TWs: Nightmares, mentions of past emotional/physical abuse from a parent, and while Peter doesn't have an eating disorder, his behavior/the descriptions may be triggering to some
I paced around the kitchen, thinking about yesterday, as I had been all night. I tried going to sleep but every time I closed my eyes, all I could see was Peter crying and asking his aunt if he was allowed to sleep. Needless to say, the notion drove any exhaustion I might've felt far from my mind. This woman--this monster neglected and abused him, and all the while he had school and Spider-Man to worry about. This kid has so much weight on his shoulders, and he doesn't even realize it.
"Sir," Friday said suddenly, making me almost drop my coffee.
"Jesus-- Yeah Fri?"
"Peter's heart rate is rising at an unusual pace, I believe he is having a nightmare," she said.
"Oh shit, okay, thanks Fri," I said, setting down my coffee and rushing to Peter's room. I knocked on his door and called, "Underoos? You alright? Friday's a bit worried."
For a second I thought there was no answer. But then I heard muffled moans and crying coming from behind the door, though I couldn't tell what he was saying, or even if he was saying anything at all.
"I'm coming in kid," I said, feeling a bit of panic rising in my throat.
Peter was twisting and shaking, his covers kicked off him and his hair stuck to the sweat on his forehead. He writhed on the bed, moaning and crying as though he were in pain.
"Peter!? Hey, Peter wake up, wake up kid," I said, running over and trying to shake him awake. All he did was whimper and turn over.
"No... stop... please..."
"Pete? C'mon kid, you gotta wake up, it's not real--"
"I didn't mean it, it was an accident, I'm sorry--Help me, help me Dad, help me it hurts!"
"Peter!"
"Dad help! HELP DAD HELP ME--"
He snapped awake with a strangled gasp, clutching and scrabbling at his chest, wheezing as tears poured down his face and mingled with the sweat already there.
"Hey, hey you're alright, you're okay--"
"I can't breathe, I can't breathe--"
"Yes you can, you can, look--" I took his hand and pressed it firmly to his frantically rising and falling chest. "That's you, you're breathing, that's you, do you feel it?"
He went silent for a second before nodding, though his breaths still sounded strained and painful.
"Okay, you gotta calm down kiddo, we're gonna do the same thing we did yesterday okay? Breathe deep, all the way down okay?"
He nodded.
"Focus on your breath," I continued. "Feel the air going past your nose and mouth, down your throat, filling your gut. And then feel it going out, feel your stomach sinking, the air going past your nose and mouth. Just focus on the feeling of breathing."
He never stopped looking at me as he did his best to calm down. He stared at me and clutched my hand like I was the only thing that kept him anchored to earth, while his other hand pressed flat against his chest, reminding himself he was still breathing. It was about ten minutes before his grip on me loosened.
Though he was no longer having a panic attack, he still looked small and helpless, like when I found him in the alleyway. He had himself propped up weakly against the headboard, looking like he would blow away if I breathed too hard. But then I remembered what seemed to cheer him up back when I found him alone and scared.
"Do you want a hug?"
His face lit up again just like it did then, with that sappy, almost pitiful hope, and he nodded fervently, as though worried I would change my mind at the last second.
I swung my legs onto the bed and shifted back so I was sitting next to him. Then I opened my arms and Peter buried himself into my side, his head resting on my chest and his thin arms curled tight around my torso.
"You sure like hugs," I said. Peter nodded.
"Safe," was all that he said.
I rubbed his back with my right hand, feeling dismayed that his spine and ribs still jutted out of his skin. He's gotta be starving, he slept for a whole twelve hours, and with his metabolism? I imagine his stomach must be absolutely cramping with hunger.
But knowing him, I'm sure he would sooner pass out from low blood sugar than tell me he's in the mood for a snack.
"Nightmares suck," Peter said, pulling me out of my thoughts.
"Yeah. Yeah, they really do," I said. "You wanna tell me about it?"
"Um, well it was when the Vulture dropped that building on me, but it was Aunt May who was doing it. She kept saying that I broke the rules so she had to punish me."
