'Hey Karen.' Peter's quiet voice was jarring in the silence; this high up, lounging on the roof of the tallest building he could find, one arm dangling from the edge with his fingers splayed to catch the wind, the noise of the city below was almost non-existent.

'Good morning, Peter. What can I do for you?'

'Morning.' He repeated, frowning up at a starless black sky. It wasn't a statement. He knew it couldn't be morning. Karen heard the almost-question in his voice (he wasn't sure what it was, but he hadn't been able to summon a question for months. There was nothing he wanted to know).

'Yes, morning, Peter. It is almost 4AM.'

'Oh. Right.' Peter replied, closing his eyes. Though he'd had more than a little trouble sleeping lately, he felt an odd squirm in his stomach as he imagined his constant fatigue winning tonight; a rag doll dressed as Spider-Man falling down the side of the building... Quick. Quiet. No way to stop it.

'Would you like to go home, Peter?'

'No. It's ok Karen. Sorry I woke you.' There really had been no point in opening his mouth. He couldn't remember what he'd meant to say, if anything.

'I'm always awake for you Peter - it is late. I could call Mr Stark if you like?'

'No! No thank you, Karen. I'll go home.' He promised, trying to keep the sudden panic out of his voice. Though he wasn't sure what was so off about him at the moment, he knew he didn't want Mr Stark to know anything. He'd start worrying. Babysitting. Whatever it was it would go away.

'Ok, Peter.' And then the soothing voice was gone, and Peter was strangely glad; he wasn't going to go home anytime soon.

Tony was lost in another late-night shop session when there was a quick little beep from the cuff on his wrist. It took him a minute to recognise the tone; an alert from Peter's AI, which he may or may not have synched to Friday so he could keep an eye on the kid. What was the name again? C something? K something?

'I hope this is important Karen,' he said as soon as he remembered, 'cause I'm seconds away from a breakthrough here.' He wasn't. He was tinkering, playing Tony the Mechanic so he didn't have to face another sleepless night staring at the ceiling, fists clenched against waking nightmares, trying not to disturb Pepper.

'I'm sorry, Mr Stark, but it's Peter.'

'Parker? What about him?' He asked, maybe sharper than necessary, but he couldn't help it. Worrying about this kid actually increased his blood pressure; his head might implode if he had to go and pull him out of a lake or something. Again.

'I think you should take a look at this.' Came the reply, and from the cuff on his wrist bloomed screen after screen of data he couldn't make out at first.

Focusing, he realised it was health stats. When he'd first developed his suit, including programming J.A.R.V.I.S., it was something he'd had to include so he could monitor himself, what with the arc reactor, constant injuries, alcohol intake, and (he could still barely admit to it) panic attacks, and he'd used his own suit as a basis for Peter's. They were programmed to monitor the wearer and report back when anything was out of the ordinary. He hadn't thought anything of it; it was too time consuming to overwrite, but why would you need to monitor the health of a super-human teenager? What was Karen trying to tell him?

Flicking through the screen with an almost absent swipe of his hand, Tony had to read it all three or four times before he started to understand. Before it all began to add up.

Constant fatigue. Awake through most of the night and still rising early to head out on patrol if he slept at all. Slow speech, slow movement. Lack of focus. Poor short term memory. Barely running on a few hundred calories a day (he'd once heard the kid say, when Tony had made some joke about his sugar addiction, that it took at least 6000 a day to keep up with his metabolism). The litter of straight, gaping cuts and bruises, too uniform and consistent to be accidental. Irregular heart rate, sometimes climbing toward 250bpm, way too high even by Peter's different standards.

Tony's stomach dropped as he mentally checked off the symptoms. He had to wait for his throat to open up again before he could say anything.

'Get to the point, Karen.' his voice was sharp, clipped. Anthony, sweetheart. Manners. his mother would have sighed.

'Peter is exhibiting classic signs of MDD.'

'MDD?' He knew what the letters meant. How could he not? The diagnosis that was the final straw for his parents, who pushed him towards MIT for a 'change of scenery' because they couldn't deal with him. Or wouldn't, anyway.

'MDD: Major depressive disorder.'

Depression. Tony felt his whole face screw up, his eyes squeezed shut, at the word. All these years later, he still cringed; his father's attitudes, so carefully passed on, seemed ingrained in his brain.

