#post-a4

The first couple weeks are actually okay.

Eleven months after the Snap, everyone who’d disappeared woke up, perfectly unharmed, in whatever spot they most considered to be home. Eleven months after the Snap, Peter came to in his own bed, and the high that came from just being alive took a while to wear off.

But when he crashes, he crashes hard.

Sixteen days, seven hours, and about thirty minutes after the Snap is reversed, Peter finds his first trigger.

He’s sitting on his living room couch, sandwiched between May and Ned, who both cling to him like they're afraid to let go. Some movie or other is playing on the TV in front of them, and Tony’s supposed to come over in time to catch whatever’s on after this. When it goes to commercial break, an advertisement for a throwback movie marathon says the word Footloose and Peter is no longer in his apartment.

(Like in Footloose? The movie?

Exactly like Footloose! Is it still the greatest movie in history?

It never was.)

He’s not in his living room. He’s not in his apartment. He’s not on Earth.

(red red dust Thanos danger danger danger fading shaking stumbling I don’t wanna go pain fear snap Thanos please I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry.)

May and Ned do their best, but it takes fifteen minutes for Tony to arrive and another thirty minutes for him to talk Peter down.

Sixteen days, seven hours and thirty minutes. He lasted longer than he thought he would.

The breakdown is the first of many.

The ridiculousness of having his first post-Snap breakdown over an 80s movie is not lost on him. But it’s like a dam breaks, after.

He goes from okay to completely falling apart.

All of a sudden, it’s all he can think about. Dying. Turning to dust in Tony’s arms. Fading away on some cold, unforgiving alien planet.

All of a sudden, it’s so fucking hard.

It’s hard not to stare at his own hands whenever there’s nothing else to focus on and worry that his fingers are going to crumble any minute. It’s hard not to see the rocky surface of Titan every time his gaze catches on anything red. It’s hard not to feel like he’s living on borrowed time, wandering aimlessly in a borrowed body.

It’s hard to think. It’s hard to breathe.

It’s hard to live when the weight that’s been resting on chest ever since he came back to life has gained a million pounds and is pressing directly against his heart.

It’s funny, in this sick, twisted way, that when Aunt May asks him to talk about Titan, he can recount what happened without even stuttering, but the littlest thing can set him off if he’s not prepared.

Once, it’s an advertisement of a kid on a beach with sand slipping through the palms of his hands.

(sand it’s just sand it’s just sand it’s dust it’s always dust he’s turning to dust again.)

Another time, it’s merely someone on the street saying, “God, I don’t wanna go to the store.”

(I don’t wanna go Mr. Stark please I don’t wanna go I’m sorry.)

Many times, it’s not even something that he sees or hears. Many times, the fear washes over him for seemingly no reason other than just…trauma. He’s dealt with trauma before. He’s been dealing with trauma for basically his whole life.

It feels different this time. Like his brain has been completely rewired and he doesn’t know how to fix the mess in his head.

The thing is, it’s easy to tell who was dusted and who wasn’t. The people who weren’t have this terribly haunted look about them. They all try their best not to show it, but it’s in their faces. The eleven months in which half the planet was gone show in the vacant looks, in the glazed eyes, in the clingy protectiveness the ones who stayed have for the ones who didn’t.

The ones who dusted don’t remember those eleven months. They remember dying, yes, but for most of them, it was over quick. For most of them, the whole thing was over quick.

Most of them have issues, yes, but minor ones. A place they don’t like being in, a phrase they don’t like hearing.

Because for most of them, the Snap is just this thing that happened once. This thing that caused them panic for a few moments and then, a split second later, stopped affecting them. Most of them disappeared and then reappeared in the space of what, to them, was maybe five seconds.

Most of them don’t have nightmares about it. Most of them don’t have panic attacks over it. Most of them don’t spend every waking moment of every day feeling it.

Peter is the exception, not the rule.

Peter has always been the exception.

Peter goes back to being Spider-Man before he goes back to school. Midtown High doesn’t start back up for another two weeks when he decides he’s tired of not doing anything substantial.