"Man, that sucks. I'm sorry kid." I almost asked about this "Dad" he was talking about, but decided against it. If he didn't mention it, maybe that was something he'd rather keep to himself.
"Not your fault," he answered.
I know. I know it's not my fault. I know I wasn't the one who hurt him. But then why do I feel so damn guilty?
It's because I didn't notice. Not only did I neglect to realize my intern was fucking homeless, but I never even thought about what his home-life might be like. Never thought to check if he was okay.
Though as I glanced at the fork still sitting on his bedside table, a small part of my brain told me that I was being ridiculous, and not to blame myself for the pain Peter went through. But I wasn't interested in listening to that voice at the moment.
"I should probably get dressed," Peter said, looking down at his pajama-clad legs.
"Oh. I guess if you want to then. I think I'll stay in my pj's," I said with a laugh. I got out of his bed and shut the door behind me.
I spent the next ten minutes or so making breakfast, being sure to give Peter twice as much food as me. I put a Hulk bar on his plate too, in case the giant heap of scrambled eggs, toast, bacon, and milk wasn't enough. To be completely honest, I wasn't sure how much he really needed, but he did eat an entire box of pasta by himself yesterday so I thought it'd be best not to skimp on anything.
When everything was set, I looked towards the hallway. There was still no sign of Peter. Then I heard the elevator door ding and slide open, and looked to see Peter taking a step into the elevator, wearing his old (but now clean) clothes from yesterday, backpack on his shoulders and camera slung around his neck.
"Peter?"
Peter jumped, and the elevator door bonked his shoulder knocking him off-balance.
"Ow. Oh uh, heyyy Mr. Stark," Peter said, backing out of the elevator and rubbing his shoulder.
"What're you doing?"
"Goin' to work," he said simply.
"To work? Why?"
"Pictures won't take themselves, Mr. Stark."
Smartass even when hungry and sleep-deprived. The only way he could be more like me is if he put on sunglasses and grew a goatee.
"No, seriously kid, why are you going to work? You don't have to work at the Daily Bugle anymore," I said, walking over to him.
Peter gave me a funny look, then rolled his eyes.
"Ha ha, hilarious Mr. Stark." Peter pressed the down button again, waiting for the elevator to open up and avoiding my eyes.
"Peter what--? You need to stay here, you haven't recovered from--
"Work isn't going to wait around for me to rest up--"
"But there's no reason for you to work anymore!"
"How do you expect me to get my own place if I'm not making money?"
"Expect you? But you're living here, with me! So I can take care of you! You don't need to make money anymore if you already have a home!"
Peter froze and looked at me. He didn't even move when the elevator door opened again.
Suddenly a cold weight dropped into my chest.
"Unless, you don't want to live here," I said, looking down and feeling embarrassed. "Which is--Which is fine! But, but you shouldn't go work at the paper, I'll get a place lined up for you and--and I'll pay you for being Spider-Man, I mean I was going to do that anyway, but don't go and work there, please just stay here for a week or so and--"
"I wanna stay!" Peter said suddenly. I looked up to see him shaking, tears trickling down his face. "I want to stay! I wanna stay with you! I thought I couldn't-- I thought this was temporary, I thought I was going to have to leave and I didn't want to be a bother--"
"Oh kid, you're never a bother, c'mere," I said, and I pulled him safely into my arms, being sure to push his camera out of the way. "You're never a bother, you have always been welcome here. I'm sorry I didn't make that clear before you spent a week in the streets. I'm sorry I didn't think to check on you sooner. I'm so sorry."
"It's okay Mr. Stark. It's not your fault. It's a lot of me too, I should've asked for help earlier," Peter said.
"No, no that's not your fault either. You were taught that you didn't deserve help, so obviously you didn't ask. I was taught that too, it took a long time for Pepper and Rhodey to reverse that, heh. So we'll work on that. How does that sound?"
Peter nodded against my shirt and hugged me closer. I hugged him so tight he actually winced.
