#mayawati

She flips on the lights, her chest heaving and her eyes searching frantically for the source of the danger.

But it’s just Peter. Alone. He’s twisting in his sheets, his face pale and sweaty as he fights off things she can’t see. She’s not sure if she drops the baseball bat or if her hand just loses its strength, but it thumps against the ground and rolls toward the wall as she stumbles forward and falls to her knees at his bedside. She touches him lightly. Carefully. “Peter,” she says. “Honey. Wake up. You’re dreaming, that’s all. You’re dreaming.”

Peter shoots up with a withering gasp. He grabs onto his neck, his chest, his cheeks wet with tears. He must follow her voice because he turns to look at her, his eyes wide as he chokes on air. “M-May?”

“You were dreaming, baby. It was just a dream. You’re okay.”

As the realization settles, Peter collapses back against the wall, his hands limp in the pooling blankets at his hips. “Oh.”

He’s still pale and shaky. May scoots closer, wrapping her hand around his and squeezing it tight. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Peter swallows hard and shakes his head. “It was so… real.”

May runs her thumb across the back of his hand, allowing space for him to continue. His eyes are rimmed with red, his gaze distant and confused. He stutters on another breath and uses his free hand to wipe away the moisture on his cheeks. “I’m sorry, May,” he says after a minute. “For waking you.”

“Oh baby, don’t apologize to me. I’m just glad you’re safe.”

“I am. I’m okay.”

May releases his hand and sits back on her heels. “Do you want to talk about it?” she asks again.

“Not really,” Peter says weakly. He doesn’t meet her eyes. “You know, just… Spider-Man.”

May doesn’t know. Not even close. A gaping hole sits between them, separating his pain and her ability to help mend it. “Maybe you should take a break,” she says.

“That- no. I’m okay, May. Really. Thanks for coming in here.”

It’s a dismissal. May nods and stands. “If you need me, I’m right across the hall. You know that.”

“I know.”

“I’m serious, Peter.”

This time, he meets her eyes. They still shine with tears but his smile is genuine. “Thanks May.”

She smooths his shirt at the shoulders and ruffles his hair. “Alright, then. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight.”

She turns off his light and closes his door, though she lingers a little before returning to her own room. She’s unsettled as she lays back down, her mind racing.

Everyone has nightmares. She knows that. But something about this feels different.

It takes hours for her to fall back asleep.

-----

The second and the third night are no different. By the fourth, both of them are restless.

Peter stumbles into the kitchen on Saturday morning, his hair messy and his pajama pants on backwards. It’s been another hard night and May watches him from the table, her hands wrapped around her second coffee of the morning. “Hey you. How’re you feeling?”

Peter rubs his eyes. Sighs. He doesn’t meet her gaze. “Fine. You?”

“I’m okay.”

Her nephew looks nothing short of miserable. “I’m sorry for keeping you up every night. I just… I can’t help it.”

“I know, baby.”

May chews on her bottom lip as a plan formulates in her head. Then, decided, she stands and walks over to Peter, grabbing his hand and steering him toward the living room.

“What are we doing?” he asks.

“Sleeping,” she says. She guides him into the cushions and tosses a throw blanket on his lap. She grabs one of her own, kicks off her slippers, and settles down beside him with an arm around his shoulder.

“But-”

“No buts,” May interrupts, already shutting her eyes. “This is happening.”

Peter is quiet. She cracks open an eye and finds him staring at the opposite wall with a pout. The circles under his eyes are so dark it looks as if they’ve been drawn on with markers.

“It’s okay,” May tells him. “Just try.”

He nods and melts against her side. The even increments of his breathing is a comfort to her. In and out. In and out.

Her eyes droop.

She’s asleep seconds later, and wakes up on the couch alone.

She sits up fast, searching, and relaxes when she finds Peter at the stove. He’s stabbing something in a skillet with a spatula, his back turned to her. Outside, the sky is dark. I slept all day, she realizes.

