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Peter’s spider sense was as much a curse as a blessing.
He never really explained how it worked to other people. The fact that it was both a sensation and an instinct, bordering on a compulsion. The way that the sensation could become physically unbearable if the compulsion was suppressed.
The compulsion said survive survive survive.
Not so handy when Peter was well and truly done with surviving.
Sometimes he thought that if he just had a reason, a valid explanation for why he felt the way he did, then maybe he’d reach out for help. (Maybe, maybe not.) But as far as he could tell he had nothing. It didn’t start when his parents died, or when Uncle Ben died, or any other obvious trigger. It also didn’t get better when Peter’s life got better, when it got unbelievably good. Having the world’s best internship, in his opinion; being a one of a kind, locally famous hero; being mentored by a man he’d never expected to know, and certainly never hoped to receive a borderline parental care from.
Peter was just… depressed. Stupidly, nonsensically, destructively depressed.
And all he could think was, if he could have everything he’d ever wanted – awesome friends, the start of a career in tech, being able to make a difference in the world – and still feel like this, then it would never end. It would never get better. Because if it could, it would have by now.
When Peter was faced with certain death, his spider sense screamed at him until he dodged, weaved, ran or turned the odds in the fight. Peter soon realized he didn’t have to question whether a “method” would work – if it wouldn’t, he felt nothing but the soft edge of don’t do that. If it would, his instincts caught on fire. The closer he stepped to a ledge, the more his mind disintegrated into nothing but pain and animal instinct. If he barely managed not to scuttle away from the edge against his own will, he instead ended up curled around himself on the ground a foot away from the drop. It was like his powers always knew that he wouldn’t be shooting webs to catch himself this time.
Of course it wasn’t always this bad. He didn’t go from empty and incapable of joy to wanting to die overnight. And even when “I wouldn’t mind accidentally dying” first became “what could I do to make it stop for good?” there was a line in the sand. The idea of leaving Aunt May after she’d already lost Uncle Ben, leaving Ned and MJ, leaving Mr. Stark, leaving his responsibilities and knowing people would die if he wasn’t there to save them… it wasn’t some easy, convenient decision. It had weight. But there’s only so much you can live for other people, when you can’t seem to live for yourself. There’s a limit to how much theoretical grief can feel real when your day-to-day suffering is so much more acute.
Sometimes it was bursts of pain and tears but more often than not, it was the feeling of nothing. Peter wore joy and excitement like wearing a suit to work – it was a presentation of an image. You do it to fit in, to facilitate the life you’re trying to live, to avoid standing out to others. But Peter’s enjoyment of life was less than skin deep – it was linen against his skin, not sinking into his body any deeper than the Spider-Man suit did. Maybe less, even, since there was at least a certain realness to Spider-Man. There was no realness to Peter Parker, just a spiral of nothing going down, down, down. A beautifully wrapped gift with nothing inside the box.
Metaphor was the only way to describe it. Peter wished he did as well in English class as he did trying to put reason into suffering.
At times, Peter longed for those bursts of deep, wracking pain. Every now and then, when the nothing became too much, he would dwell in dark thoughts for as long as it took for the pain to push through subconscious shields and light up his brain. He hated himself for needing to hurt just to feel alive. He was supposed to be trying to get better. That’s what everyone said you should do, right? So why did he sometimes push himself to breaking points just to feeling the satisfaction of feeling something?
For a short while Spider-Man was a source of adrenaline, before even that faded into the gray wallpaper of his mind. As much as his desire to do good was real – maybe the realest thing in his life, even – the pleasures of flying through the sky, the satisfaction of saving a life, the novelty of it all quickly became mundane. Everything good that ever happened to him, the heroing, the internship, the mentorship, all of it took the same path. A real edge of excitement fading into nothing but that constant same-ness and the echoes of fake smiles.