"Oh shit sorry, too tight?"
"Uh, no, actually it's my--"
Peter's stomach gave a piteously empty sounding rumble. He actually moved a hand away so that he could hold his belly, and I heard him give a slight hiss of pain.
"...stomach," he finished. "Sorry."
"Quit saying you're sorry for being hungry. It's okay to be hungry, you're not committing some awful crime."
"I'm not?"
"No, you're not," I let him go and leaned down so I could look him in the eye. "You're just being a person. Just let me know when you're hungry okay? Let me know when you need something, don't wait until your stomach is ready to implode."
"You... actually want me to tell you when I'm hungry?"
"Yes. Tell me anything and everything kid, just tell me. Don't wait until you're hurting. All that stuff that your aunt said is wrong. You can tell me you're tired, you can be mad and sad and happy whenever you have to be, you can get something to eat or go to sleep without anyone's permission, you can cry if you need to. You don't have to wait for me to say it's okay to be whatever you need to be."
"But, I don't know how to do that."
"We can work on that."
"We have a lot of stuff to work on," he said miserably.
"We have a lot of time," I said. I stood up straight and put my arm around his shoulders.
"Now, how about we get some food in that belly of yours? What the hell were you thinking trying to leave without breakfast? Or even a packed lunch for that matter?"
"I didn't want to be annoying. And it's not like I've never gone without breakfast before... Or lunch," he said, fidgeting with his sleeves.
"Well from now on, you're having at least three square meals every single day, no exceptions."
"Three whole meals," Peter whispered to himself. I decided not to comment; I don't think he actually wanted me to hear that.
"I made you breakfast," I said. Peter looked up at me, eyes wide and mouth parted.
"You did?" he said, his voice going up an octave.
"You bet. How do you feel about eggs, toast, and bacon?" I said.
Peter swallowed and chewed his lip hungrily, his pupils dilated so wide his eyes looked more black than brown. His belly grumbled lowly again, and he clutched it, as though trying to drive the pain and noises away with his fist. Though of course, only food would be able to accomplish that.
"Y-yes please," he said in a high, trembling whisper. He sounded like he was about to cry again, so I ruffled his curls and lead him to the dining room. When he saw his plate a sob-like whine escaped his throat, and he hurried to the table, shoveling hot scrambled eggs into his mouth.
I sat across from him and began eating too. I watched Peter carefully as he inhaled the pile of scrambled eggs, taking a few bites of toast and bacon, and a swig of milk every once in a while. He breathed heavily, with little whines of either relief or desperation between bites.
It broke my heart.
It was only after a couple minutes that Peter slowed down enough for me to talk to him.
"Hey Pete, you didn't happen to get hungry in the middle of the night, did you?" I asked.
Peter froze, looked at me, then looked away nervously.
"How did you know?"
I gave him a sympathetic smile.
"Lucky guess. Your stomach wouldn't stop growling, you sounded like you were going to cry when I said I made you breakfast, and you're eating at a hundred miles per hour now."
Peter turned red, and put down the strip of bacon he was eating, as though he were going to stop.
"Oh no, I didn't mean for you to stop, I wasn't trying to shame you," I said quickly. "Please, keep eating if you're hungry. I just meant that you must be starving because of your metabolism."
Peter picked up the bacon again, looking a little relieved, and then he nodded.
"Yeah, I got hungry last night, at like two am or something... My stomach woke me up cuz it hurt," he mumbled.
I almost swore out loud but hid it behind a rather aggressive sounding cough. If Steve were here he'd be proud I managed not to cuss in front of a kid for once.
"And I imagine you didn't get up to get something to eat, did you?" I continued. Peter shook his head.
"I... I didn't want to wake you up. I mean, Aunt May could almost always hear me if I tried to get something in the middle of the night cuz the fridge made this loud squeaking noise, though sometimes I could flip up onto the ceiling before she caught me. And..." Peter trailed off, turning red again.
"What is it?" I said.
