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Peter doesn’t know what triggers it, doesn’t know when it truly starts. Maybe it’s the late patrol the night before, the lack of sleep, and the blow to the back of his head. Maybe it’s a full day of noisy classrooms and a fire drill sending him over the edge. Maybe it’s the new suit and the HUD that came with it. Maybe… it was just… random. There was to be, for no other reason than to make Peter weak.
Whatever the cause, he could feel it. The spandex that covered his skin felt two sizes too small, squeezing his body. The fabric scratches against his body as he swings between buildings and tumbles into yet another doom bot, trying to take it down.
His vision was blurring under the bright streetlights, almost blinding him. He’d almost stumbled into Natasha once, because Peter hadn’t been able to see where he was going. Natasha’s sharp tone had dug straight through his ears and into his skull, echoing within his brain like the police sirens that were still blearing down the street. Spider-Man was glad they’d blocked the road, but Peter’s senses didn’t agree.
“Another swarm seems to be heading west,” Mr. Roger’s voice rings out over the coms. Peter winces, hands moving to cover his ear involuntarily. It doesn’t help; the comb is nestled deep in his ear canal. “Iron Man, Hawkeye, Falcon, and Spider-Man can regroup to focus on the second swarm. The rest of his stay here.”
A choir of voices blasts all at the same time, confirming the new orders.
Peter's fingers jam against the com button a handful of times, gasping for breath as he waits for the voices to lower. Just a little. Just enough that he can think. He needs to think.
The sensory overloads weren’t new to Peter. He’d had them as long as he could remember, thanks to his autism, which none of the team knew about. It was Ben to discovered the sensory issues back when Peter refused to go to school, tired from just existing. But then his uncle had come home from work with a wrapped box for Peter one day after work, it hadn’t been Christmas or Peter’s birthday, but Peter had ripped the paper off to reveal a pair of noise-cancelling headphones. Ben had gotten them to help Peter at school.
The headphones hadn’t helped since Peter became Spider-Man, or more specifically, since Peter was bitten by the radioactive Spider that gave him enhanced senses. By then, though, Peter had learned how to deal with the overloads. At least, most of the time.
Today shouldn’t have been any different.
Yet, as Mr. Stark’s repulses intensify as he moves towards the second swarm of doom bots, Peter squeezes his eyes shut tightly and lands on the ledge of a rooftop. Trying to fight off the dizziness.
“Spider-Man!” Mr. Roger’s voice came sharper this time, impatient. “I told you to join the B team, get going.”
Peter claws at his ears to try and get the coms out, pulls the mask up over his mouth and nose to get just a few breaths of cool air. He can hear the way his muscles strain to catch air, labored and fast. Shallow. “Just a “ Peter begins in a whisper, but Mr. Roger’s cuts him off, seemingly not hearing him.
“Spider-Man, can you hear me?” The super soldier asks pointedly.
Tears prick at the edge of Peter’s eyes, smelling salty and feeling wet against his skin. Trapped underneath the Spider-Man mask.
A small voice in the back of Peter’s head reminds him that Roger is just in leadership mode. The man was a military man first, Avenger second. Once this was all over, he’d be the Steve Peter knew from the tower, who’d sit in the kitchen and draw while Sam cooked dinner and served Peter tea.
Despite the voice, Peter wanted to sit down and cry. The only thing that made him keep the shallow sobs coming from deep in his throat muted was knowing that the phone was a public line. Peter didn’t want them to see him as a kid.
Finally, Peter musters enough strength to choke out a response, “I can hear you…” He confirms.
The sound of his voice makes him wince, but he forces himself back up onto his feet anyway. Pulling the mask back down, and leaps over the edge of the building.
Spider-Man shoots out his first web and starts moving towards the rest of the B-team.
He can hear the fighting still happening behind him. The clattering of metal hits the hard pavement. The ticking and clicking of the gears hidden under the droid's maintenance panels.
Peter’s heart beats hard inside his chest, thudding against his ribs. As he swings, he’s sure it’ll beat right out of him, sending him to the ground like the robotic enemies. For a flicker of a second, he almost wishes it would, but he pushes the thought away as quickly as it appears. Peter knows this stuff doesn’t last forever. He just needs to breathe.
The three Avengers he’s been teamed with are already fighting their swarm of droids. Peter can see Central Park from here, hear the sound of footsteps running as civilians flee.
