Hello everyone! I hope your semester and year are going well. Stay safe, self care, read fanfiction, all that good stuff.
Here's another chapter. I'll spare you the author's note and just say this; enjoy!
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Chapter Seven
The next morning, Peter had breakfast with Steve while Tony was down in the workshop.
Everything was going the way Peter wanted it to. He was telling stories from school to keep Steve from noticing he hadn't touched his food. And Steve was smiling and nodding, content to listen.
And then… it happened.
Midsentence, the smell of hot pancakes hit Peter, square in the face, and his stomach throbbed.
One bite won't hurt, Peter reasoned, fingers already shakily picking up his fork. I fasted all day yesterday. That counts for something, right? Plus, eating now will keep my stomach from making weird gurgling noises.
One bite, a small triangle of fluffy, warm, pancake dripping butter and syrup…
It hit his tongue like ambrosia. Sweet, perfect, filling
One bite turned into two bites. Three. Five.
He lost count somewhere around a dozen but he couldn't stop himself.
He was just so hungry.
Peter was pigging out- binging- and it felt like there was no way to stop.
Steve's nod of encouragement and 'here, take more' didn't help. It was easier to eat with Steve watching his every move. Peter could tell himself it was to convince Pops nothing was going on, instead of the truth, which was he was trying to fill the gaping hole sitting below his ribs.
Peter would feel like shit afterwards, he knew that, but he was starving.
Two stacks of pancakes. Three prepackaged donuts. Mounds of sausage. Not to mention puddles of sugary syrup and butter to wash all of it down.
When he finally stopped, the fork coming to rest next to his plate, it felt like he was pulling himself out of a fever dream.
Some sort of alternate reality.
Peter could feel the lump sitting above his belly button. The damn food baby.
"It looks like your appetite came back," Steve said, a grin cropping up. "That's good. I thought you might be coming down with something."
Peter wanted to die on the spot.
His appetite came back.
His appetite had never left. He'd just curbed it, controlled it.
"Yeah, sorry," Peter said. It felt right to explain it away. "I think it was just anxiety or something."
Steve stopped eating and clasped his hands above his plate, elbows resting on the table. Perfectly executed 'worried father' blocking. "What were you anxious about?"
You. Dad. Me. "School. No big deal. It was just a project but it felt like… like a big deal, I guess."
Steve's brows furrowed. "What was the project?"
Crap. "Oh, uh, science stuff. It's kind of hard to explain…"
Steve looked a bit crestfallen at that. "Oh. Like robotics and stuff? Yeah, you and your dad are way ahead of me when it comes to that stuff." Steve's tone wasn't dismissive or mean but … resigned.
Peter didn't know what he had said wrong. Steve went back to his breakfast and Peter fidgeted, ripping up his napkin so he wouldn't eat anything else. He wasn't even hungry.
Just impulsive.
"You know," Steve started, dropping his fork and rubbing his forehead. "I know I'm not Tony- my brain doesn't work like either of yours, I guess- but you can still tell me about school and that stuff. I may not understand it, but I'm happy to listen to it."
Peter cocked an eyebrow before it clicked.
Pops thought that Peter wasn't telling him about school because he thought Steve was too stupid to understand it.
Tack that onto the list of ways Peter was fucking up lately.
"Oh, Pops, no! It's not like that. I just didn't want to talk about it because it gives me PTSD just thinking about it."
…A PTSD joke. Peter made a PTSD joke with Pops.
He could just curl up and die now, thanks.
Steve smiled again, but it didn't reach his eyes. It was the soft smile he gave people when they yelled at him at press conferences and he stood there, taking it. The polite smile.
Peter hated that smile.
Tony hated that smile.
Because someone, somewhere, had taught him to smile instead of speaking his mind, instead of defending himself.
So Peter bullshitted his way through a fake astronomy project about lightspeed.
Since the project itself was fake, Peter was 100% sure the science behind it was equally terrible, but Steve was listening raptly, breakfast forgotten.
And Peter liked making Pops happy, so he kept talking, even when Tony came in for another cup of coffee and shot him a 'what the hell are you going on about, kid' look over the rim of his 'Don't Bother the Boss' mug.
Fortunately, Tony didn't comment on how the astronomy project sounded suspiciously like a Stargate special and disappeared back into his workshop, mug abandoned on the kitchen counter in favor of the full coffee pot.
Steve glanced at his own empty mug once Peter ran out of steam. "I hate when he does that. I wanted some, too."
Peter rolled his eyes. "Dad drinks too much coffee."
"Try telling him that."
"I would but last time I tried," Peter said, "he threatened to take away my workshop privileges. He said not to mess with his system."
Steve chuckled. "Systematic cardiac arrest, maybe."
Peter laughed and resisted the urge to grab another donut. His stomach was already painfully full. The last thing he needed was a fourth donut.
Why he being so neurotic about this? He was full. He didn't need more food.
What Peter needed was to get up, to do something. "I'll try to find the spare coffee pot and make you some."
"Thanks, Peter."
Once Peter was in the kitchen, going through the motions of making coffee with an altered single serve coffee maker that Tony had designed for some sort of Stark Industries kitchen tech launch next season, he glanced back at the table.
