Five times Peter Parker isn't sure whether or not Mr. Stark would want to know about his trauma. Peter contends with injuries, bullying, stalking, illness, and the memories of his childhood abuse at the hands of Skip Westcott. Each time, he tries to deal with the problems on his own, and each time, Mr. Stark tries to help him anyway.
_

"Outta the way, Parker!"

A heavy shoulder bumped Peter as he rounded the landing to the 3rd floor. He let out a surprised oof as he got pinned against the hard metal railing.

"Yeah, watch out, Parker!" Flash Thomson elbowed him and giggled like a loony tune while Peter tried to move out of the way. He glanced down the stairwell. The view would be vertigo-inducing for anyone other than Peter, as he leaned over the edge, taking up as little space as possible.

"Yep, real funny, guys," Peter muttered through gritted teeth and let the tight throng of Flash's goonish friends pass him.

It had already been a long, horrible day. He was going to be late for his Spanish test, his head was pounding, and he could practically feel the countdown in his chest. He'd planned to get to class early, just enough time to cram a few last-minute notes on verb conjugations, but that was shot now.

As he pulled himself off the railing to hurry up the stairs, he felt a tug. Panic flared in his chest; his decrepit bag had caught on the handrail. Peter spun just in time to see the frayed fabric give way, his books, notes, and lunch bursting out and spilling down the stairwell in a messy cascade.

"No! No, no, no!"

His hands flew out, trying desperately to grab what he could, but it was too late. The books had tumbled, and papers fluttered all the way to the bottom floor. Laughter erupted above him.

"Whoops. Sorry, Parker."

"Oh man, maybe you can duct tape it," Flash sneered. His friends cackled.

"Like your shoes."

"Or your binder."

"Or your phone."

They laughed uproariously at their own perceived cleverness.

"Yeah. Thanks, I'll do that." Peter grimaced as he raced back down the stairs, gathering all his notes.

His phone wasn't duct-taped. Yet. And he would rather carry his books in a brown paper bag from Delmar's than give those idiots the satisfaction of seeing his backpack repaired with duct-tape, too.

Not that duct tape could even salvage it. The bag split all the way down the side and along the bottom, leaving an astonishingly wide opening. Peter could wear it like a scarf at this point. He groaned. May was going to be so disappointed. And the Spanish test might as well be a lost cause, at this point.

Peter was so late for class. There'd be no chance to cram before the Spanish teacher passed out the tests. He scurried down the stairs as fast as he could, gathering his belongings into his arms, with no place to put them.

His phone buzzed. He glanced down at a message from Ned. Where r u? Test in 1 min!

Peter's heart dropped. It buzzed again. Delaney's gonna lock u out!

Peter swore and raced back up the stairs and down the hall to class. He skidded into the room just as Señora Delaney was shutting the door.

She sighed. "Late again, Señor Parker. Those tardies add up into detentions, you know. And you're cutting it awfully close if you want to take this test. The door locks on exam days, no one in or out."

"I know. Uh, perdón, Maestra Delaney. Lo siento!"

She waved him to his seat impatiently.

He fumbled his belongings and piled them haphazardly under his desk as the exams were distributed.

Ugh, he had no pencil. Just perfect.

Peter raised his hand, shrinking back a little under his teacher's impatient glare. "Uh, I need… I mean, uh, un lapiz? ¿Puedo tener … un lápiz, por favor?"

She strode back to Peter's seat and pressed a pencil onto the desk with a look that assured him he'd regret asking for anything else.

Peter swallowed nervously. "Gracias."

It was not his best work. Peter felt a sense of dread as he scribbled his answers into the spaces and turned it in, running calculations in his head to predict how big of a hit his overall grade might suffer.

When the bell rang, Peter made a beeline to his locker to deposit his armload of loose papers and books. His phone had 3% battery life, of course, because it was that kind of day. It was enough to shoot May a text if he needed to, so he powered it off to conserve the last bit of charge and set it inside, too. He tossed the ruined backpack in a hallway trash can, frowning as he closed the lid on it. Maybe May could find one on sale again.

At least they had clubs next: a rotating period that Peter split between Acadec, Newsletter, and Robotics. Today it would be Acadec.