'Thank you, Karen.' He managed, and the awful, clinical glow of the screens was gone, plunging him into darkness.

It was just a few hours later, about 7AM, when Peter's phone rang. He bolted upright, predictably sending it flying off the edge of the building. The web that caught it was instinct; he didn't care who it was, had no reason to talk to anyone. May had reluctantly made peace with his identity, and no longer called him every few hours when he was 'on duty', as much as she might have wanted to. Besides, it was a Sunday morning. She'd be asleep, and there was no one else he could force himself to speak to lately.

Well, maybe one other person.

'Parker!'

'Hey Mr Stark -'

'Hey kid. Where are you?'

'Mr Stark, I'm not doing anything, I swear, I'm like five blocks from my place -' He was lying, but no one needed to know.

'Calm down, Gen-Z,' Peter could practically hear Tony's eyes roll, 'I'm not calling to lecture you. I've got some upgrades, for you and Karen. Wanna see?'

No. Not really.

'Sure Mr Stark, sounds great.'

'I'll get Happy to swing by and pick you up, okay?'

'Okay.'

'See you soon Pete.'

'Bye Mr Stark.'

Ugh.

Peter wished suddenly he'd let his phone fall.

'Parker!' Tony started, relieved Peter had picked up the phone but hating the cheerleader-pep in his voice. The kid would spot his games quicker than you could say nice try Tony.

'Hey Mr Stark -' his voice was flat. Dead. Usually Peter spoke a million miles an hour, a rapid, high-pitched jumble of teenage energy that was hell if you were hungover. Tony missed it instantly.

'Hey kid. Where are you?'

'Mr Stark, I'm not doing anything, I swear, I'm like five blocks from my place -' he was lying, of course, but Tony wasn't going to call him out on it. Yet.

'Calm down, Gen-Z,' keep it light. Don't trip those so called 'Spidey-senses'. 'I'm not calling to lecture you. I've got some upgrades, for you and Karen. Wanna see?'

A pause.

'Sure Mr Stark, sounds great.' No, it sounds like I've just told you your puppy died, Pete.

'I'll get Happy to swing by and pick you up, okay?' Happy wouldn't be... well, happy about that but Tony didn't trust Peter alone right now.

'Okay.'

'See you soon Pete.'

'Bye Mr Stark.'

And Peter hung up, so Tony never got the chance to scream Don't 'Bye Mr Stark' me, you depressive little shit, if I have to track you down myself -

Great. His left arm was numb again. This kid would actually kill him.

Just...

God.

Don't you dare say goodbye Pete.

Peter didn't say much to Happy on the drive to Tony's. Normally he hated silence, and what with the near constant adrenaline that came with his powers, he was the first to burst out with mindless chatter to anyone who would listen. But that was then. This was now, and right now he couldn't summon the energy to make a sound.

Not that Happy seemed to mind. Peter thought he saw the driver give him a few suspicious glances, wary of the unusual silence, but he didn't say anything. He didn't utter a word until they arrived.

'Here we are, Peter,' Happy was far too cheerful, 'look, Mr Stark's come to meet you.'

This almost piqued Peter's interest.

'Hey Kid!' Tony was waving, signature smirk beneath yet another pair of Ray-Bans. Peter watched him walk towards the car, one hand casually in his suit pocket, and felt his chest constrict. He was so tired.

Before he could protest, Happy was holding open the door for him and Tony was all but pulling him out of the car and into a quick one-armed hug. Suddenly all Peter wanted to do was bury himself in Tony's shoulder and... what? Scream? Cry? Explain everything?

But he knew he couldn't do that to Mr Stark.

So he just smiled as best he could as they walked inside.

'You're going to love what I got lined up today kid,' Tony began, and the nervous way he rushed to fill the silence began to put Peter on edge. How much did he know? Had Peter just become that paranoid? 'I've got so much to show you! I've been working on at least 50 new web settings, you've got a whole new look, and... Karen, is it? She's a new woman Pete, just wait!'

'I like Karen.' Peter blurted. This endless rush of tech-talk, sarcasm, normality, was too much. It made him feel nauseous.

'Yeah, but you'd like her better if she could talk to Ned too, right?'

'Ned?'

'Yeah, thought he was your guy in the chair, so to speak?'

