Spider-Son & Iron Dad two shots

Little Worrier

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.