MJ usually used this period as an extra practice, or an opportunity to plan their study program before a competition. It was shorter and less intense than their after-school Acadec sessions, so it was typically a fun, light-hearted break.

"No practice," MJ announced grimly, and Peter's heart sank again. Why was the universe so against him having a somewhat decent day?

"We need to make a display board for our group. All the clubs are required to make one to display in the hall for the freshmen this week."

"Screw that." Flash scowled. "Why do we want to attract more freshmen? Don't we already have Parker?"

MJ continued as if she didn't hear him. She was good at pretending Flash wasn't even in the room. "We're all responsible for a section on the board. Let's get it over with so we can get back to regular meetings after this."

The group grumbled but acquiesced. MJ divvied up the sections and even Flash reluctantly sat down to work. He rushed through his assigned section on the list of requirements for acceptance onto the team, sent the completely unformatted page to the printer, and then pasted it crookedly to the board.

"I'm done," he announced.

MJ frowned at the wonky page. "Go put everything back in the closet if you're done."

"Hell no. Make the freshman go."

Ned rolled his eyes. "Peter's a sophomore. He's in half your classes."

"Parker's about as worldly as a pre-pubescent middle schooler. Excuse me for getting mixed up."

"Shut up, Flash." Ned muttered.

"You shut up, tubby."

"Hey!" Peter stood up, glaring at Flash, who looked a little startled but quickly recovered with a scowl.

Peter loomed, tapping into his Spidey confidence. It wasn't as if he could do anything but stare down at Flash, expecting at any moment the other boy would simply laugh at his bluster. But Peter was unwilling to just sit down after the insult hurled at Ned.

He was soon saved from the awkwardness of just standing and glaring ineffectively when someone knocked at the door. A couple of Flash's friends were lingering in the hall, peering through the window with wide grins, waiting expectantly.

Flash shot Peter one final disgusted look and then gathered up his things. "I'm out of here. Craft club is over. Let me know when we're actually going to practice again."

MJ glared at Flash's back. "We're practicing after final period Thursday. Don't be late."

"Whatever." He waved his hand vaguely over his shoulder and disappeared down the hall, followed by his laughing cohorts.

MJ shot Peter a pleading look. "The bell is going to ring in five minutes. Could you put all the supplies back while I print the rest of the sections? I just want to get this over with."

"Yeah, no problem." Peter gathered everything up and walked down the hall to a large supply closet used by all the teachers on that floor.

He used his foot to scoot a little wooden wedge under the door to prop it open and walked inside. Peter didn't bother with the lights. His eyes could pick up on most details in the dark, and with the door wide open there was plenty of light from the hall.

It didn't take long to find where everything belonged in the tidy stacks. He had only been inside for a couple minutes when his senses buzzed alarmingly.

Peter whirled as the door slammed behind him, plunging him into complete darkness. the lock clicked into place. Peter lunged towards the door and pawed frantically to find the knob. His hand finally closed around the cold metal and he turned, but it wouldn't budge. It was locked from the outside. He could hear someone sniggering, and footsteps tapped a hasty retreat down the hall.

"Crap!" Peter felt like an idiot. His heart raced. He could feel the walls close in on him.

Peter knew he wasn't really trapped. He could rip the door from its hinges if he needed to. But his body wasn't interested in his brain's rationalizations. His heart pounded in his ears and his stomach churned. You might as well be trapped. You're not getting out.

He considered breaking the doorknob, but even though Spiderman could easily remove the offending hardware, Peter Parker shouldn't be strong enough to do that. And he'd surely get in trouble for vandalizing school property. Flash never got into trouble for anything. The fact that Flash and his idiot friends were involved made it highly likely this little stunt would be ignored by the school administrators. They would settle for suspending Peter, however, if the door was damaged and someone needed to be blamed.

You're trapped. No one is coming for you. You're trapped.

Peter tried to get a handle on his breathing and closed his eyes.

"It's okay. It's okay," He murmured quietly to himself. He could hear those jerks down the hall, waiting, laughing some more. They were probably waiting to see if he'd freak out. But he was totally not freaking out. And that was not a whine that just escaped his throat. He hoped those guys weren't close enough to hear him spiraling.

The bell rang. Everyone will think you've gone to your next class.