Steve had dropped his head onto one of his fists, stifling a yawn with his free hand. His eyes looked more sunken than usual. Less alert.
Now that Peter's attention wasn't freaking out over calories and complex carbs he realized how tired Steve looked. Like he hadn't slept well in days.
Maybe the mission, and the cold episode, has gotten to Pops more than Dad was letting on.
But Peter wasn't going to ask about it so he focused on making a nice, strong cup of coffee.
He couldn't help Pops sleep but he could help him stay awake.
#
"Steve, go take a nap. You're making me tired and I'm not even looking at you."
Steve rolled his eyes and dropped his paperback onto the couch beside him. They were in the lab and he was sitting across from one of Tony's dozens of worktables while his husband tinkered with something that looked suspiciously like their missing alarm clock and a bunch of solar panels.
Tony had a pair of upside-down goggles strapped to his forehead. Steve was finding it hard to take him seriously when he looked like an extra from The Nutty Professor.
"Tony, I'm fine," Steve said, tone already inching toward defensive. "Just a lazy day, I guess."
"Steve, you can't just not-"
"Tony, you are not the person to lecture me on-"
"I'm not lecturing you on anything-"
"You would if I let you-"
Tony dropped his tools and splayed his hands on either side of the mess, taking a deep breath before looking Steve's way. "Tell me I'm wrong then."
Steve crossed his arms and stuck his chin out. "Wrong about what?"
"You." Steve rolled his eyes again but Tony cut him off before he could speak. "You won't take your insomnia meds for some reason and you haven't slept for longer than a few hours in days. Steve, you can't go on like this. You need to-"
"Need to what?" Steve snapped. "Please, tell me, Tony. Tell me how I need to sleep more and take my meds and do all the things you refuse to do for yourself. I can't wait to hear how you think I need to take care of myself. You want to talk about sleeping, Tony? Or meds? Fine, let's talk. But your habits are going to be part of the discussion, too."
Tony's mouth stretched into a firm line and he rubbed his forehead with a clean part of his left wrist. "Steve, I have been sleeping less than the doctor recommends since I was a teenager. I know it's not healthy, okay? I know. But don't tell me that because I'm not perfect I'm not allowed to worry about you. I don't sleep because I'm an asshole to my own body. Why you're not sleeping… it's different. You know it's different."
Steve huffed. "Sure. Just excuse yourself because you've been doing it for longer. That's perfectly logical."
"Where is this coming from?" Tony snapped. "I'm trying to help you."
"I don't need your help, Tony! I'm not a child. I can work through my own problems without you trying to micromanage or telling me what to do."
"I'm not trying to micromanage you!" Tony huffed. "Steve, you can't go without sleep."
"Neither can you."
"But we're not talking about me!"
"Maybe we should be."
Tony snapped his goggles off and grabbed a chair from one of the other worktables, dragging it by an arm until he was sitting directly across from Steve.
"Alright. Fine," Tony said. "I'll let you tell me how to fix my own shit but we get to talk about you afterwards."
Steve's lip curled a bit and Tony was taken aback by how mean Steve looked right now. Steve was a lot of things but he was not mean. Not until right now. "This is not some sort of terrorist negotiation."
"It's not supposed to be a terrorist negotiation." Tony reached out to take one of Steve's hands but Steve shifted so he couldn't reach it. "I know you don't want to talk about this. I understand. Jesus, I fucking get it. But, Steve, I love you, and you're hurting yourself. Look at your reflection in a mirror. You look like a well-aimed breeze could knock you over."
Steve didn't say anything, just sunk further into the couch, arms tight over his ribs.
"Okay, just give me one question. One question and I'll drop the whole thing, okay?"
Steve took in Tony's expression, the pleading in his eyes, and nodded once.
"Why did you stop taking your meds?"
Steve's skin had been kind of sickly for a few days now, a combination of lack of sun and lack of sleep. Now, it looked ghostly. "They make me dream. Ever since that mission… It's all I dream about and I can't keep dreaming about it." Steve's eyes with flints of steel when he finally made eye contact with Tony. "Now, what's your story? I've been watching you and you're taking more than your prescription recommends when you think I'm not looking."
It was Tony's turn to fidget. "Oh."
"Yeah."
Tony didn't know what to say. Obviously, no one ever wanted to admit to abusing their meds. Ever. But the reasoning was even worse than the abuse itself. Because Steve was the reason. Lately, Tony couldn't focus on anything between worrying about Peter's worsening anxiety (or whatever the fuck was really going on with his teenage son) and Steve's PTSD.
The Stark-Rogers home was in shambles and there wasn't room for Tony to be stuck in his head. He wasn't allowed to take a mental health day himself because every day was either a mental health day for Steve or Peter or the both of them.
It was so selfish that Tony's neck flushed from embarrassment over even thinking that.
Steve and Peter were not burdens. He was just too weak to carry them right now.
"It's Peter," Tony finally said. He wasn't lying. Just omitting certain truths. "I've been worried about him and instead of dealing with it, I may have taken an extra Xanny-"
"Or two," Steve interjected.