'I guess.' Peter felt his cheeks flush, and was glad when they walked into the slightly darker lighting of the workshop, where Tony might not notice. Jeez, he sounded five years old.

'I thought so. Every super hero needs a guy in the chair, and he hacks into all my stuff anyway, so -'

'Who's yours, Mr Stark?'

'Mine?'

'Your guy in the chair.'

'Pete,' Tony grinned mischievously and, in spite of himself, Peter almost flashed a genuine smile in return, 'I'm the guy in every chair.'

'Pete,' Tony smiled, 'I'm the guy in every chair.' he finished, hoping the concerned tilt of his head came off as cocky or anything other than worried.

Come on, kid, give me something.

Anything.

And just as Tony was about to reach over and hug/shake/slap the muted boy in front of him in sheer panic (it was worse than he ever could've imagined, seeing his hyper, caring, whip-smart kid so clearly suffering, thin, quiet... absent. Peter just wasn't there), he smiled. A vacant, twisted, sputter of a smile, but Tony would take what he could get.

He was a mechanic. His trade was the kind of magic that brought things back to life when they'd all but given up, and he was going to use every skill at his disposal to bring Peter back, too - whether the kid liked it or not.

They spent the rest of the day in Tony's shop, poring over codes and wires and every spare part they could get their hands on. Peter knew they weren't doing anything extraordinary; Mr Stark had clearly been bluffing and was thinking on his feet to keep Peter busy, but he didn't care. Despite the tension that threatened to wash over them when it was silent for too long, it was the easiest Peter had felt in what felt like a lifetime. It wasn't happiness, something he'd long forgotten and given up as a foreign concept, but it was comfortable. Natural. Using what he could of his brain on a project with Mr Stark, nothing but the job at hand to think about... it was enough to shift the weight on his chest.

Maybe he couldn't move it himself, but it was the first time he dared to think it could be lifted. Eventually.

The only problem was, those thoughts never lasted, and Peter knew that as soon as he was on his own, away from the workshop and Tony's familiar snark, it would be gone, and he'd be plunged into darkness twice as heavy just because he'd dared to see something bright. This wasn't meant for him.

'Mr Stark,' he called across the room to Tony, who was rummaging through maybe the twentieth toolbox for he wasn't sure what, 'I, um, I think I should get back to May. I've got a test tomorrow and I promised her I'd study.' (Peter didn't know or care if he had a test. He found it funny watching his grades slip, relished how little he cared. Why had he tried so hard, cared so much, for so long?)

'A test? What's it on?' Tony asked casually, but Peter could've sworn he saw him freeze for just a moment. He had to be careful.

'It's, uh...' Silence. He couldn't think of a single subject, much less something he'd studied recently.

'Uh-huh. I'll get Happy to take you home soon kid, I promise but...' and he turned to face Peter, but it was a few seconds before he could meet his eyes. 'Will you talk to me first?'

Crap.

'Sure. About what?' Nonchalant. Normal. For gods sake, Peter, be normal.

'You.'

Yeah. Crap.

'...Will you talk to me first?' Tony finally said, as calm as he could be. He was acutely aware just how much worse he could make the situation, despite all the good will in the world. Please, work with me kid.

'Sure. About what?'

You know, you know, you know, don't make me say it, you know -

'You.'

'Okay, um, I mean, school's fine I guess, though May says I should start taking a textbook on patrol, and Ned said the funniest...' Tony felt himself scowl. 'Okay. Sure. What do you want to know, Mr Stark?'

'Why don't we start with the fact I had to take your suit in five inches round the waist?'

'It's fine, Mr Stark, I've just been busy - all kids lose weight at this age -'

'Pete, you had nothing to lose in the first place.'

But he just shrugged, looked away; Tony was again seized with the sudden urge to hug/throttle him. This. Fucking. Kid.

'Or, we could talk about those neat little stains on your sleeves.' He'd had to make a conscious effort not to stare at the beaded rows of red blooming across the tops of Peter's shoulder blades; they made him want to cry. Or throw up. Possibly claw his own eyes out.

'Should've healed by now.' Peter mumbled, more to himself than Tony, and he saw the kid was looking queasy himself as he pulled a jacket on to hide beneath.

'But they haven't.' Tony said, and Peter still wouldn't meet his eyes.

'No.'

'What the fuck, kid? What the actual fuck is going on?'