"Well I couldn't steal from you, could I? Tony freaking Stark gives you a place to stay and you go raid his fridge like you own the place? I couldn't do that!" Peter distracted himself by biting into another slice of toast.
I sighed. It was exactly as I suspected. He'd just gone back to sleep with his belly rumbling and cramping without a second thought.
"Well, I, Anthony Edward Stark--"
"Your middle name is Edward like the vampire--"
"--Give you full permission, to-- How did you put it? 'Raid my fridge like you own the place,'" I said, taking a bite of my own eggs. "Any time. Day or night. Make all the noise you want. Hell, you can come into my room, or the lab, or even in the middle of a business meeting and start chucking food at me if you'd like, I don't care."
Peter laughed, and it made my metal heart swell to hear the sound. A genuine, happy laugh.
Up until now, it seems he'd been too hungry or tired to be happy, but now that he'd been fed and rested, he was returning to the cheerful boy I knew.
Well, the cheerful boy I thought I knew. I thought he lived in a good home, I thought his Aunt was a perfectly fine woman, I thought he had enough. Enough food, enough sleep, enough love, enough to be truly happy.
But, as yesterday's events showed, he's never had enough. And, I've realized, he still doesn't quite have enough now. Specifically, enough to wear. All his clothes got stolen, meaning the clothes he's wearing now are the only ones that he has.
"Pete, do you want to see if we can get your clothes back? I could check the security cameras and see exactly who took them--"
"No," Peter interrupted.
"Really?" I said. "Why?"
"I um... It's really hard out there," he said through a bite of eggs. "I was only homeless for a week and I still had some of my own stuff. There's a ton of people out there who don't have anything. For now, I'm assuming someone stole my clothes because they needed them. They didn't even touch my tent, they could've stolen that too, but they didn't.
"And I mean, most of those didn't fit anyway. The only thing I would've been sad to lose is this shirt," he said, plucking at the shirt on his chest, which read "If you believe in telekinesis, raise my right hand". I privately thought Wanda would find it funny. "Ned and MJ got it for me for my birthday. It's my favorite, I'm lucky I was wearing it yesterday."
I was a bit surprised at his answer but didn't argue. Even though he's been hurt so much, he still cares more about the people than he does himself.
"Well then, looks like we'll have to go shopping soon," I said, smiling at him over my glass of milk. "Get you some nice new clothes, ones that actually fit too."
Peter suddenly looked a bit panicked again.
"What's wrong?" I asked.
"...I'm not used to people buying me things. Makes me feel weird."
"But what about your shirt? You were just saying--"
"That was different, it was my birthday, they would've felt bad if they didn't get me something, so it was okay. But now you're just buying me stuff all willy-nilly--"
"It's not 'willy-nilly', you need clothes. You're not being spoiled, you're just being given the things you need," I said. I reached across the table and put my hand on his shoulder.
"It's okay to let yourself be taken care of. Let me take care of you, that's what I'm here for. I'm here to help you, not to tolerate you."
Peter still didn't look convinced, but didn't argue.
He finished the last of his food, except the Hulk bar, though when I came back from clearing my plate, the bar was nowhere in sight.
Peter was actually curled in on himself, his knees pulled up to his chest, his arms crossed behind his legs and hugging his belly. If he weren't smiling so widely, I would've thought he was in pain.
"Underoos? Whatcha doin' over there?"
"My stomach doesn't hurt!" he chirped. "It's warm. Feels nice." He hugged himself closer, closing his eyes as though he were snuggling into a blanket.
I laughed.
"You're like a kitten or something. Curling around itself," I said.
"I'm alright with being a kitten," Peter said, opening his eyes. "Kittens are awesome, not the worst thing you could be." Then after a moment, "Arguably, it's the best thing you could be. New goal in life: become a kitten."
"Not a bad goal kid. Not a bad goal," I said.
Peter snorted before glancing at the plates on the table. He suddenly uncurled himself, picking up all the dishes and walking to the sink. He snatched up a sponge and started rinsing off all the dishes and scrubbing them.
"Kid, you know I have machines to do that for me right?"