He’ll come to wonder, later, if maybe he just wanted to know if even Spider-Man would make him lose his grip on reality, despite Spider-Man having been the one thing that used to ground him the most.

Even if that’s the case, it doesn’t matter.

Fifty-one days and two hours after the Snap is reversed, Peter puts on the suit - the old one, of course, because the other one turned to dust and he’s glad of that because he’d never be able to look at it again - and feels better than he has in weeks.

He doesn’t tell May before he leaves. He knows he should, knows that she worries even more than before now, but he needs to do this without other people’s hopes hanging over his head.

This is about him and only him.

Technically, he died as Spider-Man. But in that moment (I don’t wanna go please I don’t wanna go), he’d never felt more like a kid.

Apparently, the death and resurrection of half of the planet didn’t do much for people’s morals, seeing as there’s still plenty of crime to fight. Peter sticks to small-scale issues for his first day back - muggings and street fights and cats in trees. Tosses witty one-liners around just like he used to and feels truly alive for the first time since he came back.

For the next two weeks, he spends as much time as possible being Spider-Man.

Maybe it’s because he needs to feel like he’s helping someone, even if he doesn’t know how the hell to help himself.

Maybe it’s because he’s chasing the high he’d felt for the first sixteen days post-Snap and the closest he can get is saving a girl from a man who’s threatening her behind a bar.

Maybe it’s just because, whether he died as Spider-Man or not, he still feels less vulnerable as Spider-Man. Maybe it’s because Peter Parker is not a superhero, but Spider-Man is, and the superheroes always come out on top somehow.

Most likely, it’s because he’s scared and he always feels less afraid with the suit on.

They’re all worried about him.

May, Ned, Tony. They’re no better at hiding how worried they are about him than he is at hiding how not okay he is. Even the pain in their own eyes isn’t enough to mask their concern.

They don’t push. Probably don’t know how to. But their anxiety hovers around Peter and mixes in with his own until it feels like they’re all sharing one big mutual supply of frayed nerves and hitching breaths.

He doesn’t get it. Doesn’t get why they’re so concerned about him when they’re the ones who actually had to live through those eleven months. All he did was die.

Which is not something he thought he’d ever be able to say.

Even so, it’s not that big of a deal. It was thirty seconds to May and Ned and Tony’s eleven months. Thirty seconds of the worst, most bone-chilling fear he’s ever felt and probably will ever feel in his life, but thirty seconds nonetheless.

It’s so fucking stupid that he can barely get through a day without having a panic attack over something or other when it was just thirty seconds. It’s so fucking stupid that he can’t sleep through a whole night when it was just thirty seconds. It’s so fucking stupid that he still wonders, sometimes, if all of this is even real when it was just thirty seconds.

He can’t let thirty seconds define him for the rest of his goddamn life.

He’ll be fine. It might take a while, but…he’ll be fine.

He has to be fine. He has to be strong for the people he left behind, for the people who really went through hell.

As all things do, Peter’s issues come to a head eventually.

Sixty-five days after the Snap is reversed, Peter goes back to school. It takes hours of convincing to get May and Tony to let him go back when the rest of his class does - they’re doing this weird type of co-parenting thing now, and trying to convince them of anything is like trying to convince a baby to stop crying - but ultimately they let him go.

It’s not their fault that Peter handles it worse than he’s ever handled anything else in all his sixteen and a half years.

Every slam of a locker makes him jump. Every whisper has him constantly looking over his shoulder. Every unexpected touch causes his spider-sense to buzz incessantly at him (danger danger danger).

By the time the sixth period bell rings, he’s shaking so badly that he knocks his notebook and pencils off his desk when he stands. And then he just...stares at them.

He should pick it all up. He should. That’s what he’s supposed to do right now. Knock something down, pick it up. That’s the natural progression.

Except he can’t figure out how to make his hands move. Can’t convince his knees to actually bend so he can reach the floor. Can’t function properly for long enough to even pick up a fucking notebook.

Someone does it for him, offers him a sympathetic smile even as they actually have to turn him around, unzip his backpack, and put his stuff in, since he doesn’t exactly offer a hand to take any of it. They pat him on the shoulder when they turn and go, leaving Peter alone in an empty classroom.