“Peter?” she yawns.

He turns around, a little surprised. If possible, he looks worse than before and May is struck with cold dread. “Did you get any sleep?” she asks him.

“Yeah,” he says without meeting her eyes. “A little. You hungry?”

May sighs. She wants to press, but she’s afraid he’ll crack if she does. “Starving.”

-----

The next two nights are quiet.

Peter is dead on his feet.

When he comes home from school, practically sleeping standing up, May steers him to the couch and sits him down, her hands clamped down hard on his shoulders. He blinks slowly at her, his eyelids resting for seconds before prying back open. It’s painful to watch.

“Come clean,” she says.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“You know exactly what I mean. You haven’t been sleeping, Peter.”

“I have.”

“That’s complete and utter BS and we both know it.”

Peter struggles out of her grip, but he’s frail. Weak. “Just leave me alone, okay?”

“We need to talk about this if you’re going to get better.”

“I don’t need to talk about anything,” he says. He stands, but his knees must give out on him because he falls against the coffee table. May lunges to help him, her anger liquifying into fear, but he brushes her off. “I’m fine. I’m fine.”

He manages to get to his feet, disappearing into his bedroom.

May rests her head in her hands and cries.

-----

On the seventh night, May jerks awake to a loud crash.

She falls out of bed and rushes to Peter’s room. She finds him sprawled out on the floor, the chair to his desk lying on its side with its wheels still spinning. He looks up at her with wide, fearful eyes, his chest stuttering and stopping like broken clockwork.

“Peter?” she prompts, sinking down to her knees. “Talk to me, baby.”

“I can’t… breathe…”

Panic attack. The realization turns her blood to ice. “You’re panicking, honey. I know it’s scary right now, but I promise you can breathe. Focus on me. Focus on my voice.”

Tears spill out of Peter’s eyes as he tries to listen. His gasps for air are terrifying, each heave of his chest breaking May’s heart. The next time she speaks, her voice shakes. “Breathe. Breathe.”

It takes nearly fifteen minutes for Peter to come back to himself. When he does, he collapses against May’s side and sobs. “I can’t do it anymore.”

She strokes the back of his hair. “You’re alright. I’m going to find you some help, okay? Someone you can talk to.”

“Tony.”

May’s whole body freezes. She pulls back, tilting Peter’s chin toward her. “What did you say?”

“I want to talk to Tony.”

Progress. “Are you sure?”

Peter nods.

“Okay, honey. Sit tight. I’ll go call him right now.”

“But it’s late-”

“It doesn’t matter.”

May hands Peter a blanket before stepping out of his room, her head reeling. She should’ve thought about calling Tony earlier. She has her differences with the man, no doubt, but his influence in Peter’s life is undeniable.

It’s just after twelve and her stomach swoops as the call goes through. Me, calling Tony Stark in the middle of the night. Who would have ever thought?

Surprisingly, the call connects after only a couple rings. “May?” Tony’s voice comes through. “What’s wrong?”

“Don’t panic,” she says. “Peter just needs a little help.”

“What kind of help? I can have an ambulance there in three minutes.”

“No, no. Nothing like that. He’s just… he’s not sleeping, Tony, and he has terrible nightmares every time he manages to. He wakes up screaming. He just had a panic attack on his bedroom floor.” She pauses and takes in a lung aching breath. “I think he has PTSD. He needs someone to talk to. Someone who understands what he’s going through better than I can.”

The silence on Tony’s end of the phone is so long, May shuffles awkwardly as she waits for his response. When it comes through, his voice cracks. “God, I’m so sorry May. He doesn’t deserve this. I’ll be there in twenty minutes, okay?”

May startles. “What? No, Tony. You don’t have to come tonight. Even a phone call would be great-”

“I want to,” Tony says, cutting her off. “I need to. I’ll be there in twenty.”