Peter understood how his mind worked, even if he didn’t know why it worked that way. He’d lived in his head for long enough to think it through again, and again, and again. Regular childhood enthusiasm had faded into depression gradually, and one thing he couldn’t quite determine was when it started. It was hard to remember, really, what being a kid was like. Happiness felt so distant that even though he knew he hadn’t always felt this way, only this feeling was real. And as much as it was real, it was infinite. Stretching forever into the past, and forever into the future.
Of course he’d cracked open psychology books in the library, of course he’d made a thousand Google searches trying to find a reason that didn’t seem to exist. As far as Peter could tell, some people just had broken brains. Therapy was supposed to help, but what would he even talk about in therapy? If there was no reason then what was there to discuss? Just the same circles of I hate this I hate this I hate this that he already followed inside his own mind every day?
And then there was the fact that Peter didn’t want anyone to know. He didn’t deserve sympathy for his failures, didn’t have a right to break Aunt May’s bank for therapy, didn’t want to see the expressions on the faces of the people he loved when he was outed as broken. Trauma victims earned empathy. He was just faulty, some mistake made when whatever biology or god created him. The experiments he messed up in the lab went in the trash, but there was nowhere to throw a “part” of himself that was actually all of himself. The roots of his flaw went both deep and wide, dug into him so completely that there was no excising it.
That’s what the fake suit was for. Passing as normal so the people in his life didn’t see. He considered himself pretty gifted at faking – he must be, if even sharp, clever MJ didn’t notice how screwed up he was. If Aunt May, who knew about Spider-Man, who worried about him every day, didn’t know to worry about this.
Peter was not unaware of the existence of psychiatric medication. As someone interested in science, it wasn’t so hard to both buy into and enjoy researching psychiatry and neuroscience. It wasn’t his specialty, but he wasn’t completely clueless. He didn’t really know why he shied away from it so much. It was one point of logic that he never quite worked out, other than the instinct of avoid avoid avoid.
(If he dared to try one last hope, and it didn’t work, that hope would break him worse than anything he’d ever been through. He couldn’t take that pain. It was better to die than let the world betray him one more time.)
Every time Peter stumbled back from the ledge, jolted away from the bleach Aunt May used to clean the bathroom, dropped a bottle of opiate pain meds May had been given after a minor surgery and never finished, Peter hated having powers more than anything. The thing that should have made his world exciting and beautiful just trapped him in hell. Sometimes he wished none of it had ever happened: the spider bite, Spider-Man, Mr. Stark and everything else that came from one freak accident. He wished that he’d died before that, that he hadn’t hesitated all those years.
At least then he wouldn’t have a stupid spider sense to make him hyperventilate the moment he took a step too close to death.
--
Peter stood in the Stark Industries lab Mr. Stark has gifted him a few months ago (“Thank you so much Mr. Stark, I can’t believe you’d do this for me!” Act grateful act excited fake it fake it fake it) and stared at a beaker of one of the chemicals he used to make web fluid. When he had the thought to drink it, the screaming in his mind and body indicated how very much it would kill him.
It wasn’t the first time he’d had the thought, but he had never acted on it. He knew his spider sense would make the effort futile, like it always did. But today, he thought he might finally be strong enough. All of the shame of failure failure failure that he felt every time he messed up an attempt would be over if he could just manage it this one time. All he had to do was pick up the beaker, hold it up to his mouth, and drink. Just three easy steps. His powers would make the attempt hurt before it even got to the point of killing him. But the pain of his spider sense would end, and the pain of the chemicals in his digestive track would end, and any and every pain he felt in his life would end. Problem solved. All he had to do was just… do it.
A few things happened in quick succession: Peter picked up the beaker with the intention to drink it; his body flung the beaker at the ground; and a familiar voice said, “Peter? Pete!” as he collapsed onto the hard vinyl floors.
