Author's Note: Peter deals with an anxiety attack here, so if you're easily triggered, please skip this, alright? Take care of yourselves!

Peter is crying. Fat, warm drops of tears are running down his cheeks, pooling on his upper lip, dripping into his mouth, leaving Peter to wake up to the taste of salt and old sadness bitter on his tongue. He can't remember why he's crying or even what his dream had been about. It's all a blur of bodies and a spaceship and… a planet? Fighting?

Something. He doesn't know.

It hardly matters, though. His body — his stupid, useless, malfunctioning body — doesn't allow him to remember the specifics of his dreams, but it nevertheless forces him awake, gasping for air, as though the world had been slowly running out of oxygen and Peter needed to go through every last particle of air to search for the last bit.

So he's gasping for air, his mouth wide open, feeling wet and dry at the same time — if such thing is even possible — and the weight of the universe is settled on top of Peter's chest, pressing down with such force that it feels impossible to either inhale or exhale. He's stuck — frozen.

Peter's hand move on its own accord, going up to his torso until it rests over his chest, his heart, and he starts to scratch the skin, his nails dragging over the muscles as if it can somehow relieve the pressure. But it doesn't. It's just another layer of pain, of discomfort in a situation that's already beyond the tolerable levels of bearable.

There's no air, and something is squeezing Peter's chest impossibly tight, and his heart is beating so goddamn fast, and he's scratching his skin, leaving marks, drawing blood, and he's crying, still crying even though he has no idea why.

It's too much — intolerable.

Peter wants to leave, to escape, to flee to someplace safe where none this is happening. Only he's stuck, trapped. Trapped inside his own body, his bones and muscles and skin and organs without which he doesn't exist, but that are now rebelling against him. Punishing him, and he doesn't know why.

God, he struggles, then pulls in a sharp breath, chocks on it, and his throat starts to close. There's no air, no relief.

Peter's gonna die.

He's gonna die right where he is, in his bed, wearing only his stupid Star Wars pyjamas pants. Alone. With no one there to hold his hands, to watch over him, to ramble about shit to distract him. Nothing. Peter is going to suffocate, and he'll do it alone.

In the back of his mind, he wonders how long it will take. How many minutes he'll need to die, to fall into the welcoming hands of darkness, of emptiness. He knows an average human can only last a few minutes without passing out, but he's not normal and barely even human anymore, really, so maybe the rule no longer applies to him.

Maybe he'll suffer for a small eternity before being allowed to fade away. To rest — finally.

It feels impossible, though. There's no way Peter's body won't cave beforehand — not with how his rib cage seems to be collapsing on itself, pressing down down down.

His heart pounds — each beat spreads through Peter's entire self and he feels it. The quick pulsing heartbeat keeping him alive for a few more precious — horrible — seconds.

It shouldn't be possible.

A weird numbness begins to crawl up Peter's left arm, from the tip of his fingertips to his shoulder, and suddenly it no longer obeys his order to scratch, to try to open a hole from which air could come out or go in. It just… stops.

Inside, Peter is on overdrive. Outside? He's still, lying on his disgusting pool of sweat with no way out.

This must be what a heart attack feels like. Perhaps he ate too many fries, or skipped breakfast too often, or forgot to eat a fruit...or maybe the adrenaline of being Spider-Man is finally catching up to him and his body doesn't have the necessary structure to deal with it.

His Spidey-sense is far too strong and active — it keeps him on his toes, constantly. It must take a toll on his heart — the round-the-clock vigilance, the awareness of every little possible danger surrounding him. It's a nonstop ability. Dangerous, tiring.

It was never meant for a human, in the first place.

It's stuff worthy of a freak.

God.

Peter is going to die a freak.

A weirdo who cannot even get control over his own body.

The thought unlocks a door in Peter's brain, relaxes one specific muscle in his throat, and it's enough to get his vocal cords working, which is all he needs to start screaming. Peter trashes in his bed and screams.

Terror.

Blind panic.

There's no way of knowing what he's screaming or how it sounds because Peter's ears are ringing and the pounding of his hearts drowns out everything else, all other sounds, so all he knows is that his mouth is open — open wide enough to hurt his jaw — and that he's making some sort of sound.