Alone. Alone.

(he doesn’t want to die alone. he doesn’t want to die at all, but at least he can stumble to Tony and have someone hold him as he goes. he doesn’t want to die. he’s not alone, but he’s still dying.

I don’t wanna go please I don’t wanna go.)

Peter walks on autopilot to the nurse’s office and tells the nurse to call both of his emergency contacts.

May and Tony arrive at the same time. They hang out now, apparently - Peter supposes eleven months of dealing with the loss of the kid you both view as yours, one way or another, will do that.

They sit next to him on the cot the nurse had directed him to. He hasn’t moved since he was left alone again, but now he pulls his feet up onto the cot and rests his forehead on his knees.

“I need help,” he says into his knees. “I - guys, I really need help.”

"Guys, guys, hey." Tony looks between Sam and Nat, because he knows that they trust him as an Avenger but that doesn't mean they trust him with Steve. He's just glad Barnes is out on mission right now so he doesn't have to deal with his overprotectiveness too. "I can handle this one - been there, done that, got the t-shirt, y'know?"

Nat nods pensively. Sam just squints at him.

Tony rolls his eyes and tries his best not to look too gleeful (Captain Perfect has a flaw! A flaw! And not only that, it's a mutual flaw!) as he moves to Steve's chair.

It's entirely possible that the method he knows won't actually work. The two of them manage to be incompatible on pretty much everything else, so it's entirely possible that what works for Tony won't bring Steve any closer to Earth. But nobody else has stepped up to the plate yet, and Tony's default philosophy is, in fact, what would Rhodey do?

Rhodey's the one who usually talks people (Tony, sometimes Barnes, occasionally Bruce) down from these sorts of things, but he's busy being an Air Force Colonel so it's Tony's turn now.

Tony kneels down next to Steve's chair. "Alright, Stevie. How d'you feel about joining us back in good old reality?"

Steve's gaze stays locked on a random spot on the wall. He's tense, practically rigid, and Tony wonders if it's this disturbing when he dissociates.

No touching until given permission. No loud noises. No panicking. No added stress.

"Everyone, get out," Tony says, careful to keep his voice low. There's a noise of protest and he shoots a glare at Sam. "The more people are around, the more stressful it'll be for him. I've got this, alright? Go away. Quietly."

A long moment passes in which no one moves. Some of them are clearly reluctant to leave him alone with Steve, while others just keep looking between him and Sam like they're watching a tennis match.

Natasha puts a hand on Sam's shoulder. An entire conversation seems to pass between them in the space of five seconds, despite not a word being spoken; after, Sam gives a begrudging nod, throws one more look to Tony that says fuck this up and we're going to have a problem, and walks out with Nat at his side. Everyone else shuffles out after them.

He's sure they'll all be standing right outside the door, but he'll take it.

"FRIDAY, dim the lights by 40%." Not enough to plunge them into darkness, but enough to ensure it’s not accosting Steve's senses. "Okay. Alright. Steve, buddy, you're dissociating. I know you're not really processing anything right now, but we're gonna fix that, yeah?"

In most cases, Tony is way too out of it to catch the specifics of what Rhodey says until he's already come halfway back down, but he knows the gist.

Narrate everything. Tell them who they are, where they are, what's going on, and anything else you can think of. Give them simple statements, basic facts to latch onto. Assure them that they're safe and that you want them to come back.

Once they've regained partial awareness, walk them through a coping exercise. Engage their senses, engage their brains. Make them interact with not only you, but also their surroundings. Repeat as many times as necessary for them to find their way back to reality.

"Your name is Steve Rogers," Tony starts, entirely more gentle than he thinks he's ever spoken to Steve. The next logical step is his age -  a quick calculation tells him that Steve, at this point, is exactly 102 years old, if they're including the time he spent in the ice, and...Jesus fucking Christ, that doesn't exactly seem like the thing to bring up. Instead, he says, "It's Tuesday, October 6th, 2020. You're Captain America. You're an Avenger."

He could be imagining it, but Steve's eyes do seem to deglaze, just a little.

