Bruised But Not Broken - Irondad/spiderson

Cynically Sad

Trigger warning!! This chapter dove deeper into the mental state of Peter, including his eating disorder and depressive thoughts. 

The darkness of the vents makes the metal feel alive.

Like it's breathing.

Like it's inching closer every time I inhale—closing around my ribs, my lungs, my thoughts—until there's barely enough space left for me to exist.

Panicking, I press my legs out onto one side and my back into the wall behind me, trying to brace the vent open with my own body, like I can hold the world apart if I push hard enough. My breath trembles. The air feels thinner. Not because it actually is—because I am. Because my chest won't open properly.

My spider-sense goes feral.

It fires in too many directions at once—danger, eyes, movement, sound—like a dozen radios playing at the same time. I can hear voices below the vent where I climbed in.

"Anyone have eyes on the kid?" Mr Stark's voice snaps through a crackling radio. Firm. Controlled. Too controlled.

"Yeah," a voice answers—too close. "Eyes on."

My vision flickers. The vent light cuts in and out as if the building itself can't decide whether I'm allowed to be seen.

A shadow shifts ahead of me, crouched low in the narrow space.

"Hey, kid." Mr Barton snaps his fingers once, like he's trying to catch a cat before it bolts. "Eyes on me."

My lungs shred the air.

His body being in here with me—another person, another heartbeat—makes it worse. My brain interprets closeness as threat even when it's not. I know Clint isn't going to hurt me. I know that. My body doesn't care.

He sees it immediately.

"Woah—okay. Distance." Clint lifts both hands and backs up a little, palms open. "You're safe. I'm not coming closer. You're in control here, alright?"

The words don't fix it. Nothing fixes it. My hands go numb. My feet tingle like pins under my skin. The walls feel tighter, louder, heavier. Like the building is trying to swallow me.

"You need to breathe," Clint says, calm like he's done this before. "Focus on your breath."

It helps at no avail. My vision fuzzes at the edges. It's like the vent is a tunnel and I'm sliding backward down it.

"Okay," Clint says, switching tactics fast. "Can you do something for me? Five things you can see right now."

I blink. Hard. My eyes dart.

"M-my feet," I manage.

"Good. That's one. Four more."

"You." I choke it out, and Clint nods like I just solved an equation.

"Good. Keep going."

"The vent walls." My voice shakes. "And... cobwebs in the corner."

"Nice. One more."

"My hands." I lift them into view like they're proof I'm still real.

"Okay," Clint says gently. "Four things you can touch."

I swallow air like I'm drowning.

"The metal." I press my fingertips down, feel the cold bite back.

"Good."

"My... skin." I grab my own forearm.

"Two more."

"My shirt." I pinch the fabric like it's a lifeline.