He doesn't want to die.

Peter is young and has a lot to live still and has plans for the future and he hasn't said all he wants to say to the people he loves. How can he die without saying all he has ever wanted to say?

He never wrote a letter or recorded a video. If he goes — when he goes — his feelings and thoughts and words will die with him, never to be uttered or spoken about, and for some reason, that's the hardest thing to accept. Peter cannot accept that he's dying and the taste on his tongue is regret — old, dried out tears and regret.

No, he tells himself. He's not dying. He's been through this before a few times and he hasn't died yet, no matter how much his mind is doing its best to convince him otherwise. This is the anxiety.

Just...Anxiety.

Peter throws his arm wide, palms his bedside table until he finds his phone. With shaky fingers, he unlocks the screen and opens Google.

He types: heart attack.

Demi Lovato's song shows up.

Fuck.

Heart-attack symptoms, he types instead. Desperately searching for answers.

Instantly, right at the top, a list of symptoms show up.

Heartburn.

Cold sweat.

Shortness of breath.

Dizziness.

Pressure, tightness, pain, or a squeezing or aching sensation in your chest or arms that may spread to your neck, jaw or back.

Peter lets the phone fall from his hands. Why did he think Google would calm him down? This was a terrible idea.

Shit.

Maybe he is indeed having a heart attack this time. Who knows? Yes, he has anxiety, but it doesn't mean he's immune to normal conditions just because he's mind is fucked-up. If anything, he's more susceptible because of it — he's sure he's read about it somewhere before.

He cannot die on his own.

With a strength he hadn't known he possessed, Peter gets up from the bed and makes his way to the elevator. He doesn't bother with clothes — if he stops now, he won't make it.

"Workshop," he tells F.R.I.D.A.Y. when he enters the elevator, slamming his back against the metal and hoping it would do a better job at supporting him then his legs were currently doing. "Tony. Workshop."

F.R.I.D.A.Y, God bless her, wordlessly heads to his command, opening the lab's glass doors for him when he stumbles out of the elevator looking like a drunk nut-job.

Tony is there, six holographic screens surrounding him, clearly in the middle of something, swiping things to the side, studying them. He's there, just like Peter needed him to be. If he wasn't too busy focusing on not dying, Peter might have felt relieved.

As it is, he doesn't waste time on pleasantries. "Convince me I'm not dying," he demands loudly, immediately starting to pace around the room. He needs to keep moving, to keep distracting himself.

"Peter!" Tony blinks, clearly shocked by the interruption in the middle of the night. To his credit, though, he instantly waves the screens away and gets up from his chair. "What did you just say?"

"I need you to convince me I'm not having a heart attack," he half-orders half-pleads, trying to hear something other than his own heartbeats.

"F.R.I.D.A.Y, give me the numbers," Tony says, coming closer. There's a look on his face as he runs his eyes up and down Peter's body, something like pain or concern, and perhaps on another day Peter would stop to study it, but he can't right now.

"Boss, Peter seems to be experiencing the symptoms of an anxiety attack. He appeared to have a nightmare and woke up distressed," the A.I promptly informs, her voice softer than usual. "His heartbeat is dangerously elevated, at 127 BPM, which might explain the feeling of a possible heart attack."

"You don't know that!" Peter counters, still pacing even when he sees Tony stop to his left. "I could be having something! My—I—my arm feels numb, and I can't breathe, and this doesn't feel like—"

"Woah, there, kiddo," Tony says, getting in front of him when Peter turns to make a circle. Since he wasn't expecting it, he bumps into the man's chest and they end up face-to-face. "How about we do this one thing at a time, hun?" Tony suggests, raising a hand and placing one finger right under Peter's nose. "You know what I'm feeling?"

Peter doesn't have time for games. "What?" He barks, unamused.

"Air," Tony says, simply. "Looks to me like you're doing a pretty good job at this whole breathing thing, kid."

"I. How—you. That's not—"

"Here." Tony grabs Peter's right hand and places it right under his nostrils, replacing Tony's finger. "Feel that? You're breathing."

