Spooktober 22: Crush

They're at an event; him, Tony, and some of the other interns. Some grand conference. Peter didn't really read the invitation, he just goes when Tony asks.

He can't tell what exactly it is, but ever since he stepped in, his whole stomach rocked with anxiety. He places his bets on the people. The place is packed, crowded wall to wall with bodies, every step he takes has him brushing shoulders with someone else. He consciously makes an effort to press closer to Tony as they enter the threshold.

"You good?" Tony asks under his breath.

Peter nods, his mouth pressed in a tight line. His heart is racing in his chest, so he takes a breath. This was the uncomfortable part of being Spider-Man— the stuff Peter Parker has to deal with in his stead. The baseless anxiety. Annoying.

And he spends the next twenty minutes trying really hard to get over it, the needless lack of breath, the way his skin was buzzing, his head felt fuzzy. Not good.

People keep bumping into him, and his stomach is starting to turn, and his ears are doing the thing they do when there's so much sound that it starts layering in weird ways—

Peter's half-listening to Tony talk about the principles of glass to a scientist, a really nice one works that works in one of the lower levels, when it just becomes unbearable. The panic is revving up faster than he can control it. He discreetly nudges Tony's shoulder and tries not to cringe at the touch.

Tony looks over immediately and ducks his head toward him. His eyebrows crease in concern as he scans over him rapidly. Always assessing for the problem, and then like magic—

"Let's take a break," Tony says decisively. He hovers a hand over Peter's shoulder, a silent question. They do this, sometimes, this non-colloquial back-and-forth thing. Peter gives him a slight nod, so Tony drops his hand and gently leads them out of the crowd.

"Outside, or bathroom?"

The nice way of asking, fresh air or a clean place to throw up?

"Bathroom," Peter answers, his voice cracking. His stomach is still turning and twisting itself in knots and he'd rather not take chances.

Tony nods casually. He turns down the hall, pushes the door open and leads them in. He crouches down and scans the floor. "Hey, good news. Nobody's in here, kiddie."

Peter makes an appreciative noise and slides his back down the wall, sitting on the grimy tile floor. Puts his head in his hands and breathes. "This sucks."

"The fourth-rate venue? I agree. This place looks like it needs a crime-scene-level deep-clean."

Peter smiles, and then gets hit with another wave of nausea. He sighs, the temporary humour draining out of him.

Tony sits next to him with a groan, his joints popping uncomfortably. "Sorry, Underoos. I wish there was a cure for all that brain junk we have to put up with, but... well, I don't know. Maybe I'll find something, someday. Add it to my to-do list."

"Mrgh," Peter says helpfully. He tries to calm himself down. Tony's presence is helping. He's got this steadiness to him, unwavering, always. He doesn't seem to ever be afraid, ever, even when Peter's world feels like it's tilting on its axis.

Tony stands up, and Peter feels unsteady again. A boat without an anchor. He wants to open his mouth and ask him to sit back down again— but he can't find the words, and he feels like his stomach will finally betray him if he even tries to part his lips.

Then something happens.

His senses buzz, a wave of sensation ricocheting through his nerves. He jerks up, scrambling his legs to grab Tony, to lurch him back. A panel of the ceiling falls, landing on the floor with a thud and kicking up dust and dirt.

"Well, there you go," Tony says with a tired sigh, kicking the panel with his foot. "Look at that, isn't that nice."

It's weird, because it's really not even that big of a deal. Buildings fall apart, especially old ones. Pieces break and brittle, and that doesn't mean it's the whole building that will come crashing down. He knows that.

He knows that, but somehow, he can't breathe.

No, he can't breathe, and that's not even the worst part— because suddenly he needs to get out of here, because if one panel could come down, then maybe all of them could, and—

"Nearly getting decapitated by a loose—"

"We've gotta go," Peter says, his legs shaking. "We gotta get out of here, seriously. Come on, we have to go."

"Woah, hey. Slow down," Tony holds his hands up. "Kid, take a breath. What's going on?"

"What's going— the building's about to fall apart, it's not safe! A piece of the whole ceiling nearly hit you," Peter rattles off, talking a mile a minute. "I mean, I could have missed it, and you could have hit your head."

"Then I would have hit my head," Tony shrugs. "Not a big deal. It happens. Pretty sure getting thocked upside the head by Dum-E hurts a little more than a... flimsy... plaster board."

Peter shakes his head, and keeps shaking his head. "No, I've— the ceiling isn't sturdy, if it caves in I can't— I can't hold up another building, I'll—"

"Peter," Tony cocks his head, furrowing his eyebrows. "What do you mean another? What are you— alright, it doesn't matter. Let's go outside, get you some air."

Always a good plan from Tony. The older man starts leading him out of the bathroom and out to the fire escape, further down the hallway, and Peter finds himself talking in a panicked flurry the whole way there.

"When we walked in I counted thirty support pillars, and about four exits, five including the fire exit," Peter recites, stumbling down the hall.

"Jesus," Tony mutters. He nudges the door open with his elbow and walks both of them outside. "I'm picking up a lot of things from you right now and I'm not sure I'm liking the picture they're making."

Peter shook his head vehemently. "I don't wanna talk about it. Not now."

Tony sighs, but seems to understand— which is a relief. They don't normally talk about this stuff, and they definitely don't have a habit of asking each other about it. 

It's kind of an unspoken rule— dark things are only talked about in the dark.  They learn bits and pieces about each other during middle-of-the-night phone calls or late nights in the lab that turn into early mornings, both of them too tired and comfortable to care about what they're sharing. 

Anyways, the fresh air is helping. Peter feels the weight in his head lessen enough where he's able to process how much of what he's feeling is actual spider-sense anxiety and what's just the normal kind. 

Tony sits beside him and starts talking while he breathes through the dwindling nausea. Little stuff, always allowing an entry if or when Peter felt comfortable enough to be human again. 

"We could watch that clone show," he says offhandedly. "The animated one you like. I think we stopped on the second episode last time, but that was a while ago, so you'll have to fill me in on what I forgot. I'm all old now, so the brain gets foggy. If you don't fill me in, it's basically elder abuse. Just so you know."

At the silent response of a quip being left wide open, Tony looks over at him. "Not feeling any better?"

"I feel better," Peter says quiet, defeated. "I just hate that I get like this sometimes. I'm Spider-Man, you know? I have to be better. Think clearer."

Tony shrugs, loosely hanging an arm over his shoulder's. "Maybe. But you're also, like, sixteen? Seventeen? God, you're growing up fast. The point is, you're still young now, and you've been through a lot of shit. It's going to take some time before all of that is just a passing thought."

Peter bites back an argument. 

"I know," Tony affirms, rolling his eyes. "You think I was fine and dandy coming back from Afghanistan? That took me years. Then the whole thing in 2012 took me even longer."

"Right," Peter says with a sigh.

Tony shakes him a bit, his eyes going earnest. "Hey. You're doing good, Peter. Seriously. I'm proud of you."

Peter nods, looking down. "Are we going back in?"

"Mmm, no," Tony says, scratching his chin. "I think I'm in the mood for donuts."

With that, the faintest hint of a smile makes its way to Peter's face— and Tony beams.