A/N: This story was recently deleted by me from this forum, but now I'm reposting it. This story is also cross-posted on ao3 under the same title and username. I recommend reading it there if you can.
Full Summary: Three months after the earth-shattering discoveries made in Siberia, Captain America reached out to his former friend to try and make amends. Tony agreed, knowing just how much the world still needed the Rogue Avengers. Within a week, the whole team was under the same roof once again.
But while the rest of the Avengers are playing catch-up, Spider-Man—a.k.a. 15 year old Peter Parker—is struggling. Unwilling to ask for help and risk bringing attention to his mounting list of problems, Peter tries to singlehandedly prevent his life from falling apart.
Unfortunately for him, his rotten Parker luck has other plans.
Trigger Warnings: (Note: this list pertains only to this chapter.) Swearing, Self-Depreciation
o0o
Peter Parker doesn't like his own reflection.
He dislikes it so much, in fact, that he stares in the mirror every morning, silent and judging as he counts every scar and bruise til they all blur together into one big, ugly blemish.
But eventually, once he can no longer separate the individual failures mapped out across his skin, Peter speaks. He whispers to his reflection, telling it sweet lies that he desperately wishes were true.
This little routine is the only way Peter manages to survive living in his own skin.
Currently, he's in the middle of the second step, and he's chatting to his shirtless mirror self, a faux-confident smile on his face.
(The lies are easier to swallow with it.)
"You're awesome, Peter," he tells himself, trying to ignore the sound of his shaky, adolescent voice. "No, you're not awesome—you're incredible—you're amazing."
Standing up and strutting across the room, Peter leaps onto the far wall, across his bed, and scrambles up to sit on the ceiling.
"See!" He exclaims, forcing a note of excitement into his tone. "You're the amazing Spider-Man! No one's as cool as you."
Peter drops down in front of the mirror once again, dragging his gaze back to his reflection. He nearly gags as he pretends to flex his non-existent muscles, hating how utterly pathetic he looks.
"You're hot stuff," he says instead, hiding his disgust easily. "Hotter than ghost pepper-sriracha chilli!
"You're the greatest superhero New York has ever seen," he continues with concealed bitterness, deepening his voice in an attempt to resemble Thor. "You're as brave as a lion; you practically ooze confi—"
Suddenly, Peter feels the familiar tingle at the base of his skull, and he whips around, no doubt looking like a deer caught in the headlights.
Captain America is leaning against his door frame, his thick, muscular arms crossed over his even more muscular chest. He's wearing his new suit, the navy blue and black one that just makes him look even more sexy and intimidating. His neatly-trimmed beard can't hide the amusement that's clear on his face.
Peter is absolutely horrified.
The teen can only watch as the super soldier doubles over in laughter, clutching his sides like a lifeline.
He's laughing at you, Peter, his brain hisses. Peter visibly flinches, but Steve's still too busy laughing to notice. He's laughing at how pathetic you are—at how disgusting you are. He's seeing every single time you failed from the scars all over your body, and he's thinking just how crazy it is for you to even be here. He's laughing at you because you're a mistake, Peter. Just like Flash and everyone else at school always say.
Peter can feel the tears coming, and he draws in on himself, turning away from the man he'll never be nearly as good as. He wraps his arms around his stomach, almost like he's hugging himself.
Really, he's just trying not to fall apart.
"Please don't tell anyone," he finally whispers.
Abruptly, the Captain's laughter stops, and Peter can hear the straightening of the man's spine, each vertebrae cracking loudly.
The sound makes Peter want to rip his own ear drums out.
But he doesn't move, he doesn't even breathe, not until the older man answers.
And he supposes his voice just sounds so small, so full of shame and fear, that Steve—the beautiful, selfless soul—can't help but grant him that one wish.
"I won't," the Captain says softly, before turning around and exiting the room, closing the door gently behind him.
o0o
Peter doesn't leave his quarters until dinner.
When he does, the whole team is already gathered in the communal living room, half sat in front of the TV and waiting for the other half to finish getting their food.
