How Far We've Come

Chapter Seven

The next morning, Peter had breakfast with Steve while Tony was down in the workshop.

Everything was going the way Peter wanted it to. He was telling stories from school to keep Steve from noticing he hadn't touched his food. And Steve was smiling and nodding, content to listen.

And then... it happened.

Midsentence, the smell of hot pancakes hit Peter, square in the face, and his stomach throbbed.

One bite won't hurt, Peter reasoned, fingers already shakily picking up his fork. I fasted all day yesterday. That counts for something, right? Plus, eating now will keep my stomach from making weird gurgling noises.

One bite, a small triangle of fluffy, warm, pancake dripping butter and syrup...

It hit his tongue like ambrosia. Sweet, perfect, filling

One bite turned into two bites. Three. Five.

He lost count somewhere around a dozen but he couldn't stop himself.

He was just so hungry.

Peter was pigging out- binging- and it felt like there was no way to stop.

Steve's nod of encouragement and 'here, take more' didn't help. It was easier to eat with Steve watching his every move. Peter could tell himself it was to convince Pops nothing was going on, instead of the truth, which was he was trying to fill the gaping hole sitting below his ribs.

Peter would feel like shit afterwards, he knew that, but he was starving.

Two stacks of pancakes. Three prepackaged donuts. Mounds of sausage. Not to mention puddles of sugary syrup and butter to wash all of it down.

When he finally stopped, the fork coming to rest next to his plate, it felt like he was pulling himself out of a fever dream.

Some sort of alternate reality.

Peter could feel the lump sitting above his belly button. The damn food baby.

"It looks like your appetite came back," Steve said, a grin cropping up. "That's good. I thought you might be coming down with something."

Peter wanted to die on the spot.

His appetite came back.

His appetite had never left. He'd just curbed it, controlled it.

"Yeah, sorry," Peter said. It felt right to explain it away. "I think it was just anxiety or something."

Steve stopped eating and clasped his hands above his plate, elbows resting on the table. Perfectly executed 'worried father' blocking. "What were you anxious about?"

You. Dad. Me. "School. No big deal. It was just a project but it felt like... like a big deal, I guess."

Steve's brows furrowed. "What was the project?"

Crap. "Oh, uh, science stuff. It's kind of hard to explain..."

Steve looked a bit crestfallen at that. "Oh. Like robotics and stuff? Yeah, you and your dad are way ahead of me when it comes to that stuff." Steve's tone wasn't dismissive or mean but ... resigned.

Peter didn't know what he had said wrong. Steve went back to his breakfast and Peter fidgeted, ripping up his napkin so he wouldn't eat anything else. He wasn't even hungry.

Just impulsive.

"You know," Steve started, dropping his fork and rubbing his forehead. "I know I'm not Tony- my brain doesn't work like either of yours, I guess- but you can still tell me about school and that stuff. I may not understand it, but I'm happy to listen to it."