Steve's story is a fucking minefield, though. Especially when he's not even sure what triggered this episode, if anything, so he doesn't know what pieces of information would end up making it worse instead of better. And if he makes it worse, Sam will come for his kneecaps.

"You're at the Avengers tower, in the conference room. You're sitting in a chair. I'm - Tony Stark is talking to you." Steve's fingers curl on top of the table. Progress. "I'm gonna keep talking to you until you can understand what's going on. You're safe. It's just the two of us in here. I'm not going to hurt you; I won't even touch you unless you say it's okay. I need you to come back to me, though, if you don't terribly mind."

Would cracking jokes make things more real for Steve or would that be in bad taste?

Bad taste, he decides. "We miss you back in reality, man. We were trying to come up with a plan for our next mission and we could really use your input. I know it's a lot, but you'll be alright. I'll be right here, Steve. You're okay."

Steve blinks quickly, the haze that had settled over his face clearing just enough to confirm that Steve is, in fact, still in there. Tony watches him glance around, gradually beginning to recognize his surroundings.

Eventually, his head turns to Tony, eyes darting over his face. His brow furrows as if he's not quite sure who he's looking at. Voice strangely hoarse, he says, "Tony?"

Tony gives him a bright smile. "Yep, you got it. How ya feeling?"

"I...huh?"

"Yeah, alright." Never in his life did Tony think he'd see Captain Eloquence so incoherent. "I'm gonna need you to do something for me, Cap. I need you to look around and give me five things you can see, okay? Can you do that for me?”

Steve is practically swaying in his chair, but he does as told. “Uh...the - the table. You. The chairs.”

He talks slowly, like the words are being dragged out of him. There’s pauses between phrases, between words, almost between syllables. It’s hard to watch, especially as someone who’s had to do this exact exercise God knows how many times.

Jesus. Tony’s been putting Captain America on a pedestal for so long that he forgot there’s a man underneath the ridiculous costume. Underneath the star-spangled facade.

He can’t forget anymore, because this - this right here is so irrevocably, irrefutably human.

"The glass," Steve continues, making a vague, half-assed gesture toward the glass of water in front of him. "The water...thing."

In any other context, Tony would snort at that. As is, the new official Avengers term for a water pitcher is water thing. Patent pending.

"Good, that's great, Steve." His knee is starting to hurt from kneeling. He ignores it. "Now, four things you can touch, yeah?"

"The table," Steve says again, after a moment. His left hand pats around while his right comes to rest on his thigh. "My, uh, my jeans."

The hand that's roaming around finds the front of Tony's AC/DC t-shirt and clutches tightly. Tony stiffens - he always does when anyone who isn't Rhodey, Pepper, or Peter touches him without warning - but he lets Steve have this. “Your shirt.”

Steve releases his shirt and then immediately drops his hand right on top of Tony’s head. It takes everything he has not to flinch, breath hitching and both hands curling automatically into fists. He thinks Steve speaks, giving the last thing on his list as your hair, but he’s a little preoccupied.

The hand leaves his hair, but the instinctual fear lingers.

Fuck. Fuck, he can’t do this right now. He can’t panic right now. Steve needs him to be here, fully here, and to be calm and collected and not having a fucking anxiety attack because someone touched him.

His fingernails dig into his palms as he inhales (one, two, three, four), holds (one, two, three, four, five, six, seven), and exhales (one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight). Repeats. Then repeats again. All the while, he can hear Rhodey’s voice in his head, coaching him through it.

He’s okay. Nobody’s trying to hurt him. He’s safe.

“Three things you can hear,” he tells Steve, once his breathing has evened out. He’s gotten good at this, the whole fending off a panic attack thing. “You’re doing really well, Steve, just a couple more, alright? Three things, go.”

Steve’s fingers tap, absently, against his knee. “Your voice. It’s...annoying.”

Tony barks a surprised laugh. Steve’s tone is still bordering on blank, but a hint of a smile crosses his face, making it clear that he’s just teasing, even when he’s barely coherent.

“My breathing,” Steve says. “And, uh - there’s a...bird. Outside.”

