(Edited)

Warning: Cutting, mentions of suicide, angst, feels, and some fluff at the end.

So this particular story is about how Peter is depressed and is cutting himself and Tony finds out and comforts him. I will put '###' when the cutting part comes up.

Edits: I wanted to make Peter and Tony more in character, especially since Tony when I wrote this wasn't 1. A touchy-feely guy and 2. Didn't have experience with suicidal teens. I wanted to make it a little more clunky and awkward, but maintaining that sense of "Don't you die on me," you know? More detail and suspense added as well.

ANYWAY, ON WITH THE ONE SHOT!

Peter Parker POV

  I can't have anyone worrying. I have to be strong. I'm Spider-Man. I need to be strong when no one else can. If people worry, that only gets in my way, and I have to help people. Can't have Mr. Stark worrying (Not that he would,) can't have May worrying (Burdensome child,) it would waste their time.

    That doesn't make it easy though.

   That doesn't make it easier to bear a fake smile. That doesn't make it easier to pull my sleeves down. That doesn't make it easier to lie, over and over again.

  The funny thing is though, I don't want to die. Not exactly. I just don't want to live, if it makes sense. Existing is anywhere from annoying to unbearable at any moment. But if I leave or I die, more people get hurt, and I don't want that. So I stay, even if I still hurt myself. It would be even worse if I just up and died, there'd be more work for the hero's. So I stay, even if it hurts. Even if the world tells me I'm just a wannabe superhero who won't ever make it big. I stay, despite the way it hurts to swing because my arms are covered in wounds of my own doing.

  I also tried to stop eating. I couldn't stand taking up so much space, for some reason. It bothered me. What right did I have to take up so much space, so many peoples minds? I can't completely do it, but I'm coming close. I shouldn't be eating food that others need, that's selfish too.

  It's all quiet in the tower. I felt the bed I didn't deserve sag a little as I sat up, swinging my legs over the side and sighing. 5 am, I thought. It's time. I asked Friday, "Is Mr. Stark asleep?"

   Friday chimed, "Yes. He is entering stage two of sleep. Though, I would advise to stop your current behavior. Your health is in danger."

   I said, "Friday, mute!" Everything was quiet again. I programmed her to not have the same health and monitoring system for me as the rest of the team, so I didn't have to worry about being caught. Not wasting any time, I went under my bed and grabbed a red, leather box.

###

  I pulled out a razor blade. It was slightly red from other uses, as to be expected with my sleeves being rolled down. Here we go.

   I slid up my sleeve.

   Slice.

   The cut quickly faded, but I continued to cut till it became a scar. I did this several times more with different cuts. I cut farther up my arm, on my shoulders and thighs so I could wear shorter sleeves without suspicion. I looked at my work, my arms, shoulders and legs bleeding profusely. I couldn't describe why I did it, I guess it was just for some sort of release. Some way of letting something out. I just wasn't exactly sure what.

   Then I heard something at the door. A knock.

   "Peter? You still awake?" Mr. Stark's voice called, oblivious to the horrors inside of the room.

   I began to shake, my breathing coming quickly. This wasn't right, he was supposed to be asleep, Friday told me—

   Friday. I didn't take in to account that she would lie. Damn it.

   "Pete, you in there? You aren't saying anything."

   I tried to speak, but a lump in my throat got in my way. I couldn't risk it without worrying him. What can I do what do I do, he can't see this—

   "Peter, seriously, I'm gonna open the door if you don't answer. Friday said you're on the floor in distress."

   Alarm bells rang through my mind. Not good not good, he'll find out and it'll all be over. Just two simple words, I'm fine, you can do it Peter just say I'm fine!

   "Opening the door in 3..."

    It's simple what are you doing?! Just say it!!!

   "2..."

   I just... can't stand the lying anymore.

   "1..."

   The door opened.

   I quickly turned to see Mr. Stark. He stood there for a second, looking at the scene. I could only imagine the way I looked. Half dead, bleeding out on the floor, my shoulders and legs covered in cuts and holding a razor blade to my chest. I could do nothing but wait for it all to click.

   And it did.

   Before I knew it, he had sat down on his knees, holding out my arm and looking at the cuts with horror and an emotion I couldn't quite place. Anger, probably. Superhero's weren't supposed to be broken.

   "Kid..." he breathed out, his eyes wide as he passed a hand over my arm, careful not to touch the cuts.

   I kept my face angled down, aware of how tired I must've looked in the moment. Eventually, Mr. Stark pulled away, his eyes downcast.

   "Can you give me the blade, kid?" He asked, his voice lacking the usual charisma and spunk I'd grown used to. I hesitated, pulling my arm away slightly from my chest to stare at the small blade, stained with my own blood. My eyes narrowed, and I mustered up my courage. I handed him the blade, which he took hesitantly in response. Pocketing it, seeming to not care about the fresh blood that would stain his pocket at the time, he helped me to my feet.

### Over.

   "When's the last time you've eaten, kid." He questioned, the tiredness in his voice matching his eyes.

   "... about three days ago, sir..." I murmured, not wanting to look at him. The lies I had told caught in my throat, limiting my windpipe until I inevitably let out the pain I was feeling. I didn't see his face, but he squeezed my shoulder tighter, causing me to wince.

   "Sorry. Just, uh, let's get you to the couch, okay?" He said, regret and more emotions I couldn't really place filling his tone.

  He brought me to the couch and ordered me to lay down. I did as I was told, wincing slightly as my arms touched the pillows. He then bandaged my arms, carefully so that they wouldn't hurt too much. Then He sat down, looking at me with concern.

   "Are your arms hurting much?" He asked.

   I almost shook my head, but stopped, my head dropping as I sighed. I needed to stop the lying.

   He seemed to understand, sighing himself.

  Eventually he spoke. "Look kid, I'm not good at this kind of thing, ok? But I'm gonna listen, and I'm gonna try. Can you just-... tell me why you're doing this to yourself? Please?" He said, taking me by surprise.

   I pondered his request. I didn't want to dump all of it on him. But the way he asked, he just seemed so worried.

   And I was so tired of lying.

   So I told him. I told him about the anxiety, the weird stasis of not wanting to die but not wanting to live, the worrying, the lying. All of it I told him, and he listened silently taking it all in.

   "...I'm really to emotional for this hero stuff, aren't I?" I said, ready to be told to give back the Spider-Man suit.

   "Kid, if that were true, no hero's would exist. We're all emotional zombies who can't stand to see people get hurt." He said, causing me to smile a bit. He beckoned me to his side, and I moved over on the couch, leaning on his side.

  We sat there for who knows how long, just sitting. Not a word was uttered, no movement came. We just stayed there. This felt so domestic and real to me, and I enjoyed it.

   Maybe having people worry about me wasn't so bad, I pondered sleepily.

   It sure does feel better than lying.

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1450 words! So I hope that this made you have the feels, I worked hard. Anyway, hope you liked it! Bye.

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