"Look who decided to show up!" Mr. Stark shouts, his signature smirk gracing his face. Peter stiffens, but quickly relaxes, forcing a tried smile to his face.
"Sorry," he answers softly. Too softly—he clears his throat, making his grin bigger and his voice louder. The amount of effort it takes is worrying. "I'm just really tired today. Homework's been a bitch, lately."
"Language," Clint pipes up from his seat, head laying in Natasha's lap as one of her hands cards through his hair absentmindedly. Peter rolls his eyes, a thin veil of strained amusement masking his true annoyance.
It's not Clint's fault Peter isn't in the mood for jokes. These days, he never really is.
"Yeah, sure," Mr. Stark interrupts the teen's thoughts, still smirking at him. "I'm sure you've been up late because of homework, and not because of the mysterious and elusive 'MJ' you were texting the other day."
Peter feels his face heat up, despite the lack of truth to Mr. Stark's sarcastic words. MJ really is just a good friend of his—nothing more, and nothing less. It would be kind of impossible for him to be interested in her anyway, considering MJ is a girl who's only into girls, and Peter's a guy who's only into guys.
Of course, no one on the team knows that Peter is gay—he wouldn't ever dream of telling them. While the logical side of Peter knows that they wouldn't shun him or kick him off the team for his sexual orientation, he still thinks it's best if he keeps the information to himself. After all, even the most accepting of people are still uncomfortable sharing a locker room with him, despite having no problems with it before.
(Peter knows this from experience).
"Really, it's just homework," Peter finally mumbles, and he really wishes Mr. Stark would just drop it. He absolutely hates having to pretend in front of the team, and he hates having to hide who he is, but when they pester him about girls, he doesn't have any other choice.
Mr. Stark snorts disbelievingly.
"Mhmm, and I'm Winston Churchill," he retorts cheerily. "But, whatever! If you don't wanna share with the class, that's fine. But at least get your lazy, no-good teenager ass moving so we can play the damn movie."
Peter distantly hears someone scold Mr. Stark for his swearing, but he can't tell who. His body is on autopilot, carrying him over to the kitchen counter to stare unseeingly at the styrofoam boxes of food.
Finally spotting the box marked "PeePee" (yeah, real mature, Clint), Peter tries to ignore the ache deepening in his chest at his mentor's words. Rationally, he knows Mr. Stark is most likely just teasing him, but his self-confidence is already so low from the fiasco this morning that he can't help but take the comment to heart.
Peter curls up on the empty loveseat in the corner of the room, feeling just a little bit better once he's cloaked in shadows, obscured from the rest of the team. He lets his face drop and his shoulders sag, tucking his knees against his chest as he presses himself into the arm of the couch. His styrofoam box is propped up on one hand, and he listlessly stirs the fried rice and kung-pow chicken with the other.
Suddenly the couch dips, and Peter straightens his spine, scooching even closer to the arm. It takes a second for him to realize the identity of his new seatmate, but once he does, anxiety washes over him like a ten foot wave.
"So," Steve asks, obviously feigning casualty. Peter almost winces in sympathy at the failed attempt. "What happened this morning?"
Peter scrambles for a half decent lie. While Cap is certainly not the hardest of the Avengers to fool, he's also not the easiest.
"I was embarrassed," the teen finally admits, deciding to go with a toned-down version of the truth. "I didn't exactly want anyone to see me calling myself ghost-pepper-sriracha-flavored chilli."
Steve laughs at that, and Peter breathes a little easier. Despite the pang in his chest at bringing up the humiliating memory, he feels relieved, knowing that he's in the clear.
"Well, I'm sorry for embarrassing you, kiddo," the older man says apologetically, reigning in his amusement. Peter smiles, but it doesn't reach his eyes.
"S'okay," he answers quietly, suddenly all too aware of the stillness of the room. "Just… try not to sneak up on me next time."
Steve laughs again before standing up and walking back over to the rest of the group, effectively ending their conversation.
Most of Peter is relieved that the Captain has ceased his little interrogation, but a small, selfish part of him wishes he wasn't left to sit alone.