Peter swore under his breath. His day just couldn't get any better.

You took everything to your locker, so there won't even be a pile of your stuff as a reminder you planned to return. Ned and MJ aren't in your next period, they won't notice you're missing.

Peter gritted his teeth and backed away from the door to keep from forcing his way through. He blindly backed all the way into a shelf. He yelped in surprise as the shelf was knocked askew from its bracket and items fell onto his shoulders and back.

The building is collapsing!

"No!" he gasped, his own arms came around to hug himself as he huddled on the floor, shaking.

You're trapped under concrete. You can't get up.

It was only art supplies, but it felt too much like loose rock tumbling down. He was stuck again, under the rubble, and no one knew he was there. Peter whimpered.

It's too heavy for Peter Parker. Maybe if you were Spiderman…

But he wasn't allowed to use his strength this time. There was no way to help himself here. He was truly stuck and the air was taking on a heavy, syrupy consistency. It was hard to get it down his lungs and back out again.

He gasped ragged breaths. There's no way out.

He was powerless. He wasn't Spiderman. He wasn't even teenage Peter Parker, the awkward but resourceful high school sophomore. Fifteen-year-old Peter Parker would surely keep a cool head and figure out what to do next. But no, he was a scared, hurt little boy, completely helpless. Stupid. Weak.

He was that frightened little kid again. Einstein.

Peter felt bile rise in his throat, and tears swim in his eyes.

He had no idea how much time had passed when the door suddenly opened, flooding the small space with cool air and too-bright light. A large shadow loomed in the doorway and Peter's heart stopped. Was he back?

But it was just Ned. Peter felt his eyes water in relief. The door was open, and it was Ned. It was going to be okay.

"Dude! What happened?"

Ned slid over strewn copy paper, almost careening with Peter in his efforts to get to him quickly. He knelt at Peter's side. "Are you hurt? Did you hit your head? Did that shelf fall on you?"

Ned reached for his shoulders, to hug him or help him up, Peter wasn't sure. But Peter jerked away at the touch.

"I need to get out."

"You can get out now. The door is open. Come on." Ned said gently.

Peter followed him on shaky, numb legs. His limbs didn't feel like his own, they felt leaden and strange. He dropped onto the first bench he saw, his mind still reeling. Ned left him for a moment, mumbling assurances Peter couldn't quite absorb. The boy took off around the corner and down the hall, his feet pounding on the tile.

But then Peter did hear something that cut through the brain fog. Mr. Stark's distant voice, clear and commanding.

"Did you find him?"

That made no sense. Why would Mr. Stark be here?

Ned's voice carried easily in the deserted halls. "He was locked in the supply closet. It looked like a shelf came down on him. I think he hit his head." Peter heard the footsteps quicken.

Did he hit his head? Peter couldn't remember. Maybe the shelf did do more damage than he thought, since his brain clearly wasn't working. He couldn't understand why he would be hearing Mr. Stark. Then the pair rounded the corner, Ned leading the way. It was a surreal sight.

Mr. Stark knelt down on the scuffed hallway tile, oblivious to his suit getting rumpled and dusty.

"Kid, look at me." Tony's steady, commanding voice somehow eased the buzzing panic in Peter's mind.

The man reached forward and tipped Peter's chin up, letting the fluorescent hallway light shine on his pupils. Then he ran his fingers gently through Peter's hair.

Peter flinched a little, expecting to feel the bile rising in his throat again at an unwelcome touch. But it felt fine. It felt safe, caring, and Peter had to stop himself from leaning into the touch.

Stark thoroughly searched his scalp and then looked a little perplexed. "I don't think you have a head injury, kiddo. Can you show me where it hurts?"

"It doesn't." His voice sounded weird. Rough, and tight like he'd been crying. "Why are you here?"

Stark stared at him for a beat. "I'm here to pick you up; Happy got waylaid. Today's a lab day, remember?"

"Oh."

Stark and Ned exchanged a worried look. But there was no reason to worry was there? He was out of there. Maybe he could lie down after school. Maybe he'd feel better after some sleep. Peter felt strangely exhausted.

He cleared his throat, hoping to clear the strange tone from his voice.

