Spider-Son & Iron Dad one shots

Hope

Spooktober.16

a/n: I'm not a therapist ,, enjoy

This is Peter's second therapy session.

It was Tony's idea for him to go; he thought it would be a good idea for Peter to try, and if he ended up not liking it, then he could stop if he wanted to. Peter reluctantly agreed.

The first session was nothing but introductions and goal setting. There wasn't much to be picked apart.

But now, the therapist looks at Peter with carefully narrowed eyes. She hums and then nods. "Well, Peter. I think we're going to try something new. How does that sound?"

The uncomfortable part of Peter, the part in his head currently using sarcasm as a defense mechanism against this lady trying to pick apart his brain, is silently pointing out that everything is new in the first "real" session.

Instead of voicing this particular point, he just nods. "Uh. Yeah, sure. That's—That's fine."

"Would you say you're better at writing out your feelings, or talking?" The nice lady asks patiently.

Peter stares at her. The first thought in his head, honestly, is: "I don't really talk or write about my feelings."

He doesn't stay this. This lady may be nice, but she's still a stranger. He instead says, "I've never tried writing about my feelings."

The lady smiles like she's excited. She reaches for a paper. "Fantastic! We can try something extra new then. Maybe you'll find that you like it."

She hands him the paper and then a pen. "We're going to try an exercise."

Peter picks up the pen and looks up at her. "Okay."

"Think back to a time in your life where you were at the lowest point, and then write what present you would say to give that past self hope."

It's a very loaded question.

Peter looks down at the paper and pen. The idea of writing all his thoughts down suddenly seems very daunting. He looks back up. "Can—Can I just talk?"

"Of course," the therapist says immediately.

He sets down the paper and then fidgets with the pen, turning it back and forth in his hands.

He takes a moment to think about what this time could be. His thoughts are very quickly brought to when Uncle Ben died, when he was fourteen and seemed to be hit with a great deal of responsibility.

"It was probably early last year," Peter spoke up. "My Uncle had passed away. That was also when I got my powers."

The therapist nods, making little jots and notes on a small pad of paper. Peter tries not to think of what she was writing.

"I was just... lost. I didn't want to go save the world, I wanted to play basketball with the kids on my block. I just wanted Ben back." Peter shakes his head. "I guess I was also tired all the time, I wouldn't sleep or eat much. I remember May would leave food on my desk, or money for takeout when she had to work."

"Now, I don't know exactly what I would tell myself. I guess the easiest answer is just..." Peter huffs and furrows his eyebrows in thought. "I don't know."

The therapist hums pleasantly, and continues to write.

"I've helped a lot of people," Peter suggests. "I would tell myself that, too, I guess. People got to go home to their families when Ben couldn't, because I tried to make the city safer."