And Peter is. He feels the air hitting his finger, despite the tightness in his chest telling him otherwise.

Tony watches him carefully. "See? You're doing just fine. You're having an anxiety attack, Peter. I know it sucks, but you're not dying. You just need to keep reminding yourself that."

"I'm not dying," Peter says, dutifully.

"That's right, buddy. No one's dying on my watch," his mentor says, holding his gaze. "Can I touch you?"

That sounds good. "Yeah, yeah. Okay."

As soon as he authorises it, Tony wraps his arms around Peter and guides his head to the crook of the engineer's neck, where Peter can smell Tony's aftershave and the mixture of oil and smoke that somehow always clings to his skin, no matter what time of the day it is.

"Hey," Tony says. "Try to focus on me, alright? How I'm breathing. How my heart is beating."

And Peter does try. He tries for a few minutes, and he almost feels better for a second there, but then the hug that had felt amazing begins to feel constricting and Peter starts having trouble breathing in the small space of Tony's neck and instead of great, it flips to awful in a flash.

Without a word, Peter steps out of the embrace, gulping for air as he does so. It's all wrong. The last thing he wants is to put any sort of space between them, and yet… he needs room to breathe and this just isn't working.

Tony gives him a questioning look.

"I can't—" Peter starts, frustrated with himself. He swallows dry. "Too tight. Can't inhale like that."

"It's okay; don't worry about it." He pauses, then asks. "Is today a talking day or not?"

"No," Peter says decisively. The last thing he wants is to talk about whatever it might have been that triggered him.

"Alright. I was just about finished here anyway," Tony lies. It's a good lie, from an excellent liar, but Peter knows better. "Let's get the hell out of this place. I need a good resting place — my back is killing me today." He squeezes Peter's shoulder, gently leading him to the door. "Getting old sucks, buddy. Remember that."

"I'm fifteen. I will take me forever to get old."

"You wish. Trust me, it goes by faster than you may think."

"That's 'cause you were blacked out for half of it, Tony," Peter snaps. If he weren't half dying and frustrated as hell about it, Peter would've never said that, but he is, and the words slip out and he doesn't have it in him to care about it.

Today he's worked up and he doesn't have the patience to be careful and polite.

Surprisingly, Tony laughs. Not even a fake laugh, either — he genuinely sounds amused at the jab. "Touché, buddy. Learn from my mistakes, then," he says guiding them to the emergency stairs instead of the elevator, for which Peter mentally thanks him. It's only six floors up, and he would much rather avoid closed spaces for now. "Also, stop hanging around Rhodey so much. He's clearly a bad influence on you."

"You're one to talk. When I first arrived here," Peter deadpans, scratching his chest absentmindedly, "you only had motor oil and some disgusting protein powder in the workshop fridge."

Tony stops, places his hand over Peter's in his chest. Grabs it. "Stop," he says softly, but firmly. That's when Peter looks down and realises that he doesn't have a shirt on and that his chest area is red, irritated and still bleeding in some places.

His breath hitches.

"Don't," Tony nudges Peter's chin with his free hand. When Peter looks up, Tony's eyes are fixed on him, telling so much with just a look. "Don't worry about it for now. I've got you, okay? Just… keep going."

Silently, Peter nods in agreement. Can't say anything else, the words stuck at the back of his throat. Tony nods back, understanding without any further explanation, as he always does, and Peter wonders how he ever survived before Tony Stark.

"C'mon, Underoos," he says, threading their fingers together so Peter is no longer tempted to worsen his injuries and pulling him the rest of the way, walking silently until they reach the penthouse.

Once there, they head straight to the bathroom.

"Sit," Tony orders, pointing to the large marble behind Peter with his chin.

Peter dutifully hops onto the counter and watches as Tony kneels to grab the first aid kit, opening it and grabbing a few cotton balls and gauze pads and saline and a bunch of other crap that Peter had no clue about, giving the task his full attention.

