Febuwhump Prompt: Damage
A/N: Amathophobia or Koniophobia: Fear of dust
He didn't think it had bugged him to the extent that people thought it did. Cleaning up after himself had always been a chore, a thing most teens would have rather left to the last second until they had to do it. Before then, Peter hadn't care for it too much. He had done what he could remember and did what Aunt May persisted. But other than that, Peter used to have been just like any other teen.
And he still was! He was normal, with normal problems. Most of the time, for a teen superhero.
When he came back home, nothing too dramatic came out. Just pesky twitches. Odd moments when he needed everything clean.
No dust could stay. No dirt could linger. It couldn't touch him.
No dust could touch him.
Peter Parker had been a semi-cleaning machine the longer he stayed at his apartment; but that was normal. He was a good friend too when he went to Ned's and when he was out. He didn't litter, and he was a good citizen for cleaning what he could for his community. Germs were gross, he didn't have a problem. He just liked a clean, tidy space now more than before.
Happy was wrong. There was nothing wrong with him vacuuming the seats over again when he rode them or the subways. New York was known to be all over the place with hygiene. Flu seasons were terrible, and yes he knew he technically didn't get sick like before, but listen. Just listen, Peter was just being careful. Did Mr. Stark caught that? Peter PArker was being careful.
Wasn't that what they all wanted? For him to be careful whether he wore the suit or not? He was nailing it. Somebody should have given him a high-five or something. Anything to tell him he was doing fine. That he wasn't damaged. Because he was awesome.
His Aunt May shouldn't waste a breath on having to worry about anything else. Because when he had been in space—because, when he came back, he was alive. And Spider-Man. He couldn't give her anymore to worry about. Not that there had been anything to worry about.
Couldn't they just believe him? He was fine. He was cool, and he was sure that somewhere over the rainbow they would see it too.
He didn't need to see a therapist for that. What he did need to do was clean that computer desk, because it had been more than ten minutes and, oh boy was the flying dust coming down pretty hard now. Had it been always that light, so fast? It had touched his skin. Peter was not panicking. HE was Not PANickiNG.
He was just very passionate about maintaining a respectable and cLEAN home for his Aunt May. Nothing else, nothing else that could have been alarming. And when she came back home, Peter wished she had been happy that he had cleaned out all their apartment. There hadn't been any dust left, hadn't any reason why they couldn't sit down and have a movie. It had been a normal day.
(It had to be.)
Ned was always a great friend. He had always enough distracting ideas to keep Peter moving. And when he had reunited with him after all that, it had been good. Not that Aunt May or Mr. Stark didn't help. But it had felt that when he kept waking up they just couldn't always understand him. Aunt May was his aunt, and Mr. Stark was well, not Peter. Adults had always been like.
They had all the wisdom they caught for themselves, and Peter had his own coming along. He didn't take it for granted, he had been raised to respect his elders. So it hadn't been that difficult to hear them, but Peter was also not a child. He could edit and ad lib them as he went along his merrier way. And, that had been where Ned came from.
Both of them had gone through a lot since they've first met. Had sleepovers, movie marathons etc. But Ned had also been his guy in the chair. His second eyes when Peter felt the need to have an extra boost. So it had made sense when the dust hit his face he would be there for him.
To help clean Ned's room. To provide the wipes that he now liked to use when he ran out during a cleaning session. He was the best.
Days. Weeks. They all felt the same. Peter and Spider-Man went back to their lives. He went to school and aced what he did, and Spider-Man still helped out the city he loved. It had almost felt okay. That he could maybe tone down his cleaning.
One day he didn't clean his work desk five times, but four and a half. That had been progress. (But he still insisted on cleaning the rails from the subway.)
Mr. Stark had been kind too. Gentle. Like it had been his fault that Peter twitched when flying debris swept his face, that when Peter had been Spider-Man he froze. The Villain of the day had won that night. And Karen, the best AI ever had betrayed him as she called Mr. Stark. That night hadn't treated him good it all, it went back and forth, back and forth, right until Peter couldn't stop scrubbing off the dust, the grime and all that dirt off his body. He knew it had looked bad.
When Peter didn't hear him trying to calm him down, his arms had been warm. But they had debris too, clinging, touching him. Then they were gone. Cleaner than before and it had made Peter feel better. Just for a while, until he looked at his suit. Then he had to clean it. Had to make all that dust go away.
Because...because if the dust was gone, Peter was safe. He wasn't there again. Back on Titan when he hadn't felt so good. When all of himself had been slipping, being erased, and then gone. Gone. It had hurt.
It had hurt, Mr. Stark. IT had HURT MR. STARK! Why did that happen?
Why couldn't he stop? Why did it hurt when he touched his suit? And, when had his Aunt May been called up?
He didn't remember when she had hugged him. But he had been sure that his tears and hiccups had vibrated from her hug. He hadn't known when he gained control of his meltdown, because, honestly that had felt terrible to not be one. Her perfume had calmed him. She had always been the best hugger. Had always been so kind.
Which had been why it hadn't been fair that her nephew was him. That out of all the kids she could have been given to care for she got him: The Teen Superhero. The one that couldn't stop cleaning.
It hadn't been a problem. He knew that cleaning was a rare hobby for most people. But Peter really had thought that he just had grown to appreciate a cleaner atmosphere. Nothing had been wrong for that. To wanting to be a good kid.
He had to have been a good kid. Right? The apartment had looked really good since then. They couldn't deny that, could not see how good he had been for that. Just like how the dust had been slowly losing the battle since he was faster at collecting it all and throwing it all away. He just had a minor breakdown, nothing worse than what PTSD he had for falling buildings. Peter knew when he had a problem, and his cleaning, was minor.
A simple thing he could stop when he wanted.
But he wouldn't because then the dust would collect itself and touch him. And that would be bad. He could still be Spider-Man. He could still be Peter Parker. His cleaning wouldn't stop him. Not that it had completely unnerved him that Mr. Stark and his Aunt May were closing ranks. That Ms. Potts and Happy were getting in on his life and nonexistent issues.
They shouldn't waste anymore time on it.
Not on him.
Who, by the way, did not have a problem he couldn't manage. It was just a small insignificant little detail about him. He would get over it.
Right?