helloooo here is part 2! please enjoy and leave prompts if there's anything you think I could write well x

Peter woke suddenly, his body sitting itself up, and then came the excruciating nausea as he bolted to the bathroom on very unsteady legs. He just made it to the toilet as a river poured from his mouth; it burned the back of his throat and he retched several times, the sound echoing unpleasantly. After what seemed like forever, he caught a break from the endless vomiting, and placed the toilet lid down to cool his hot sticky forehead on, panting. The floor felt like it was moving under his knees, and he clung to the toilet bowl for dear life; he had never felt like this before, he wouldn't have even wished this feeling on The Vulture, or Flash, or anyone who wasn't cool. He must have eaten something bad last night…

Wait… what was he doing last night that gave him such a sinking feeling?

As the cogs turned in his brain, like a curtain pulling back to reveal the day, the events of the night before hit him, and in turn he retched again, splattering what he now remembered was booze into the toilet bowl.

Peter swallowed thickly, wiping his face with toilet roll, as he tried to come up with what to say to Tony when he inevitably saw him. How had he let his stupid self get into this mess? What on Earth was he thinking that he could control himself to just a few sips of alcohol – people got addicted to this stuff too easily, from all walks of life. Tony would be so incredibly mad; he pictured the steam coming out of his ears as he would inevitably confiscate the suit again, along with the worst lecture he'd ever get. How heartbroken he'd be at Peter's betrayal towards his own Uncle, the disgust that would fill his eyes as he turned away from him forever. He saw the entirety of the Avengers pretending he never existed, saw Happy never coming to collect him from school anymore for after school compound days. Then he'd tell May, and he'd have to watch her disappointment and anger, and swallow it whole.

This day had gone from 0-100 for Peter, and he was sure this would be the worst day of his life. So he decided he should probably start packing his stuff up before being confronted by Tony; it would make it a lot easier on him to get out of his way fast. But before he could start, he needed to calm down enough to stand, as he hadn't realised he'd started furiously sobbing into the u-bend, and he saw his tears hitting the toilet water. After a few heavy exhales, Peter rubbed his eyes until he saw purple, and stood slowly on shaking bambi legs. He gulped the water from the sink and splashed his face and neck, not bothering to look in the mirror; he couldn't stand the sight of himself. He just made it to the bed without losing his footing, and sat down to wait out the vertigo. He noticed the time was 9:15am – not really Tony's time of day – maybe he could escape before he woke up?

Coward

His mind commented, perhaps rightly so; it would be unfair to leave without facing the consequences of his actions, rubbing salt in Tony's wound. As he started feebly collecting his personal belongings together however, it seemed Peter wouldn't get to make that decision, as there was a knock at the door.

Peter's head shot up too fast for his hungover state, and he felt his brain swish around in his skull. He tentatively said "Hello?" as the door gently opened to reveal Tony, looking incredibly tired and anxious. But as soon as he saw Peter standing over his bedside table, he gave a gentle smile. Peter was frozen in time, waiting for the blows to come.

"Hey kid, you're up earlier than I thought you'd be. Fri let me know you were awake. How you doing?"

Peter was confused. Where was the look of disgust and rage on Tony's face? Where was the bitterness and harshness in his voice? Why wasn't he shouting at him, telling him he'd had enough of the sight of him? Telling him how much of a disappointment he was? Peter couldn't form any words; his mouth open like a fish out of water gasping for breath. Tony didn't push, he just waited patiently for Peter to speak up, watching his huge eyes, glistening and fearful.

"I'm sorry." Peter finally blurted out, and bit back the lump in his throat.

"Come sit down, Peter. We can talk –" Tony paused as he looked towards Peter's hands, raising an eyebrow.

"Pete…are you packing?"

Peter looked down at his hands, then back up to Tony. The older man would have giggled at Peter's child-like guilty face, if he hadn't have noticed the tears forming in his eyes, and his hands starting to tremble.