In a weird way, seeing Tony so calm, present, and focused helps Peter more than any of the other stuff and gives him an anchor to cling to. Modulating his breathing to simulate Tony's, Peter stares, wondering if he should point out that this fanfare over a few scratches is completely unnecessary with his metabolism. By tomorrow, they would be gone, either way.

And yet... It feels sacred, somehow, the ritual of having an adult care for him in such a way, and seeing as Peter can't remember the last time he had ever allowed another person to dress his wounds, he decides to stay quiet.

Tony looks determined to help, and it couldn't hurt to treat the open cuts, anyway.

So he stays silent, even as Tony gets up and steps in between his legs, eyes a bit narrowed as he studies the mess in Peter's chest.

"You sure meant business, hun?" He says, sounding as though he is trying for a joke but falls ridiculously far, way closer to an admission of unease.

"I." Peter looks down and realises that maybe this is disgusting to Tony. He winces. "You don't—If you, sorry—"

"Shut up, kid," Tony says, spraying the cotton ball in his hands with something. "Of course I want to. It's not as though you can be trusted to do it yourself. The last time you got hurt you wore jeans over the wound and that wasn't funny for anyone, remember?"

Peter does remember. It's quite impossible to forget, really, having to rip the fabric from his half-healed burn. "Ugh."

"That's right. So I'm revoking your first care privileges, young man. Consider them revoked, as of right now."

"Since when do you know how to do any of this? Don't you pay doctors for this sort of stuff?"

Tony wrinkles his nose. "Not big on doctors, actually."

"Me too!" Peter says, excited that someone understands.

"Yeah, no, buddy," Tony says, shaking his head and rolling his eyes. "Baby-Spiders don't get to run from the doctors. I'm not letting you get away with my awful self-sabotage habits."

Peter is distracted, so it almost takes him by surprise when he sees Tony placing the gauze pads over his worst cuts, finishing up.

"All done," he announces, putting everything back in its place. He turns his head and asks over his shoulder, serious now. "How are you?"

"I don't know," Peter admits, confused. On one hand, he's no longer crying or feeling like he's on the verge of premature death; on the other hand, however, he's still feeling out of breath and as though he weight of the world is crushing his middle. He feels unbalanced, as though one wrong move could push him back into the abyss.

It doesn't bother Tony. In fact, the corners of his mouth turn up a bit at the answer, and he looks a touch calmer. "That's totally fine," he says, leaning closer to run his hand through Peter's hair, stopping at the top of his head to give him a little rub. "You don't have to have all the answers right now, Peter."

For some inexplicable reason, those words, paired with the intimate feel of the moment and the soft point of contact between them pulls the rug from beneath Peter's feet and he feels his eyes flood with tears once more. Tony is so close, so open, so attentive, looking at Peter in a way that suggests he's a precious, sacred being which he needs to protect at all costs, and it aches in a strange way.

"Hey, hey, buddy, what happened?" Tony asks, frowning, obviously seeing the tears swimming in his eyes. He cups the back of Peter's head, holding it, keeping the distance between them minimal.

"I just," Peter begins, then decides it's a silly thing to say and changes it mid-sentence. "Just feeling weird still. Can we… lie down for a bit?"

"Anything you want, kiddo," Tony agrees, although he doesn't look convinced by the improvisation. "Like I said — back pain."

"Yeah, you're old. I get it."

"Hey! Sass. That's sass!" Tony says, clutching at his chest dramatically. "In my own house, and you're giving me sass!"

Peter swallows the millions horrible, mushy words building up in his mouth, and jumps off the marble instead, keeping his eyes on the floor so they won't give him away. He knows how much of an open book he is when it comes to Tony, no matter how much he wishes otherwise. If their eyes meet, his mentor will see how he's barely holding his pieces together.

To fill in the silence, he tries. "Technically, it's the Avengers—"

"I build it; I own it," Tony proudly declares, and doesn't mention his obvious deflection.

They end up by Tony's bed, and the engineer asks F.R.I.D.A.Y. to lower the lights and turn on the TV. He doesn't specify what he wants to see, but what looks like a documentary about baby pandas comes up on the huge screen and Peter cannot help but coo at the perfect little balls of fluff.