So there is. We’re getting there, Tony thinks. He’s not sure if he’s surprised that this is working or not.

“Fantastic. Now, two things you can smell.”

Steve’s breathing is starting to quicken. Typical, really, that they’d both end up on the edge of a panic attack within two minutes of each other. Dissociation and anxiety attacks really do go hand-in-hand, he supposes. He makes no move to touch Steve, still, just places his hand on the table, palm up, and leaves it there.

As hoped, Steve slips his fingers into Tony’s and squeezes and holy fucking shit, that hurts, does Steve not realize that he needs that hand? Tony can’t stop himself from wincing this time, but Steve doesn’t seem to notice anyway, blissfully unaware that he’s cutting off Tony’s circulation.

Which is fine. Totally fine. Tony’s had worse, after all. And it appears to be helping Steve, so there’s that.

But God, Steve is strong.

(It’d be kind of hot if it was...literally anyone else. Steve is attractive, conventionally speaking, but it’s still a hard pass.) “I can smell coffee.”

Full sentences now, huh? Sure, it was only four words, but at least those four words didn’t have choppy pauses between them.

“Last but not least, Cap - one thing you can taste.”

The answer comes in short order this time, weirdly enough - this part is always the one that takes Tony the longest. “Mint.”

Makes sense. Steve drinks mint tea constantly. At meals, at meetings, at random intervals throughout the day. Tony’s gotten so used to the smell of mint in the compound kitchen that he doesn’t even notice it anymore; he’d thought it was annoying until he realized that Steve uses mint tea the same way Tony uses stress balls.

Steve’s grip on Tony’s hand loosens, ever so slightly. He looks...clearer. Sharper. Solid.

He looks, finally, like Steve Rogers.

Tony taps his thumb against Steve’s knuckle and asks, “You with me?”

“Yeah, I’m with you.” He runs his free hand through his hair, then wraps his arm around his torso. “Uh - thanks, Tony. Did I…hold up the meeting?” “Yes.” He sees no point in lying. “But it’s no big deal. We can figure out how to save the world later.”

Steve hums vaguely, but otherwise doesn’t respond.

Tony’s knee is still aching. He lets go of Steve, trying his best to be discreet as he shakes out his hand, then stands and moves to hop up onto the table. Kicks his feet against the carpet and says, “You wanna tell me what happened?”

“No,” Steve says bluntly.

Damn, okay. Not what he was expecting, but...also not surprising when he thinks about it. This is Steve he’s talking to, after all.

On the list of who’s most to least likely to talk about their problems, Steve is pretty low. Below Peter, but above Natasha, Tony thinks.

In all honesty, it’s hard to get anything out of anyone on the team. Whether it’s trust issues or secret agency or just an unwillingness to ask for help, most members of the Avengers have a shit-ton of unresolved issues. Including himself, but at least he’s working on it.

Steve, on the other hand, seems to have no interest in dealing with his shit.

It’s not Tony’s problem. Not on a personal level, at least. He’s not Steve’s therapist. All things considered, he’s barely even Steve’s friend.

But Tony knows firsthand how bad things can get when nobody’s forcing you to talk about your problems (the memories of his birthday party are blurry, but he distinctly recalls shooting watermelons out of the air with his repulsor), so with his infamous birthday party in mind, Tony says, "That's cool. If you don't wanna talk, then fine."

Steve narrows his eyes. "There's a 'but' coming, isn't there?"

"But. In my experience, not talking never works. I've tried it. It sucks. I get it if you don't want to talk to me, but you should talk to someone, if you aren't already. Sam or Nat, maybe. Or a therapist."

"I don't need a shrink, Tony."

Tony holds up his hands, placatingly. “It’s your choice. Just - it’s not the 1940s anymore, Steve. Going to therapy doesn’t make you weak. If you need help, it’s okay to ask for it.” It took a long time for him to realize this. He’s been in therapy off-and-on for seven years now, and he probably should’ve started years before that. But he knew that, with how public his life is, as soon as he stepped foot into the office, everyone and their mother would know that Tony Edward Stark was seeing a therapist.

Eventually, though, the need outweighed his worry about his image.