“Sam, behind you,” Mr. Stark calls out in warning over the coms as a doom bot appears behind Sam.
Peter, without thinking, dives in. Web tight in his head, feet hitting the massive flying droid in its metal head. The vibrations travel through Peter’s bone, up his spine. He whimpers. A small sob escaped his lips.
Nobody hears over the sound of fighting. Not even Sam, just a meter away from Spider-Man.
Peter silently will the tears disappear.
Back when Peter made his suit, he’d found a way to shield himself from the constant, overwhelming input of he city he called his home. Mr. Stark had made fun of those lenses back then, and still did really. Peter understood why, and he, like most New Yorkers, loved how expressive the eyes of the Stark-designed suits were. But right then, Peter wished he’d dared to stand his ground with Mr. Stark back then. Next time Peter needed a new suit, he’d speak up, he silently swore to himself as his vision blurred further from his wet eyes.
It feels like forever before the last doom bot is put out of commission. Peter doesn’t remember most of it. All he remembers is a foggy mess of sounds, lights, and vibrations in his bones.
Sam pads Peter’s shoulder as they both stand on a rooftop, looking over the mangled mess of metal. “We’re meeting with Steve’s team to grab lunch,” He tells Peter, “You’re invited. Meet you back where we started.”
Peter nods weakly, meeting Sam’s eyes through the mask.
The last thing Peter wanted was to take a bite; he couldn't bear the thought of moving anything past his lips, except maybe a glass of water. Sam didn’t need to know that.
Sam takes to the air, the falcon wings opening from the pack on his back, carrying him through the air. The metal of the wings glitters in the sun, and Peter’s hands move up to cover his masked eyes. He listens for a long time, but first, when Sam is behind a taller building does Peter lets himself fall.
His knees hit the top of the rooftop, pain shooting through them, but Peter couldn’t get a single sound out.
Peter peels the mask from his face, feeling a mix of sweat and tears covering his forehead and cheeks. His hair sticking to his skin, uncomfortable as he gulps in big breaths of air.
There, alone, Peter finally let the tears come crashing. Rolling down his cheeks like big, cold raindrops.
“How about we drop the tacos?” Mr. Stark’s voice comes from beside Peter.
Peter immediately tries to shut off the flood gates, drying his eyes the best he can in the sweat-soaked sleeves of his Spider-Man suit. Scrambling back up onto his feet. Refusing to look up, refusing to meet Mr. Stark’s eyes. If he was lucky, Mr. Stark hadn’t seen the tears… if…
The sound of Mr. Stark’s face plate opening rings in Peter’s ears so loudly that Peter steps backwards, almost stumbling over his own feet. And then the rest of the Iron Man suit opens too, before it shuts down. The hum of its motors, of the arc reactor, goes quiet. One sound less in the ocean of sounds.
“On a scale from one to ten?” Mr. Stark asks, holding up ten fingers, stepping up to fill out Peter’s vision. Blocking the massing sun that’s been shining blinding light into Peter’s sensitive eyes.
Peter hiccups, “I’m not hurt,” he argues weakly.
“I know,” Mr. Stark assures, stepping even closer, his voice a soft, gentle whisper. “Your senses, Pete, how bad is it?”
Swallowing hard, Peter counts Mr. Stark’s fingers silently from left to right. Before tapping the tip of Mr. Stark’s life pinky finger. On Peter’s right. 10.
Mr. Stark’s face crumbles for a moment as his mentor realizes that Peter must have been struggling through the majority of the battle against the doom bots, but Mr. Stark doesn’t comment. Instead, he pulls Peter into a tight hug, his head coming to rest against Mr. Stark’s chest.
While one of Peter’s ears is pressed into Mr. Stark’s chest, his mentor's hand moves to cover the still exposed ear. Muffling the world slightly.
Peter can hear the soft, rhythmic beats of Tony’s heart deep in his chest. It’s soothing, almost calming. For the first time in hours, Peter manages to take a deep, solid breath. Then another.
“We can stay here as long as you need,” Mr. Stark whispers into Peter’s curly hair.
Peter lets his body go limp, slumping fully into Mr. Stark, forcing the older man to take his weight. Tony let out a soft groan, lowering them both back down to the rooftop.
