff… you know?” Peter said with a smile more strained than his current relationship with May.

“That’s specific,” Sam raised an eyebrow, giving him a concerned once over that made his skin crawl, before glancing down at the broken vase Clint had lobbed at the wall and turned his attention to Clint, “You gonna clean that one up?”

Clint gave Peter a cheshire cat grin before molding his face into a caricature of surprise and grabbing for his phone, “Oh no! The old wife and kids are calling! I need to take this very important call!”

“Hey get back here,” Same said, following Clint as he rushed down the hallway, “No seriously! Hey!”

And with that the conversation was over. Tony steered Peter over to the couch, where a nature documentary about adorable forest animals and serene forest environments was playing. After a few moments, a renegade couch cushion smacked Bruce in the back of the head. It took exactly two seconds for Bruce to snap.

“STOP!” Hulk roared, while Clint and Sam laughed audibly and Thor stifled laughter. Peter jumped in his seat.

“Yesli vy zastavite Khalka snova zarevet', vashi tela ne budut naydeny,” Natasha cursed, which only made Clint laugh harder. Thor cleared his throat as Bruce came back, breathing heavily and somewhere between laughter and utter rage.

“Is this a barn?” Steve yelled from the kitchen, the noise causing Peter to flinch. There was some irony to be found in May thinking the Tower would be quiet tonight. The temporary discomfort lasted longer though, settling in the back of his head like a faint, nervous buzz, “Were you all raised in a barn?”

“This is sickenly domestic,” Tony interrupted, “What just happened?”

“Our bird-themed companions have made a game out of seeing who can get Hulk to emerge the fastest,” Thor explained, “It's quite entertaining.”

Peter laughed faintly with the others as the buzzing continued, like his own personal power drill. His eyelids weighed him down, and he slept until dinner.

Dinner. As in Peter sitting with the Avengers and having to Eat. The thought was nauseating. Halfway through his third bite of Captain America’s meatloaf Peter excused himself and hid in the bathroom for the following 45 minutes. If anyone found the move uncharacteristic (and they did, Peter could hear them whispering over the buzz, the buzz, the buzz) they never said anything. Peter thought he heard Tony teasing The Captain later- I can’t believe the kid who eats anything rejected the famous American Meatloaf- That’s what he calls it? The Famous American Meatloaf- You all are the worst-

Peter laughed to himself on the tile floor. He wanted to throw up. The idea scared him less than it should have.

----

“So about the parking garage today,” Tony began, “Not going to lie, but my Spidey senses ae tingling.”

“They don’t tingle,” Peter said indignantly, “They buzz.”

“Like that’s much better.”

“I mean what I said earlier,” Tony said after a moment, dropping a screwdriver in with a dramatic clatter onto one of the long work tables. Peter’s head snapped up, stars flooding his vision before focusing on Tony. His eyes narrow.

“About the, nightmare, thing,” Tony said, “I’ve been your age before kid. I know what being the… odd one out is like. You feel like everything that goes wrong is your fault- and you try to drown it out.”

Before Peter can echo a half-hearted ‘I know’, Tony continues.

“Do you know why you come to the Tower every so often?”

“Spider-Man,” Peter replies before he can think, “That’s how you found me, at least.”

“See that’s how I found you, sure, but that’s definitely not why you come over. Sam up there is Falcon but I don’t see him in here,” Tony replied, “No, that’s not it.”
l
Peter blinks.

“I see myself in you, kid. Way too much that it scared me at first. Kids are so impressionable, you know? I don’t want you turning out like me,” he said, “And I think that’s what Howard thought, too. You know, if you avoid the issue long enough, it will go away. Not that you’re an issue, of course, you’re a delight, and I hope people tell you that, and… ugh its metaphorical for parental responsibility and- let me start over.”

“I want to give you the opportunities I never had. I want to give you a place where you’re listened to, but still allowed to be a kid,” Tony said, “Because you deserve to be a kid as long as you can be. But in our… field of work, you can’t always be a kid. You have to make some grown up choices.”

Peter nodded.

“And those grown-up choices, well, they affect you. You pretend that they don’t but in the end of the day, everyone has nightmares because of them,” Tony’s eyes are far away, in another world, in another memory, “And the only way to stop a nightmare is to control it.”

“People cope with their nightmares in different ways, but in the end its an obsession,” Tony says quietly, “It manifests as drug use, or alcoholism, sometimes even art or innovation.”

Tony’s eyes see right through him, “Some people even do things to hurt themselves in an attempt to be in control. It feels good at first, but… it never is.”

“Peter?”

“Yea?” Peter’s voice is small, smaller than its ever been. Tony never uses his real name, always substituting it for his preferred moniker of the day. Peter is only a word used in anger or fear, and he can’t tell which one is present.

“Living with… the issues heroes get isn’t living at all,” he said, “Promise me that you’ll tell me if you’re struggling.”