"Or two," Tony allowed. Maybe even three or four if he was being entirely honest with himself. "But I'll stop. It's not a good example to set for our son and it's probably not the best path to start down. See? I'm making healthy choices and everything. A whole new man."
Steve wasn't smiling with him though. He was grimacing. "Tony, this is serious. Taking extra meds isn't-"
"I know that, okay? I know all about abusing pills and powders and the happy little substances. I went to AA, Steve. I know." He caught himself before he could begin chewing on his nails and tucked his fingers against his palms. "I promise. I won't go above the dosage on the label again."
Steve didn't say anything to that, just dropped his face into his hands and breathed.
Tony slid up beside him, tucking himself into Steve's side and draping one arm across his back.
"I won't ask you to sleep, Steve. I want you to, but I won't ask you to," Tony whispered against his husband's hair, his breath rustling the golden strands. "But I will make sure that when you want to sleep, or when you need it, I'm right here with you from when you fall asleep until you wake up."
Steve melted into Tony's arms a little. "I'm still mad at you, Tony." But his words didn't hold any of the venom from before. They were breathy. Exhausted.
"I know."
Steve yawned. "So mad."
"Mhm."
"I'm serious."
"You always are, Spangles."
Steve shifted so his whole body was resting against Tony's, head pillowed right above the arc reactor. The couch was much too small for two grown men, especially when one of them was the size of a small truck, but neither suggested moving in case it ruined the tentative serenity of the moment.
Tony pulled a blanket over both of them.
Steve thought about saying something, something about the pills or the nightmares or their son, but by the time he had the words, he was too close to sleep to figure out how to make his mouth say them.
#
Four and a half hours.
That was how long Tony laid on the glorified frat couch in his workspace while Steve cut off the circulation to half of his limbs.
Fortunately, one hand and one leg had escaped the unmovable lump of Steve and Tony managed to prop his tablet on one knee while his fingers danced over the touch screen, adjusting and editing things as well as he could with only one hand and limited visuals.
As irritated as Tony was that he couldn't work right now, or at least work off some of the caffeine pills he swallowed twenty minutes before Steve fell asleep, he wouldn't trade his position for anything.
Because Steve was taking a nap, and while getting sleep was good, Mr. Righteous and Right sleeping during the day was a red alarm if Tony had ever seen one.
Steve never napped. He sometimes 'rested' (by reading a book or doing something else that only geriatrics did) but never napped. There was a signature Steve lecture in the archives all about napping and 'how naps were only for people who couldn't find the discipline to manage a healthy sleep schedule.'
Peter may have slinked out of the room during that one. And aptly put a mild sedative in Steve's next drink.
Yeah, okay, maybe Peter did that under certain orders. From a certain parent.
Whatever. It was funny.
Steve stirred, pulling Tony from his thoughts. Steve shifted his whole weight and almost broke a couple of Tony's ribs in the process.
Time to move before he became a genius pancake.
Tony gently pulled himself out from under his husband and made his way upstairs.
He needed to check on the monkey.
"JARVIS? Where's the kid?"
"Master Peter is currently in the exercise room. Should I call him up?"
Weird. Peter was suddenly interested in physical fitness? Since when? What happened to the Spider-Man who only wanted junk food and classic science fiction films?
But Peter was weird, so Tony shrugged it off, glad he wasn't playing with C4 in the living room or something like that. "No, it's fine. Let him know I'm in the living room if he needs anything. Steve should still be sleeping in the lab so make sure Peter stays out of there."
"Understood sir."
#
"Master Peter, I think you should take a break soon. You've been running for quite some time now. Almost an hour and a half."
Peter would've grit his teeth but even his jaw was too weak to clench. His whole body was gelatinous from the run. The only reason he was still moving was he couldn't get his hand high enough to hit the 'STOP' button on the machine.
He didn't need to stop.
He was fine.
"I-I'm-" Deep breaths were hard. Peter couldn't get enough air to speak. So he settled for shaking his head. Jarvis had cameras, right? He didn't need verbal commands.
"Master Peter, you-"
"Stop!" Peter hissed, his legs pumping harder with the adrenaline rush. "Stop. I'm… fine. Tired. Fine."
"You threw up an hour ago sir. I don't think that constitutes as fine."
Peter rolled his eyes. He only threw up because he got on the treadmill after breakfast and big meals don't agree with distance cardio.
It wasn't like he shoved some fingers down his throat or something.
People threw up during workouts all the time.
It was fine.
He was fine.
Jarvis just needed to leave him alone.
Once Peter finishes this run, he will have burned a good chunk of his breakfast off. He would be back on his way to superhero fitness.
The black spots started to dance again. He had seen them a few times in the last hour, every visit lasting longer than the one before it, but they were harmless. Just weakness and donuts leaving the body, right?
"Master Peter, I really must suggest that-"
Peter didn't hear what Jarvis was going to suggest. Before he could finally reach up and hit the 'STOP' button on the machine, the black spots grew and took over his vision completely.
Peter was out before his head hit the floor.
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CW: disordered eating, PTSD, anxiety, substance use/abuse
Thanks for reading everyone!
~Ann