"Wh-what time is it? I can't have two tardies in one day." Peter grimaced at his running total. Was it enough for a detention yet?

"The day is over Peter. You didn't make it to your last class." Ned spoke slowly, like he still thought maybe Peter was severely concussed.

Mr. Stark shook his head, looking puzzled. "Did you pass out or something? I waited and you never came out to the parking lot. Luckily Fred here was looking for you, too. You must've been in there for at least an hour and half if you missed your last class, too."

Great. He'd definitely have a detention for skipping his last class. Maybe if he played dumb and left Flash out of it entirely, he could convince principal Morita that he'd managed to lock himself in the supply closet through sheer stupidity. But wherever Flash was involved, it was usually the target of his pranks that ended up punished. So Peter wasn't too optimistic.

"Sorry, Mr. Stark." He hated that the man had waited so long.

"Don't worry about it, Pete. Come on, let's get you to the med bay. I want you checked out."

Peter still felt shaky but he tried to scoff convincingly. "I'm not hurt, Mr. Stark. I can handle getting pelted with paint bottles and paper. I'm fine."

"Yeah, kid. I know." But Mr. Stark was giving him one of those intense, searching looks that made Peter feel like he was getting x-rayed. Could he see how scared he'd been in there? Could he see what the Vulture had done to him? Could he see what Skip… Peter bit his lip. He must have passed muster, because Tony just nodded and steered him towards the exit.

"If not the Medbay, then let's get you home, Underoos." Mr. Stark glanced back over to Ned, who stood there uncertainly, frowning at Peter. "Thanks for finding him, Ted."

"You're welcome, Mr. Stark, sir! Take good care of him."

Ned watched them leave with a starstruck look that made Peter want to roll his eyes. It didn't even matter that Mr. Stark never called him by his real name, Ned was always going to be in awe of Iron Man. Peter couldn't blame him. He was, too.

Mr. Stark opened the front passenger door to the black Audi for Peter, but then raised a hand, halting him.

"Wait. Where's your backpack?"

"Huh? Oh, it broke."

"It broke?"

Peter shrugged uncomfortably.

"Don't you have homework? Some books you need to take home?"

He did, now that he thought about it. But he was so tired he really just wanted to get home and hide in his room under a blanket. He could get to school early in the morning to do the homework.

"No homework," he lied.

Mr. Stark raised a brow but said nothing as Peter climbed into the front seat.

They pulled away from the school and were soon, thankfully, headed back to Queens and not the tower's medbay. Mr. Stark kept glancing over at Peter like he wanted to say something. The teen braced himself for questions but they never came. They drove to his apartment in silence and when they pulled up in front of the building, Mr. Stark leaned across Peter to open the door. This time, Peter did not mistake it for a hug, but he kind of wanted to. The feeling took him by surprise, and he sat frozen to the seat. He wanted Mr. Stark to hug him?

It was several moments before Peter could move. Mr. Stark didn't rush him out impatiently, though. He just looked worried, like he was about to close the door and ask Peter what was wrong. That possibility lit a fire under the teen and he slid out the door.

"Bye Mr. Stark. Thanks for the ride."

"See ya, kid," his mentor said, with a concerned little frown.

He waited until Peter was inside the building before driving off, which was such a dad move. Peter shook his head with a little smile. Mr. Stark was a good guy.

Peter was still feeling out of sorts as he climbed the stairs to his floor, so he didn't even notice the tingly warning that was tickling the hairs up and down his arms and along the back of his neck.

The ominous feeling grew until he opened the door to the apartment and heard May's laughter. She had company. Cold sweat broke over Peter's forehead and hands, a chill crept up his back. Someone else was laughing in the sunny, warm kitchen. His laugh reverberated down Peter's spine and settled like a lead lump in his gut.

It didn't belong in that bright, homey space. It belonged in his nightmares. Peter froze.

Aunt May poked her head into the living room and smiled at Peter. "Hey, sweetie! I thought you'd be with Tony today?"

Peter stared, face slack and numb.

"I'm glad you're here. You can come say hi. Look who's moving back to his old apartment down the hall?" May beamed as her guest came out of the kitchen to join them.

"Einstein!" Piercing blue eyes locked on his. "Good to see you, champ. It's been way too long."