'Nothing.' Peter was clearly trying not to scream, his head practically snapping up to glare at Tony. 'Nothing! It's nothing. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry.' His small face was flushed, his nose was running, there were curls matted to his forehead, and this confused mix of rage and despair physically wrenched something in Tony's gut. For the millionth time, he was reminded that this boy, this super-hero, was still a child.

Shouldn't he get to be a child?

'Don't bullshit me Pete, please. Just... talk to me. Please. I'm not going to claim I can play fairy godfather and fix everything, because you deserve the truth, and I'm only human, but... I'll try. Kid, I promise I'll try.'

But Peter just shook his head wordlessly, his small frame wracked with barely suppressed sobs. It was as if that last outburst had cost him all the energy he'd ever have, and neither of them seemed to know what to do. Pausing for just a second, Tony walked towards Peter and placed what he hoped was a reassuring hand on his shoulder.

'I've got you through anything, kid. Always. And that's not going to change, whatever you do or don't tell me today or any other time. All I care about is you, Peter, and I just hope you know... I'm here, okay?'

Tony was walking away.

'Happy'll take you home now if you like, Pete.'

Peter couldn't move. Someone had dialled the sensory input almost back up to full volume, and he was painfully aware of the ringing in his ears, the machine-gun beat of his heart. He'd been paralysed with fear, so afraid of what Tony might say - he could never have imagined the lifeline that had just been thrown to him.

And he was letting it go.

'Mr Stark, wait! Please, I'm sorry.'

And just like that Tony was there again, leaning against the desk Peter was sat at. Calm. Collected. A childish sense of comfort rushed over Peter; here was Iron Man, his hero, making time for him. Here was Iron Man, prepared to save him.

Here was Tony Stark, who cared about him.

'Mr Stark, I'm sorry. I am, I'm so, so sorry, I don't know what's, um, what's wrong with me. I'm just so tired all the time, and everything takes, like, so much effort, and I can't, I just can't do it anymore. I feel like... Um. I don't want to... be here anymore, and that scares me, but I don't know what to do and it's so hard, Mr Stark, every day, to pretend everything's normal, like I'm not already dead, and -'

Once he'd started, Peter found he couldn't stop. He talked and talked and talked, all the pain and numbness gushing out before the floodgates closed again. It wasn't until Tony pulled him into a rough hug, and his words were muffled against Tony's shoulder, that he stopped. He didn't even care that he was clutching the back of Tony's t-shirt; it didn't occur to him to be embarrassed about what he'd said, or the fact that Tony was murmuring 'you're ok, you're ok, you're ok' like he could will it true. It didn't matter. Right now, there was... something like hope.

That was enough.

As much as Tony would have wanted it to, nothing changed right away. He knew from experience that just talking about something didn't necessarily make it easier to handle. But they worked through it, little by little.

When Tony took Peter home that day, he sat opposite May while the kid told her everything. Drained, Peter had gone straight to his room to try to sleep; Tony and May had stayed up and talked, properly, about anything and everything they could do to help. They were both prepared to do anything they could for Peter, and beyond relieved that he had let them in. Though May would never be Tony's biggest fan, he had to give her credit for letting him be a part of Peter's life. They wondered how he'd be when he woke up, dared to hope he might be more himself.

But the next day, Peter couldn't get out of bed. It was two days before he ate again, and another two before he next showered.

The day after that, he stopped on patrol to send Tony a selfie, as Spider-Man, with a little girl wearing an Avengers t-shirt (the first he'd seen that included Spider-Man too).

And so they went on.

Day by day and week after week of study sessions, patrols, gaming nights with Ned, weekends in the shop with Tony, CBT, and Zoloft (which Peter said, and this was a quote, gave him 'weird-ass dreams'), Peter came back to them.

Tony knew that it didn't mean the kid was 100%, and it didn't mean that there weren't bad days. It didn't even mean that he was surprised two years later to find himself next to a hospital bed, in which Peter lay with his palms to the ceiling, a line of stitches on each wrist. He knew from his personal dark ages that relapses might be part of the deal, that you didn't so much recover from depression as learn to manage it - but he'd meant what he said. He would never give up on his kid.

Even if he knew Peter sometimes wanted him to.

Tough shit, Pete. Your family's got your back whether you like it or not.

And that, he supposed, was all that would ever matter.