Again.
Sighing quietly, Peter glances at his mess of a meal and wrinkles his nose, appetite non-existent. He forces a few forkfuls of rice into his mouth anyway, but gives up when the nausea nearly overwhelms him.
Surrendering to the fact that eating is apparently just not on his schedule today, Peter gently sets the styrofoam box on the floor next to him. He curls up on the loveseat and closes his eyes, letting the terrible, cheesy dialogue of Casablanca lull him to sleep.
o0o
Peter wakes up hours later, still on the couch and with a crick in his neck. He's just about to stretch out his limbs with a loud yawn when a hushed conversation reaches him, no doubt thanks to his super-hearing.
"Is it just me, or did the spider-kid seem a little off tonight?"
Peter's breath catches. That's Mr. Stark's voice.
"Yeah, about that…" Steve's deep baritone answers, and Peter can practically feel the amusement beneath the man's sheepish tone.
(The fact that he's just a joke to Steve stings, but it's not entirely unexpected. Peter is just a joke to a lot of people, so he's used to the feeling).
"Damnit Cap, what did you do this time?" The mechanic asks, voice exasperated, but the same wisps of humor are present.
(That hurts a little more, considering how close he and Mr. Stark had once been. Although they haven't spent much quality time together since Peter agreed to join the Avengers, the teen was reluctant to admit that the whole "dad act" was likely just a ploy to get him on the team. But now that he's hearing first hand what Tony really thinks of him, Peter can't deny it any longer. It hurts, but he's not mad. He understands. Peter wouldn't want to be friends with himself, either.)
"I kinda walked in on him while he was getting dressed," Cap answers, making Peter's cheeks heat up. He supposes the half truth is better than the whole one, but he still wishes the super-soldier would've come up with something better.
Mr. Stark snorts, and the familiar sound of him cuffing the back of Steve's head would be endearing if Peter's humiliation wasn't the reason for it.
"Oh, I'm sure the kid's pasty skin and left-over baby fat was just so attractive," Mr. Stark jabs playfully, but Peter's heart drops into his stomach.
"Ugh, Tony, don't even joke about that, it's gross," Steve replies, his tone one of genuine disgust.
Mr. Stark cackles as Peter's heart plunges from his stomach all the way to the floor, and tears push heavily against the backs of his eyes. They burn as they spill over, and Peter finds himself incredibly glad that his back is to the room's inhabitants, his face hidden in the crease of the couch.
Peter waits in miserable silence for Mr. Stark and Steve to finish their conversation—which has moved away from the topic of him, thank God—as the tears fall, but the taste of salt on his lips mixes with the smell of cold Chinese food and makes him feel like he's going to vomit. Just as he's about to hit his breaking point and puke all over the sofa, Steve and Mr. Stark finally part ways, the former going to his bedroom, and the latter to his labs.
According to his spidey-senses, neither man even spares Peter a glance.
And yet, he waits another three minutes—counting every second—before he gets up and speed walks to the communal half-bath, slumping down to hug the white porcelain as he dry heaves into the toilet bowl.
Only after ten minutes does Peter remember that there's nothing in his stomach for him to throw up.
And so, after a minute of just laying with his head pressed against the cool bathroom floor in a desperate attempt to stop the nausea, Peter gives up and leaves, heading for the kitchen.
He wants to be useful to make up for being AWOL all day, even if he hadn't actually had anything in particular planned. But the way Mr. Stark called him lazy earlier doesn't sit right with him, so he decides to clean the mess of a kitchen, washing dishes and stacking plates until his legs are wobbly and his vision edges black.
The teen just sighs tiredly when he realizes he's only half way done by 2:30 a.m.
What's one more sleepless night? He ponders silently as he scrubs the soy sauce stains from the crisp white tiles of the kitchen floor. I can go one more night without sleep, easy peasy.
o0o
That morning, at 5:45 a.m., before anyone else is up, Peter wakes up lying face down on the sparkling kitchen floor. He smiles, but it doesn't quite reach his eyes.