"Peter, please let's just talk, if you're up for it. But don't go anywhere yet…" said Tony, trying hard not to plead, but he held his gaze with worry. Tony saw Peter's lip wobble, and watched as he pursed them, trying unsuccessfully to hold back the heartbroken whimper that followed. Peter looked down, seeing the tears that were about to spill swallowing half of his vision, and he blinked them away, feeling them cascade downwards, and that's when he felt angry.

"Why aren't you mad with me?!" Peter yelled, his head shooting up to look at Tony's, seeing him jump at Peter's sudden loud voice.

Peter never raises his voice…

"I remember last night! I told you that I killed my own fucking Uncle!" Peter was gasping between most of his words, as the sobs overpowered him.

Peter never swears…

"I'm a disgrace, an embarrassment, I shouldn't even be on the team! So why haven't you kicked me out yet? What are you playing at!" Peter's voice cracked, as did he, and he couldn't say anymore through his rage filled crying. Peter put his hands on the back of his head, bending forwards, and Tony could see how much he was shaking with the force of holding his emotions. Peter groaned, sucking in breaths through his teeth, and Tony crossed the room like he'd glided over ice. All he thought was,

Not my Peter.

And he got there just in time, as Peter made a fist at the wall and was ready to bulldoze his whole arm through it, but Tony grabbed it and his other arm, calling his name gently, repeating 'It's ok Pete', Tony cradling Peter as he got him to sit down on the bed. Peter was a little, frightened boy in his arms, as he cried freely into Tony's shirt, nuzzling his face on the soft fabric, and bunching it up in his hands at Tony's back.

All other commitments left Tony's mind – nothing mattered more than this boy right now – he'd never felt the intensity of his love for Peter hit him so strong as it did now, and he wondered when he'd become this character of care and paternity. Feeling Peter's arms wrapped around his torso, clinging on for life, he had no words to describe it, he just knew that he would not let Peter go, not for anything.

The pair stayed there until Peter's crying had become sniffles and his breathing had become steady and deep; Tony not letting up with his gentle stroking of Peter's back. When Tony figured they had come to an opportunity for him to speak, he said gently "You need anything bud? Some water?" remembering how dehydrated he must be from his alcoholic antics. Peter nodded timidly into Tony's chest, clearly torn between needing a drink and having to let Tony go to consume it. He gently untangled himself from the boys arms, quickly filling up a fresh glass of water in the bathroom, and glided back to Peter. He gulped it down like he'd been in the desert for two months, but he saw Peter massage his stomach, willing the liquid to stay put.

"Don't go puking on me Pete" Tony said with a small chuckle, and Peter just shook his head gently, smiling the smallest of smiles. Peter didn't hesitate slotting himself back into Tony's frame, inhaling the scents of oil, hair gel, clean cotton; safety he hadn't felt since he'd last hugged his parents. After a few more beats of comfortable silence, Tony spoke up again with more direction.

"Do you wanna talk about anything? I'm all ears for when you're ready kid."

Peter stiffened slightly, and pulled back to look at Tony, eyes red-rimmed but present. Peter nodded slowly, trying to prepare the words he inevitably had to say, catching them in butterfly nets as they flew around his head.

"I'm really sorry for stealing your alcohol Mr Stark." (Tony, for the 1000th time, reminded Peter to call him Tony) "I'd…had a nightmare and went to get some water, but I never usually sleep after them, and it was 3am, and I saw your alcohol…and I know it makes people sleepy…I'm sorry it sounds so dumb." Peter tipped his head down in shame, voice growing quieter. Anger was the last thing on Tony's mind however.

"You have these nightmares often then?"

A shaky nod from Peter. Tony hummed in sympathy.

"Pete, that's nothing to be ashamed of, I can almost certainly guarantee everyone in the team gets them on the regular. I did every night…not as much now; time heals a lot of things, as does therapy."

After the initial shock that even the Tony Stark had nightmares, Peter couldn't help the warmth of mutual understanding spread through him, and he would have smiled, if he didn't have to explain anything else about yesterday.