"Oh yeah, but it's the least I could do for you! You're letting me live here, I gotta repay you somehow. I was thinking I would clean the living room later, then sweep and mop the lab, and then maybe--"
"Kid..." I turned off the sink and he looked at me curiously. "You don't have to feel guilty for anything."
"What? I don't feel guilty! I'm all good!" he said a little too cheerfully.
"You do. You don't have to try and repay me, all I'm doing is giving you what you deserve."
"No, you're doing a lot more than that!" Peter said, looking at me as though I wasn't giving myself enough credit.
"Kid, all I've done so far is give you shelter, rest, food, and the promise of new clothes."
"Yeah!" he said, like I was proving his point.
"Those are just basic needs kiddo. You think that I'm spoiling you or that you're getting more than you deserve, but you're not."
Peter frowned, and looked back at the dishes. I slowly put my hand on his wrist, and pulled him away from the sink. Peter dried off his hands and then started fiddling with his sleeves as I told Friday to have a suit do the dishes.
"Hey, it's alright," I said, turning back to Peter who was still frowning and fidgeting with his sleeves.
"Yeah, I guess. I just... I suppose I do feel guilty. I don't feel like I deserve any of this."
"Well you do. You deserve all the good things. You might not know that right now, but we can work on that."
"Okay. We can work on that," he said. He leaned forward and held up his arms, and I wrapped my own around him, holding him tightly to my chest.
Safe.
"Hey, I don't feel like working in the lab today. Do you want to go watch something? Anything you want," I said.
"Anything I want?" Peter repeated, looking up, his eyes alight with excitement.
"That's what I said."
"...Even Batman?"
"Haha! Even Batman. You go get it set up, I'll be there in a sec," I said. Peter let me go and flipped onto the couch, the remote bouncing conveniently into his lap.
I walked into the kitchen and grabbed a Hulk bar (Maybe I should call them Spidey Bars since Bruce is nowhere to be found), and put it in my pocket in case he needed it for later--oh my god I'm a mom--and then tossed a packet of popcorn in the microwave. A few seconds in the first kernel popped and I heard Peter gasp.
"ARE YOU MAKING POPCORN!?" he shouted from around the corner.
"Um, yeah?" I called back.
There was a loud thump from above, and then Peter appeared from around the corner, crawling across the ceiling towards the microwave.
"Jeez, are you still hungry? You should've told me!" I said.
"Oh no, I'm not really, I promise, I just like watching the popcorn bag get all puffed up," he said, standing upside down and pressing his nose to the window of the microwave.
I laughed and turned to pour myself a fresh cup of coffee, when I saw something white peeking out from the underside of the table. I glanced back at Peter to see him still occupied by the popcorn bag, then quickly went to the table and peered under it.
There was Peter's Hulk bar (Spidey Bar?) from breakfast, webbed to the underside of the table.
Something flashed in the back of my mind and I saw Steve Rogers putting a container of day-old Chinese food in his sock drawer to save it for later, no doubt fingerprints left on him by the Great Depression.
I leave the bar under the table. Peter would be embarrassed if I called attention to it, and he might panic if it's moved. Steve was the same.
Peter and Steve have a lot more in common than I thought. Both superheroes, both with enhanced metabolisms, both growing up without enough food, both habitually hiding food for later, and of course, both rather good at pretending they are 100% A-okay.
If Cap were here he could help Peter a lot more than I could.
But he's not, he's out somewhere doing who-knows-what with Nat and Wanda and Metal Arm Guy and who the hell else he seems to have recruited into his little group. People have taken to calling them the Rogue Avengers, a rather fitting name I might add.
I stood up and touched the phone he gave me in my pocket. I'm a little ashamed to say I keep it with me all the time. Maybe I should call him. Not to unite the Avengers again necessarily, but to see if he can help the kid. He may be an idiot but he's a good person, a better man than me.
If Iron Man can't help Peter, maybe Captain America can.
(A/N: Hope you all like this! This'll update as I get time, I have a lot of school stuff going on)