Peter was sobbing, suddenly – the pain of the spider sense lifted when the danger was gone, but the pain of failing again, of knowing that life hurt and would hurt forever, was devastating. It wasn’t uncommon for him to cry after an attempt, but after months of piled up failures Peter was lost in a sea of pain worse than he’d felt in years.
He hardly noticed as he was gently pulled away from the puddle on the floor, as a man sat on the floor next to him and murmured in his ear. “Pete, Underoos, kiddo. It’s okay. It was just an accident. You’re okay.”
That was when it all spilled out of him.
“I can’t. I can’t. It won’t let me. I want it to end but I can’t make it end. Mr. Stark. Mr. Stark,” Peter gasped out through earth-shattering sobs, and then there were arms around him. The gentle warmth just made him cry harder.
“Won’t let you what? What were you trying to do, Pete?” Mr. Stark asked.
“My spider sense- it won’t let me- won’t let me drink it. I wanted to drink it Mr. Stark, I wanted to- but I can’t. I just want it to stop. I want all of it to stop,” Peter answered, without any awareness of the way his mentor tensed.
“You wanted what to stop?” he asked, a flat, forced calm in his voice, and Peter grabbed onto the man like a lifeline.
“Everything. Sometimes it feels like nothing- living feels like nothing- and sometimes it hurts. It’s almost better when it hurts. Nothing ever feels good and nothing will ever feel good and I just can’t- can’t do this. I shouldn’t hurt people by leaving but I don’t have a choice, Mr. Stark. I can’t- I just can’t live like this,” Peter said desperately. He didn’t consciously register the hand that softly swept through his hair, but his body did as he gripped onto the man tighter.
“How long?” Tony forced out, a tremble in his voice. “How long have you felt like this, Pete?”
“Forever,” Peter gasped out. It felt like the truest thing he could say, if nothing else.
“Kiddo, there’s other options. We’ll work this out. I can fix this – you know I can fix anything. You know that right, Pete? We’ll get an expert – I can find the best therapist in the country and get them here faster than you can say ‘Iron Man'. You gotta know I’ll do anything for you – anything, Pete. I’ll do anything not to lose you like this,” Tony said into Peter’s shoulder. Peter was too lost in his own tears to notice that the other man was crying, too.
He just shook his head. “No it’s- it’s my fault. It’s all my fault. I’m broken and nothing- nothing can fix me. I can’t fix it, you can’t fix it, and- there’s only one option and I keep failing because I’m a failure. I’m a failure Mr. Stark and I don’t deserve you- I don’t deserve you doing things for me. I don’t need a therapist, I just need- this,” Peter argued.
“Underoos, you’re a hero, you’re brilliant and amazing and important and you deserve everything. Everything I can give you. If you keep failing at this, then – good. Hell, keep failing because I need you. We can’t lose you. I can’t, your aunt can’t, your friends, the people in this city, we all want you here. I’m not gonna let you do this. Please don’t do this to us, Pete,” Tony pleaded, clinging just as much as Peter was.
“I can’t live for other people. I gotta live for me, and there’s- there’s no reason to do that. Everything in my life is good but I don’t- I don’t feel good. If life is good I should be grateful, I should be better than this but I just can’t. Why am I like this? What’s wrong with me, Mr. Stark?” he begged.
“Nothing we can’t make better,” Tony said. “I promise you kid, I know what it feels like. I know what it’s like to be depressed and feel like- like all the good in the world isn’t enough to fill that hole in your chest. I felt it but it wasn’t forever. Nothing in life is forever, and you’re just a kid, you have so much life in front of you and it can feel better than this. I’m asking you to have faith, Pete. If you can’t have it in the world then have it in me. Please have it in me, okay?” Tony begged in turn, giving Peter a little shake.
Peter’s tears were dwindling, his breakdown finally crested and starting to subside. That never-ending dreary feeling took its place again. “But what if- what if it doesn’t work? What if I try everything and I just- end up back here? Then I’ve let everyone down all over again, let myself down and I just can’t- I can’t have hope when I know it’ll just hurt worse,” he said, his voice cracking.