He half expects Steve to brush him off. After all, Tony brushed off Pepper, Rhodey, and Happy’s first few vague mentions of therapy. And then their next few pointed mentions of it. It wasn’t until the anxiety attacks started that he even considered it, and then it was still months after that before he actually went to his first session.

Steve doesn’t brush him off. Not really, anyway. Slowly, he asks, “Does it work for you? Has it helped?”

“Yes.” Tony leans forward, elbows on his knees. “I go once a week, my therapist is brilliant. She could probably recommend someone for you, if you want.”

“Right…” Steve’s mouth presses into a thin line. “I - look, Tony, I’m not really a therapy kind of guy. I’m glad that it works for you, but I don’t think the whole ‘talking about it’ thing is for me.”

Ah. So he is being brushed off.

Still not surprising. Though when you’ve seen aliens come out of a portal in the sky, accidentally created a robot intent on destroying the human race, and watched your pseudo-son crumble to dust in your arms, nothing is really surprising anymore.

“What set this off?” Tony asks.

“Huh?”

“The dissociation, I mean.”

Steve gives him a blank look. Jesus fucking Christ.

“The - this - the thing that literally just happened. When you were physically here but your brain checked out? That’s called dissociation. And judging by how unconcerned you are about it, I’d say it’s not the first time it’s happened.”

“Oh, that,” Steve says, like the self-satisfied bastard he is. “It’s just zoning out, it’s not a big deal.”

Is he fucking serious? He can’t be fucking serious.

“You can’t be fucking serious,” Tony says.

Steve just tilts his head and blinks up at him. Tony can't tell if the nonchalance is an act or if he's actually being serious. "Why...not? It's really not a big deal, it happens all the time."

He's going to have an aneurysm. That's it, he's calling it. This isn't real.

He knows Steve. He knows this goddamn nerd has done his research. He knows that Steve knows exactly what he's talking about.

Steve has to know this isn't normal. He has to.

"You do know," Tony says, "that that statement is not helping your case, right? It's not just zoning out, and it's sure as hell shouldn't happen 'all the time'. I should know, it's one of the many things I'm working on in therapy."

"The fact that it's a problem for you doesn't mean it's a problem for me." Steve sighs, running a hand through his hair. Tony is so close to choking him. "It's just stress. Being the leader of the Avengers is stressful."

Just because he can, Tony says, "Mm, I wouldn't say you're the leader, per se."

Steve snorts and rolls his eyes. "That's not even the point, Tony."

He's aware. The point is that Steve is totally, completely, 100% fine and does not need help of any kind. Which is the biggest load of bullshit Tony's ever heard. He wonders if Steve has said this to anyone else and actually had them believe it. There’s no way in hell Sam “I run a PTSD support” Wilson would’ve bought it.

Dissociating as a reaction to stress is neither normal nor healthy. It's exactly the kind of thing that people are supposed to get help for.

Clearly, Steve doesn't want to hear it. At least not from Tony.

Fine. But Tony will definitely be keeping a closer eye on him - he's seen too many people spiral into nervous breakdowns (including himself, more than once) to ignore Steve's blatant mental instability, even if Steve himself is content to ignore it.

Hm. Maybe he should talk to Sam. Compare notes.

"Tony." Steve flicks Tony's knee. Tony's left eye twitches. "Don't worry about me. I'm alright. And if I ever think I'm not, I'll ask for help, okay?"

No, you won't, Tony thinks. Because he's Steve Rogers and, in Tony's experience, Steve Rogers is never one to ask for help.

"Okay," Tony agrees. "I'm here if you ever need to talk."

And he leaves it at that, because he knows that pushing further won't do anything. Because he'll be here when Steve finally reaches his breaking point.

Maybe (hopefully), Steve will see himself spiraling before he actually crashes. But the likelihood of this, apparently, is pretty slim.

So when Steve inevitably falls apart, Tony will be there, right alongside the rest of the team, to pick up the pieces.

"You can call the others back in now. And, uh - thanks, Tony. Really."

Tony says, "No problem," and gets up to go find the team.

All the while, he's thinking, Don't thank me yet.