"Look how cute they are!" He says, mesmerized. Unthinkingly, he sits on the bed, eyes glued to the screen. "Tony! Baby pandas! Look! Aren't they just the cutest?"

"Meh, I don't really care about cute stuff," he says, and Peter's head turns around on its own, a glare ready on his face, all previous things forgotten. The man is already lying down, watching him.

"What? How can you say that? Look at them! They are baby pandas, Tony! How can you not love them? With the tiny paws, and the black spots, and the way they—"

He stops, noticing the way Tony is clearly biting the inside of his cheek, his eyes shining in undisguised delight.

"You liar," Peter grumbles. "You love baby pandas. Whatever."

Tony finally laughs, reaching for Peter and pulling him into his arms, hugging him tightly. "Oh, lighten up, Underoos. I was just kidding. I'm obviously a huge sucker for cute, little beings or I wouldn't be here with you."

"I'm not cute!" Peter protests, but it's muffled by the fabric of Tony's t-shirt and barely sounds like a protest at all, in the end. He's comfy in Tony's arm, having space to turn his head and breathe freely when he wants to, and yet still cocooned in the man's protective hold.

"Sure you're not, buddy."

And they settle. Peter wiggles around until he finds the perfect position in the dip of Tony's collarbone, hugging Tony's torso as though it is a life-line keeping with afloat, and angling his head just right so he can watch the balls of fluff on the TV. For his part, Tony just waits until Peter is settled before he lets his own head rests on top of Peter's, his nose sunk into the boy's curls, breathing in the scent of his shampoo.

No sounds are coming from the big screen and the penthouse is as soundproof as it gets, so when they settle, the room drops into complete silence, only the sound of their breathing to be heard. And it gets to Peter. It makes him remember of being in his own room a while ago, thinking he was going to die alone. Silent.

He's in Tony's arms now, still feeling crappy, yes, but so much better, that it doesn't even compare. In the arms of the man who, without missing a beat, gave up on whatever plans he had for the night to help Peter and stay with him. It's surely the kind of treatment that goes far beyond the boundaries of mentor and mentee.

It had felt so natural to follow Tony. To go to him in the middle of the night, and follow him to his rooms, and allow him to tend to his wounds, and to snuggle into his arms, and to open up this part of him that he never shares with anybody else.

Peter feels cared for, loved. In a deep, encompassing way that he had only ever felt with Ben and May before.

"Tony," he whispers, not wanting to disturb the quiet too much.

The man hums in response, encouraging him to speak.

"Thank you. This is—You didn't have to, but thanks. I know that it must've sounded crazy for me to enter your lab in the middle of the night asking you to convince me that I'm still breathing," Peter says, tripping over the words as he tries to get them out.

"You don't have to thank me. It's the least I can do for you, Peter," he says, mimicking Peter's soft tone. Tony is speaking into Peter's hair, but he hears him perfectly well. "I always want you to come to me, okay? I don't care if it's the middle of the night."

Peter pauses. "Do you think I'm crazy?"

And Tony gives him something better than just an answer, he kisses the top of Peter's head, ever so softly, barely a brush, and it's such a parental thing to do, so damn loving that Peter wants to weep.

"You're just perfect. Don't ever think otherwise, kiddo, promise me," Tony says, this time a little more forcefully, as though he wants to make sure the words are heard, understood. "Life has dealt you a shitty hand, and it's alright to take your time dealing with it however you need. There's no right answer, no right way. I'm always going to be here for you — always." He gives Peter another kiss. "It's you and me, buddy. You and me, okay?"

And honestly, is there another possible answer to that other than a hopeful:

"Okay. Me and you." Peter says, trying out the words. He wants it so badly, so much. Here, where he is, he feels safe, knowing he's in a place where he can rest and there'll always be a person watching over him.

Tony rubs his arm and rests his chin on Peter's head. "You got it, kiddo," he murmurs in agreement. "Think you could sleep now?"

"I think so, yeah."

And Peter did.

Peter slept through the rest of the night, undisturbed by nightmares, and when he woke up, feeling comfy, rested and slightly confused, Tony was still there, holding him together with the mere force of his hands.