Deep down, Peter knew he was right. He had known Tony was right, that something was wrong. Because normal people didn’t feel like this, like a dead weight night and day, but then again, was Peter a normal person? He was Spider-Man, or at least a small part of him was. But then again, just because he was in the suit didn’t mean he was doing anything. He had turned it from a tool for others into a mask for himself- so was he really Spider-Man anymore, or was he just a sad kid wearing the suit? Was Spider-Man ever a part of him, or a part he played, and forgot how to play? This wasn’t about food anymore, it never had been. It had been about Peter. He had the suit, the internship, his friends, but take that away and all Peter was…. Was himself. And that small part that had been torn into this world when Ben had left it.

Peter must have hummed in response before going back to his circuitry, but he has no idea. Closeby, a single stalk of lightning striked a defiant rod, and the roll of thunder picked up. The rain fell in heavy, suffocating sheets, and they didn’t speak again for the rest of the night- by no fault of Peter’s. Tony seemed to have a way with deep issues, with ones that couldn’t be fixed with flaunting of money or midnight hugs. He allowed Peter silence, at least for a little longer, where he could mull over Tony’s words instead of feeling pressured to explain why he was acting the way he was- and Peter didn’t even have an explanation.

He didn’t know why he had stopped eating. He didn’t know why notes were hard. He didn’t know why he couldn’t sleep. He didn’t know- and he didn’t want to. He didn’t want to confront it. He wasn’t ready to take that band aid off.

The morning brings sunshine and a fresh state of mind, as well as the overbearing smell of grease, bacon, and eggs. Clint and Natasha are seated at the breakfast bar as if they’ve always lived there, picking apart Tony’s food as if they couldn’t decide if it was a meal or someone they were interrogating.

When Peter stumbled in, sleepy and sore from falling asleep at a workbench, Tony wasted no time shoving a heavy plate in his empty hands. Shoved on top of each other were countless strips of bacon and at least four eggs. Peter couldn’t remember if he had ever eaten that much food at once, even before his… problems began.

“Mr. Stark, I-” he began, guilt eating away at him. What would everyone else have? Peter can’t eat this much food, and even if he could, he’d be wasting it.

“You are not about to tell me that’s too much, are you?” Tony replied poisonously, “Because its not. For a kid with a metabolism like yours, thats eating light.”

“Dig in, kid,” Clint said, “For once Can Man made something edible,”
“Wow thanks,” Tony deadpanned, “I feel so loved.”

Peter ended up eating it, but it felt like a dead weight inside of him. As he swirled his orange juice, all he could hear was Tony’s voice. His reflection in the liquid was pale and tired, tired in a way that sleep deprivation didn’t cause alone. He wasn’t living at all. He didn’t know how to fix it. He didn’t know if he wanted it. If he could.

A breaking point came in the form of Peter’s third midnight excursion, somewhere on the rooftops of brooklyn, as Peter’s legs dangled over the sculpted head of a lion. His mask was long forgotten discarded to a discreet corner of the rooftop, far from him. His knotted earbuds were rooted too far into ears that they hurt, blasting the soothing tech music of Louie Zong. Ghost duet. No words, just music. A high note, a low note, and nothing to leech on to to direct Peter away from his thoughts. He looked down, down to the dizzying fall below. It was high enough to kill him, enhanced or not. If that didn’t do anything, the perpetuate New York traffic wouldn’t allow any cars to swerve to miss him. EMS would take too long. It was right in front of him, just a leap of faith. Faith that he couldn’t get better.

He imagined his funeral. Empty, cheap. Ned would be there, devastated, wondering what he could have done, what signs he could have seen to stop Peter. May would be alone, comforted by his small ring of work friends that she never let in completely, especially after Ben. They would never understand how alone she would be. MJ would be angry, seething with angry as she stared at his coffin- no one would want to have it open- telling him to snap out of it and stop being an idiot. The decathlon team would come, all discussing quietly if the Stark Internship really was when he was hurting, when his anxiety was too much, how wonderful he was truly on the inside (when they never really knew him). Flash wouldn’t make any jokes, he couldn’t understand, couldn’t comprehend that Peter could just give up like that- and in the background, sollem with his hands crossed, Happy, standing vigil for a kid he never cared about. Maybe Tony would come to.

He leaned forward and swayed in the breeze. He slid forward on the head of the tiger, lightness settling in his feet as they anticipated uncertain ground. His spider-sense was unusually quiet, silent even, and the sounds of the street were silenced by the lyrics of the song.

-Keep it quick-

-Say it brief-

Hesitation, his fingers weren’t sticky anymore, he couldn’t stop sliding, he was going to- to fall

-If it’s fast-
It was too quick, too sudden. An uneasy reluctance replaced his apathy, a small voice that didn’t want to. He wasn’t ready.

He didn’t want to fall.

-it will be a relief-

He couldn’t stop from falling.

-Short on time-

The ground was rushing towards him, he flailed in the breeze. He had a few seconds, at best.

-That’s a gift-

He turned, up to the lion, the building, the stars- Ben loved the stars- but he couldn’t stop his fall, not like Ben’s death, not like his- Problem- he glanced at his hands for the last time. The last time he looked at his hands like this, they were covered in blood and regret. Now they were coated in shame and Mr. Stark’s suit-

Mr. Stark’s web shooters.