May relaxes, shutting her eyes when they fill with grateful tears. “Okay. Thank you.”

“I’ll see you guys soon,” he says, and the line disconnects.

-----

May Parker looks like a zombie.

Tony doesn’t mean anything by it. It’s just true. When she answers the door his stomach drops, because if May looks three days past exhausted, he can’t even imagine what the kid looks like.

“Tony,” May greets, running a hand through her hair. “Thank you for coming. I know it’s late.”

“It’s no problem, really.” Tony steps inside and shrugs off his coat, laying it on the arm of the couch. “Peter?”

“In his bedroom. I told him you were coming.”

Tony nods, offering May a weak smile before heading toward Peter’s bedroom. The door isn’t fully closed and it swings forward about an inch when he knocks. Peter doesn’t answer right away, and Tony swallows his nerves down. “Peter?”

“Come in.”

Tony opens the door slowly, afraid of what he may find behind it. May’s words of PTSD and nightmares come into vivid detail as his eyes land on Peter. He’s sitting on the floor, his back pressed to his bed and his arms wrapped around his knees. His eyes are dull and lined with red and purple, his usual energetic spark gone.

Tony takes things slow. He walks slowly and sits next to Peter on the floor slowly. He thinks slowly, because damn it this is important. “Hey, kiddo.”

Peter tips his head forward in his arms until it’s hidden from view. “You didn’t have to come all the way over here.”

“Your Aunt says you can’t sleep.”

“That’s only half true,” Peter says, and there’s bitterness evident in every word. Frustration. Exhaustion. Fear.

“Then what’s the whole truth?”

Peter sits up straight, his hands closing into fists. There’s a splotchy blush on his neck and cheeks, bright against his peaked complexion. “You really want to know?”

“Yes.”

Tony’s sincerity must catch Peter off guard, because the rapid moisture building up in his eyes spills over. He catches the tears quickly and tries to scoot away, but Tony traps him in place with an arm around his shoulder. A couple months ago, Tony thinks both of them might have died at the intimacy of the gesture. Now, Peter collapses against him, clutching on with everything he has.

“I’m not okay,” Peter says into Tony’s chest. “There’s something wrong with me.”

“There’s nothing wrong with you. You’re just going through something hard right now. That’s all.”

“I’m so tired, Mr. Stark.”

The admission breaks Tony’s heart. It’s multi-layered and deeper than Tony can lay hold of, but he understands all the same. He adds pressure to Peter’s arm, to show more than say that he’s there. “Let’s talk about it.”

Peter’s next breath is shaky. “I don’t really know how.”

“Your nightmares. Let’s start there.”

Tony can physically feel Peter’s skin chill, though neither of them pull away. “They’re different but the same,” Peter tells him. “I dream about the warehouse. Toomes. The ferry. People that I love dying. I’m never… I can never be good enough to stop the bad things from happening. And it scares me.”

Tony lets the words sit. He appreciates them for what they are. “It’s okay to be scared, kiddo. But fear turns into strength when we don’t let it define us.”

Peter goes quiet. He wipes his eyes again. “Did you read that in a book or something?”

Tony laughs. Lightly. “Nope. That’s pure Stark wisdom for you, so write that down or something. Keep it in your noggin.”

“Is that how you’ve survived?”

Tony swallows and blinks at the ceiling until his eyes clear. “Yeah,” he whispers. “Something like that. And you know, talking to someone professionally helps too. A lot.”

“You think I should?”

“I think it would help, but I want it to be your choice.”

Peter nods against his side. “I’ll think about it.”

“Okay.”

Peter’s head dips and Tony shifts his hands to support him. “You wanna try getting some shut eye?”

Another nod, though barely. “Stay?”

A thick knot of emotion rises in his throat. “Sure, kiddo. Anything.”

Strangely, it’s comfortable. Bedroom floor and all. Tony knows his back will kill him in the morning, but he can’t quite find it within himself to care.