Reluctant Caretaker
Peter was dying. That was the only possible explanation. One second, he felt fine. The next, he was shaking and light-headed and his arms and legs were going numb and then nothing seemed real anymore and he couldn't breathe. He was having a heart attack at the ripe old age of fifteen. Apparently, it was only a matter of time before the spider bite finished what it started and killed him. He only wished he'd known to say goodbye to May and Ned and maybe Happy and Mr. Stark.
When he listed all two to four important people in his life like that, he seemed insignificant actually. Was he real? What kind of person only had two people they definitely considered close? Maybe he wasn't dying at all. Maybe he didn't exist. That made sense somehow. There was no precise logic to it, just a chilly, numb hint of validation, of yes, this is right. He wondered for a second if Aunt May was real. She was such a good person. She deserved to be real more than anyone he knew.
And with that, it didn't feel right anymore. When he snapped into lucidity, he understood that reality was coming and going. He was trembling in a dirty bathroom floor of all places. That was a little embarrassing and gross, but at the same time, that was something that felt real finally. The sticky warmth of the floor against his hands was both a comfortable anchoring point and a beacon of disgust, and he was present enough to make a mental note to wash his hands ASAP. He clambered to his knees and reached a couple feet in front of himself until the chill of a mirror's glass crept into his fingers. He clutched onto the mirror and its coolness, anything to not sink back into how he was a minute ago.
His heart pounded harshly and unevenly against his chest like he was in gym class before the bite or on patrol or that one time he met the War Machine at the tower, not fresh out of history class. He could breathe again, though not as well as he wanted to be. If he focused, he could sense the air entering his lungs, but it didn't bring the relief that breathing normally did. Leaping from thought to thought took seconds, enough to give him the impressions of stress and panic but never letting him linger on anything long enough to fully soak in any ideas.
His trembling legs cooperated to a degree, letting him stumble into a stall and lock the door behind him while the world was still real enough for him to remember that anyone seeing him like this would never let him live it down. He knew logically that he wasn't dying right now—though isn't everyone dying very slowly each day anyway? But he shook that thought away. He wasn't dying, at least not in the sense that he'd be dead any time in the near future. What he didn't know was whether that belief would stick with him if whatever that was earlier came back in full strength.
Luck was never on Peter's side. He had a few moments of relative peace before he could feel his heart rate pick up once more while he involuntarily shivered. He closed his eyes for a second and found himself leaning against the wall when he could bring himself to open them again. He couldn't quite… feel it, but he knew his head was tapping against the wall with every tremble. It felt like the time he'd had to have his mouth numbed to pull a tooth and he couldn't tell how hard the pressure was against his tooth the whole time, so he wasn't even confident in using the word "tapping." He had no solid concept of any physical feelings. It was just a pressure like at that dentist, only across his whole body instead of just his mouth. Did he care? He was absolutely terrified of something he couldn't put his finger on right now, but probably not his lack of sensation.
He startled from his curled-up position when he heard someone else enter the room, but the damage was already done. He was gasping in breaths that weren't enough and he couldn't pull himself off the floor and he had bigger problems to deal with and he was already a loser and he just felt so bad, so fuck it. Let them see him.
The panic ramped up when the intruder decided not to stay in their own lane and instead called his name in a decidedly feminine voice. A quiet "shit" fell from his lips without him even thinking about it and prayed he hadn't blundered his way into the girls' room. That was exactly what he needed to top off this lovely little experience.
She didn't give up easily and called out again, and even through his panic, the fact that she knew that he was the one in here stuck out in his mind. He caved in and opened the stall door enough to see Michelle hovering at the edge of the room.
Of course Michelle wasn't afraid to be here. If anyone could shamelessly walk into the wrong bathroom—and it was, thank God, now that he took the time to spot the urinals on the far wall—it was her. He didn't know how he'd inspired her to follow him here, but it wasn't that much of a surprise to see her now. He couldn't stop a laugh that was gone almost as soon as it came, swallowed up by a gasp for air.
Michelle took one look at him trembling, wheezing, choking on nothing before she crossed the room in three paces and dropped to her knees beside him with the ever-present mask hiding how she was feeling. He let himself freak out just a little bit more—was he that obvious that his teacher sent someone after him? Were he and Michelle even less friendly than he thought? Did Michelle come to make fun of him?—until the mask cracked enough to give him a glimpse of her… worrying? It was hard to read Michelle, but that looked like worry and made him feel even worse. Now he was dragging his not-quite-friends into his little breakdown too.
For her part, Michelle didn't immediately laugh at him or do anything to make things worse. He still had no idea why he was so anxious all of a sudden, but it was harder to slip back into that nothing-is-real zone with someone tangible in arm's reach. She wordlessly let him carry on like he was before she'd shown up until he took stock of the situation and realized he wasn't shaking anymore.
Time was more of a solid concept after that. He was vaguely aware of a few more minutes passing by as he let his breathing slow down and the numbness and detachment recede. He had no idea how she knew how he was feeling so well, but Michelle waited until he felt close to his normal self to speak up.
"Okay, now that that's over… You're probably going to want to rest and recover at home until tomorrow morning, so back me up here," she commanded. "No one takes mental health seriously. Just agree with me when I say you were tossing your cookies so you can go home."
She lingered on his expression when she turned back to him, and apparently she didn't completely approve of whatever she saw there.
"Look, I don't not like you, okay? Just take advantage of me being helpful instead of being weird about it, ugh."
Maybe today wasn't a total loss after all.