-Count your seconds-

He shot towards the stars, watching the lines disappear into the inky darkness. They wouldn’t stick anytime- he missed. Peter closed his eyes. Nothing.

Tension.

Peter’s armed snapped upwards and screamed.

-and you’ll catch the drift-

His head jerked back, earbuds falling out, replaced by the jeering screech of tires and a horn. He swung outwards up the street, hands hanging back as the webbing remained attached. The sound of his feet scraping up against the brick grated against his eardrums, and he released as he landed in the indented frame of a window, breathless, high on adrenaline, and for once happy to still be alive.

He stood there for what felt like hours, knees bent and knuckles white against the brick ledge, head down in an attempt to keep his identity from wise passerbys. The same thought replayed in his head over and over again, like a forgotten song lyirc.
He didn’t want to fall. He didn’t want to fall. He didn’t want to fall.

The trip back up the building to his mask was long and shaky, more similar to Peter’s first debut as Spider-Man than that of an Avenger’s casual climb. He wasn’t going to fall. He wasn’t going to fall. He won’t let himself fall.

He took the mask with shaky hands.

“Karen? Can you call Tony?” He asked, hands tracing the concrete roof, the solid ground.

“Of course. Connecting you the Boss Man himself,” Karen replied softly, matching his quiet tone in a warm affirmation.

“Yello? Kid?”

“Tony?”

“Wow, that’s a first time we’ve used the T-word-”

“I need help. A lot of it, I think.”

“What’s wrong, kiddo.”

“I can’t take notes. I can’t eat food. I can’t sleep.” I think I just tried to kill myself.

“Should we tell May?”

He always gave him a choice. A choice to answer calls, to handle villians on his own, to open up at the tower. The thought of speaking of word of his troubles makes his skin crawl and head swim, but he remembers his still shaking hands. He doesn’t want to fall.

“Yea. We should.”

----

He rushes home to Queens, inside the apartment, into May’s arms, and faintly he can hear the repulsors arriving in the distance. This time they didn’t bring anxiety or unanswered questions, just a crushing wall of support that pushed the words from his mouth.

“I’m sorry, May,” Peter said into her arms, and she held him in surprise, “I love you.”

He felt her hand in his hair, soft and comforting and worried. So worried.

“Peter I- I love you too baby,” she replied, and her soft hands curled around the side of his arm and head. Her chin rested on the top of his head, just by the few inches she still managed to have over him, and even then she was standing on the balls of her feet. Faintly a newsreel about Spider-Man’s performance droned on in the background, but the only sound that filled his ears was May’s fast heartbeat. His tongue moved awkwardly, sticking to the roof of his mouth as he mumbled a hard phrase into her work clothes.

“I need help, May,” he forced out as Tony got closer, practically overhead. The breath in May’s lungs hitches for a moment, and he can imagine the sting at the back of her throat.

“Baby….” she whispered, “It’s going to be ok.”

Peter closed his eyes, and allowed the words to mean something to him.

-----

Recovery began and ended with Peter. While it was necessary and important for him to learn to rely on people like Mr. Stark and May, he had to make the conscious choice to want to have a better quality of life. He had to chose to get better. That was the first thing he had learned in therapy- which started soon after the fateful rooftop call. Her name was Dr. Jones-Smith, a lovely late thirties woman who’s office was decorated with certificates, degrees, and a single framed photo of her wife and daughter in Hawaii. He liked her- Dr. Jones-Smith was hard on him. She knew when he was spouting bullshit and called him out on it. She didn’t pity him or call him badass for getting therapy. She just listened and gave her input. It was refreshing.

Some days he really felt up for everything- eating and talking and going to Shake and Steak with MJ and Ned and an incredibly ‘reluctant’ Mr. Stark. Others days he stayed in his room and drew forlorn faces with the grey copic markers Tony had gotten him. Drawing- something he thought he would never pick up- turned out to be more relaxing than sitting on rooftops or getting the feelings punched out of him. They didn’t always work, but they never had to. Peter enjoyed it during and after his hard days. It was something new to try.

Who knew something good could come out of this, huh.

Peter wasn’t better. Somedays he wondered if he ever would be. But more days than less he felt like he was happy- not that he could be, but that he was. That counted for something, he told Dr. JS, it counted for something. I’m getting better. Her warm smile- that eventually joined mid-laugh sketches of MJ and Ned- at that comment meant everything to him.

Peter didn’t always hate this body. He didn’t always hate himself. But that never was the problem for him. He had always viewed himself- Peter Parker- as a character who’s ending had already been written for him. He had always seen himself destined for an early death with few around him who would live long enough to witness it.

But, sitting back in his chair, face to face with a black and white mirror of himself etched in paper, he struck himself with how real he was- how three dimensional and in control he was of himself, how he had chosen to fill the entire sketchbook with faces and people and lives- he smiled.

God no, he wasn’t better. He wouldn’t be for a long time. But to feel a fraction of better was better than none, and he would fight for every broken piece of himself until he felt whole again. He owed it to himself- Peter Parker- to get a happy ending.