Mr. Stark doesn’t let go. One arm moves to rub soft soothing circles across Peter’s back. “But maybe not too long,” Mr. Stark corrects, “I’m an old man, Pete, my knees aren’t what they used to be.”
It’s almost enough to pull a strangled laugh past Peter’s lips.
Time ticks by as they sit there on the rooftop. The sun set over the horizon, and Peter could sense how the light changed even through his closed eyes. The city streets below change from the noisy cars as people return home from work, to the sound of teens and young adults braving the world to go to parties or hang out with friends.
The smell of Mr. Stark prickling in Peter’s nose never changes. The combination of colon and oil, and a little bit of sweat from the suit.
Reluctantly, Peter lifts his head from Mr. Stark’s chest, looking up at him with tired eyes. “I’m okay now,” Peter whispers, scared to speak at full volume.
“No, you’re not,” Tony says, and Peter doesn’t have the energy to protest.
Maybe Mr. Stark was right, too. Peter wasn’t okay; he was just getting a little better. The world had quieted a little around him. Exhaustion was forcing Peter’s senses to slow down. It was still a waiting game for it to be fully over, and Mr. Stark knew that. But he didn’t seem to mind.
Finally, Mr. Stark lessens his grasp on Peter and gets up, only to offer Peter a hand. Peter takes it, feeling Tony’s rough hand closing around Peter’s soft skin. Pulling him to his feet.
His knees feel shaky below him from sitting on the ground for so long.
Mr. Stark grabs the discarded Spider-Man mask and carefully pulls it back down over Peter’s face. Carefully adjusting the seams so the fabric doesn’t fold uncomfortably around Peter’s neck.
“I have a soundproofed room back at the tower,” Mr. Stark informs Peter, “You’re sleeping there tonight. Don’t worry about May, I’ll text her.”
Peter just nods, letting Mr. Stark guide him towards the waiting Iron Man suit.
He thinks he blacks out during the flight, being carried in Mr. Stark’s metal arms. At least one second Tony’s picking him up on that rooftop, and the next thing Peter knows, they’re landing on the helicopter pad on Avengers Tower.
Peter had been to the tower a small handful of times, mostly to visit Tony’s lab or the Med Bay for a suit repair or stitches. But he’d stopped geeking out ages ago. Now Peter just buried himself closer into Mr. Stark’s chest as the nano tech armor dismantled and was retrieved into the glowing housing sitting against Mr. Stark’s skin.
Mr. Stark makes a beeline through the main living areas, through the empty living room and kitchen, towards the elevator. Friday already has it waiting for them. Mr. Stark doesn’t have to click anything for the elevator to start moving.
They exit on the floor where the Avengers' rooms are. Mr. Stark has one up in the penthouse, Peter’s brain remembers, but most Avengers had a room on the floor below. Peter too.
“Were you two?” Roger’s voice rings out as they move past the super soldier rooms.
Peter can feel the two adults exchange glances, but Mr. Stark doesn’t stop walking. Don’t say anything to Mr. Rogers.
They’d planned to grab food; Peter only remembers it foggily.
Mr. Stark moves past Spider-Man's official room, too. The door is decorated with the colors of Peter’s suit, and spider-webs painted on the doorframe. Peter had only used it once, while recovering from a concussion, when May had a night shift and couldn’t stay with him.
Finally, they come to a stop. Peter’s head feels like it’s spinning as Tony enters a plain room. Peter feels the effect immediately.
Friday has darkened the windows, preventing light from entering the room. She’s dimmed the overhead lights, giving Mr. Stark just enough so the man can see where he’s going without tripping over himself.
The sound muffles to almost nothing as the door closes behind them. The chaos of voices and cars that had attacked Peter outside finally comes to a halt. No longer slamming him in the head like a hammer.
Mr. Stark lowers Peter to a bed and pulls up a heavy blanket over Peter’s body. Forcing his legs and arms to sink into the soft mattress. Peter makes a mental note to ask Mr. Stark for one he can keep at home. A weight blanket, Peter realizes. Ben had told him about them once, ages ago.
His mentor sits on the edge of the bed for a little while, running fingers through Peter’s hair.
Peter is asleep by the time Tony finally sneaks out. He doesn’t even hear as Steve enters with a glass of water for the nightstand.
It’s quiet.
Just quiet.