"I mean I'm sure you realise this now, but drinking isn't the way we deal with these things Pete – and yes I've done my fair share of drinking away my problems – but you don't need to do that. I learnt the hard way and I don't want you to follow." Tony's voice sounded too wise to be coming out of him, where the hell was this mentor wisdom coming from, not my Dad for sure…

"Are you sure you're not mad?" Peter prodded again.

"Kid, I think I can afford to replace a bit of booze in my cupboard, don't sweat it." Tony smiled, and ruffled Peter's hair playfully. Peter tried to enjoy it, but he knew what was coming next…

"So…you were saying a lot of 'stuff' last night, Peter. Do you…wanna talk about any of that? If you remember." Tony was really struggling to phrase these questions without sounding like he was interrogating the kid. Peter really, really, wished he didn't remember, and could blissfully smile up at his mentor, asking 'what did I say?'. But, it was now or never, because Peter was sure not comfortable with bringing these events from his past up himself. Peter nodded, and unhinged his unwilling jaw to speak.

"It's a long story…and I'm gonna spare the gory details if that's ok, Tony."

A beat of acknowledgment.

"My Uncle Ben, he was…shot, on the street, not long after the bite." Peter swallowed the nauseating feeling that came up every time he had to say out loud that Ben had died.

"It was sort of an accident, an armed robber fleeing the scene, and Ben had tried to stop him. I was…on a sort of patrol at the time, a few blocks away." Peter checked Tony's facial expression, but it was unreadable; the early morning sunlight reflecting through his brown eyes.

"Karen hadn't heard anything on the police radio, I guess it was over so quickly. I was breaking up a fight trying to calm these people down…I passed over him after I'd done…on the street…but there were people crowding round and I couldn't see what it was…" Peter's voice was shaking under the pressure of his words, ringing his hands in his lap.

"I got home and soon there was a knock at the door, the cops…I nearly threw up on one of them when I'd realised what I'd seen, what a fucking dumbass I'd been…" Peter's voice had reached nearly a whisper, "Why didn't I just stop and help for God sake?" he spat, self-hatred and shame coursing through his veins, gritting his teeth; he was too exhausted to breakdown in full force again. He ended the story with the words that were tattooed onto his subconscious:

It's my fault.

Tony was aghast, still; he felt chilled to the bone at what Peter, at such a young age, had had to bear on his shoulders. He embraced Peter this time, clinging onto him for support at the story that had just been passed from one mind to the other. This unnecessary guilt could have been prevented from manifesting into what it was today in his turmoiled brain, and Tony knew Peter had definitely not had any support since the shooting. He'd been failed, and that was the only thing Tony was mad about. The boy who helped everyone, had suffered himself, alone. Tony wanted to march into the NYPD, Peter's school, the fucking Whitehouse, and scream at them. He wanted to pick Peter's guilt off of his shoulders like the millstone it was, and hurl it at the authorities, the people around him, for failing one of the kindest and most gentle teenagers he'd ever met. Where were the grief counsellors? Where was the financial support? Where was the compassion?

Well, fuck everyone else…

If you want anything doing, do it yourself.

.

And that's what Tony did. He did it all himself (and of course with encouragement from wonderful May). He got Peter into regular therapy sessions, he made Peter's room at the compound more homely and suitable for when his senses were playing up and he needed a place to relax, he got the school to control the brat kid Flash and get him off Peter's back (and Ned's too), he made sure Peter never went without. He never did anything without Peter's approval and blessing, and he could tell Peter wasn't used to this whole 'self-preservation' thing; he was too selfless for his own good Tony thought sometimes. But, Peter finally let himself be helped by Tony, and he was very glad he did.

Instead of nightmares every night, there were more nights spent dreaming peacefully about his Avenger family, or nights spent awake with them, or nights with Ned building Lego, or nights of ice cream and hugs with May. Instead of stealing alcohol, there was stealing a few bits of popcorn from Tony's bag, or stealing a grin from MJ as she finally grew to like his corny jokes.

Instead of pain, most of the time, there was gain for Peter.

There was life to be lived.