tom holland + peter parker

seventeen times T.H.

request: could you do something where the reader struggles with depression and it gets worse during lock down and tom tries his best to help her? lock down definitely hasn't helped with mine and i find it really hard to find motivation for things

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Seventeen times. You'd been through this seventeen times today and it was barely two o'clock. When the government had called for an immediate lockdown again, you knew you should've been mentally prepared for something like that to happen, you knew you were walking on eggshells. But alas, you weren't ready.

Your therapist knows it's difficult, and while the two of you are trying to work towards your goals, it's still harder than it should be.

Especially now that you're stuck at home with four boys. Harrison was planning to move out, but with the pandemic postponing his plans, he'd had no choice but to rain check his original ideas.

You're alright, though. You have Tom, and for the first few weeks, that was good enough. Not that he isn't ever enough, but sometimes you feel like you're too much.

Apparently that's not normal, and you're supposed to tell someone when things get bad, but you feel awkward enough when Tom drops you off for your weekly therapy session, so you don't mention anything.

Not that you usually do. You usually have your own back; usually, you can handle yourself, you can take care of anything and everything before it gets too bad. But now — now you've dug yourself into a hole, one of depression and melancholy and self heartbreak.

It's merciless, but you don't bother mentioning it — it's not your place.

But maybe it is, or at least, maybe it should be. But you don't want to bother checking for the answer to that question, either, so you don't. You try not to think about it, or mention it or speak of it.

Seventeen times today, you've attempted to put into words how you're feeling, but nothing seems to be working except for the constant thoughts that roll into one ear, through your brain, and out the other ear. 

When you're carelessly texting your therapist, you don't really bother checking on who's around you — and if they're watching you.

You're texting paragraphs upon paragraphs about yourself, and though it makes you feel awful, you know she doesn't mind — it's her job, after all.

"Love?" Tom sits across from you at the round table, sipping on his freshly made tea. "Who 're texting?"

His question is innocent and purely generated from curiosity, but it makes you paranoid enough to shut off your phone. You're not fast enough, though, because he still manages to sneak a peek at your messages. And though he knows it's wrong, he wants to question you on it — he wants to make sure you're alright.

"Nobody." You sip some water, taking a small nibble out of your bacon.

"Y'alright?" He's speaking behind his mug, right hand firmly grasping the ceramic handle of his favorite red cup.

You hum, nodding silently in response. He's not one to pester you about your life outside of him, so he drops the conversation, eating breakfast in comfortable silence.

It's been exactly four hours since then. You're alone in bed while Tom is working out downstairs somewhere It's been a good forty minutes, and while normally you preoccupy yourself until Tom comes back, this time you're reaching a breaking point.

You're numb, a lot of times, but on the off chance that you do react this way, it's downhill and speedy. You skipped therapy this week — you convinced Tom you didn't need it this week. But the harsh reality was that you were too drained to get up for a shower, too drained to even think about showering, too lazy to think about taking care of your physical health when you were too caught up in taking care of your mental health.

As you let another tear slip, you don't take into account that somebody opening the door would let light in, seeing as you haven't managed to get up and open the curtains. As Tom mindlessly comes into the bedroom, your groans alert him that something is obviously wrong.

"Hey, hey," He coos, kneeling beside the bed where you lay, a hand over your eyes from the brightness of the hallway. "What's happening, love?"

You grumble something incoherent, and suddenly he's sliding into bed beside you, wary of crossing any borders and the fact that he probably smells heavily of sweat. With some coaxing, he manages to sit you upright against the headboard

"Can you talk to me?" He's whispering hesitantly, eyebrows furrowed and fingers fiddling in his lap. "I'm... worried, to say the least."

You hum, eyes not looking up. "I'm... having a hard time." You admit quietly, attempting to underreact so he won't overreact.

"I knew it was weird when you cancelled therapy last Tuesday."

You make eye contact with him and he knows it's more than your weekly sessions. "What's... are-" he's not sure how to form his next questions, confused on where he's allowed to go and how far. "Do you just wanna... take a bath with me?"
Suddenly, you're hyper aware of the fact that his curls are matted against his forehead with sweat, and that he stinks of a little boy who's been running around.

"Yeah," A small, grateful smile forms on your face, and Tom mirrors it, standing first and leading you to the bathroom.

As he sets everything up, he's last to get undressed and join you in the ceramic tub. He's dimmed the lights — thankfully — and now he's rubbing your shoulders, kissing your neck. You're humming into the quiet air of the bathroom, thankful that you're stuck with Tom, of all people in the world.