“Hope is the only way out. The escape hatch isn’t death, it’s not quitting before you start. You have to have hope – it’s the only thing you can do when your brain is working against you. It’s the only way to get through it and feel better one day,” Tony insisted. “Let us help you, Pete. I want to, all the people in your life want to. You have to give us a chance to do that.”
“No, I can’t- I can’t worry everyone. I can’t make them help me when I should be able to handle this on my own. I know I should be able to do it, it’s because of me that I’m like this. I shouldn’t put this mess on anyone else,” Peter argued.
“Come on kid, think this through. What hurts the people who love you worse, helping you or losing you? You think May would be happier if you died instead? Does that make sense to you? Think about the work we do. What do we do with a project? Do we not start it? What if we start and it’s not working? Do we throw it away, or do we tweak it for hours until it works?
“This is a challenge, and the Peter Parker I know doesn’t shy away from challenges. You’ve been fighting this whole time. Whether it’s your powers or just you being you, I know you’ve had so much fight in you. I’m just asking you to fight with more weapons. More tools to help you beat this thing.”
“All you can do is try. And- and however it turns out, I’ll always be proud of you,” Tony said.
Peter let out a final sob. “…You’re not ashamed of me?” he asked, painfully unsure.
“God, no,” Tony swore. “I’m just upset you’ve been going through this by yourself. You’re not a failure – I’m proud of you, for sticking around this long. Okay, kiddo?”
Peter hummed in response, and loosened his arms as Tony pulled away. The man looked into his eyes, expression intent and determined as he said, “I’m asking for your faith. Your trust. Can you give it to me? Just this one time?”
“I always trust you,” Peter mumbled, and a small smile formed on Tony’s face.
“Well, good to hear I’m doing something right as a mentor. Don’t stop trusting me now. I’m gonna get a therapist, maybe a psychiatrist too and hell, it won’t get better immediately. It’ll take time. But I’m trusting you to give it your best shot. Can you do that for me?”
Peter hesitated, before nodding mutely. “Good, kiddo. That’s the first step. We’re gonna have to talk to your aunt-“
Peter opened his mouth to protest, but Tony cut him off. “You know we have to do it. It’s gonna be step two. May just wants you here with her – nothing’s more important than that.”
After a moment of silent deliberation, Peter nodded reluctantly. He’d known from the start that losing him would hurt Aunt May more than anything else in the world. It was a big part of the reason he’d stayed alive for so many years. But…
“Do you think she’ll be disappointed in me?” he asked quietly, his voice cracking on the word “disappointed”.
“No Pete, of course not. We all know how strong you are. Me, May, your friends. We’re always gonna be proud of you. I mean May still has your crappy third grade drawings stuck to the fridge. It’s so obvious what a proud mom that woman is,” Tony replied. The corners of Peter’s lips quirked up just a bit, and the man smiled at him.
Tony looked away, shifting his weight. “Okay, enough floor time. I’m getting too old for this,” he said, groaning as he stood up. He held out a hand and after a moment’s pause Peter took it, letting himself be pulled up.
“I’m gonna make some phone calls,” Tony started. “Not your aunt, yet,” he cut in quickly at the flash of panic on Peter’s face. “Calls about a therapist.
“The next step’s gonna be talking to your aunt, but we can do that tomorrow. We can tell her however you want – I can do it myself, or we can talk to her together, or just you. I think she should hear it in person,” he said.
Peter nodded, a little reluctantly. As much as he wished Tony could take on the burden, it seemed unfair to not give Aunt May his time and effort. Even if telling her scared him, she still deserved to hear it from him.
“Together?” Peter suggested softly.
Tony clapped a hand on his shoulder. “You got it, Underoos. After the calls we can work together on any project you want, okay? Consider it bonding time.”
Peter nodded, and gave his mentor a smile.
For once, it was real.