#also lmk if yall see any glaring errors lol im tired and my proofreading skills want me to sleep

[lazyfox411]

Spiderman: Afraid of Water (ft. Irondad)

im back from the dead yall with a fic i promised @spiderling-the-meme​ a long time ago and never ended up finishing until now. 

Length: 1904 words (a short boi)

Prompt: i honestly dont even remember what the actual prompt was my dude i just know you asked for peter being afraid of water after his experience of being dumped in a lake by the vulture and tony accidentally triggering that fear while theyre on vacation with irondad and spiderson feels so….thats basically what this is lol

Peter used to enjoy long showers. A relaxing flow of warm water, clouds of steam, and the fresh scent of soaps and shampoos. It was all enjoyable. Key word being was.

               Now, stepping under that warm stream meant reliving. This water was warm, but not all water was warm. This water didn’t surround him like a dark wall of nothingness, but some water had. He could still breath under the shower water, didn’t sink into what seemed like an endless abyss, but that wasn’t true for all water.

               Being in the water meant reliving. Reliving the night he’d been dumped in a lake and left to die, the glow of the Vulture’s eyes still refracting through the ripples. He hadn’t given it a second thought at first, but then he’d notice hid heart rate going up, the hairs on his arms raising, his breath getting short. He’d pinned it on the spidey-senses, some sort of danger near by, only he couldn’t seem to find anything wrong. It only dawned on him when he looked at all the places it reoccurred: the beach, the rain, the shower. He was afraid of the water.

               So now, Peter took shorter showers. Just to get clean, not to relax. When Aunt May offered to take him to the beach, or the pool, he politely passed. He didn’t go out in the rain unless he had to, and never without an umbrella. And no one questioned it.

               Today there were no clouds looming over the city, so Peter decide he would be safe without an umbrella. If anything, it would be snowing today; with winter temperatures blowing in earlier than usual.

               Peter stared out the window whenever he could at school that day, not to watch the weather, but rather to avoid watching the whiteboard at the front of the class. School seemed so boring now that he was Spiderman, but he had promised Aunt May and Mr. Stark that grades would come first. He might have had his fingers crossed when the subject of precalculus came up.

               “Mr. Parker,” droned the precal teacher, Mrs. Traff, a middle-aged woman with wrinkled hands and massive red glasses, “since you’re not paying attention, I can only assume you already know the material?” Her voice didn’t waver, but her sharp eyes pierced through him.

               “Absolutely,” Peter lied, hoping his voice didn’t squeak.

               “Then perhaps you’d like to provide an answer for question number two?”

               Peter nodded, slowly, as if buying time would help him in the slightest. He saw Ned waving at him from the corner of his eye, mouthing something that looked like ‘five’.

               “Five,” he answered.

               A collective wave of muffled laughter passed over the other students. Peter’s face heated.

               “Five?” Mrs. Traff repeated incredulously. “Mr. Parker, you are telling me that you believe there are currently five states in our country?”

               No one bothered to hide their laughs this time. Where just a moment ago he was beet red, Peter knew now he looked like a sheet. He looked around the room, only really seeing it now. “This…this isn’t precalculus,” he said stupidly. He was in a history room. Mrs. Traff was his history teacher. Ned was trying to say ‘fifty’.

               Fridays usually carried good vibes, but the day did not get any better after that. Between taunts of ‘Penis Parker’, Ned accidentally blurting that Peter still had a nightlight in his room (really though, Peter had to wonder, what was so wrong with that?), and a freezing cold walk home, Peter was downright miserable upon returning home.

               “What’s the matter, Spider-man?” May ruffled his hair.

               Peter liked when she called him that. When it came from May, it wasn’t a superhero name. It was just a nickname, like squirt or sport, holding only love and affection, and not the weight of the fate of the city. May was supporting him. After laying some ground rules—a lot of ground rules—and a lot of yelling at Mr. Stark, May was supporting him as Spider-man.

               “I’m okay, Aunt May,” Peter said.

               May tsked and smoothed his hair back down. “I know what’ll cheer you up.”

               Peter raised an eyebrow.

               “Tony Stark called today, asking for you.”

               “Me?” Peter asked, like she would be referring to anyone else. “Like, me, as in Peter Parker? Personally?”

               “Yup,” May said, popping the ‘p’.

               “What did he want?”

               “He asked if you’d like to accompany him to an expo this weekend. In Miami.”

               Peter’s eyes widened to saucers. From what he’d seen in the media, Mr. Stark’s expos were nothing short of amazing. A whole variety of guests, from college students sporting backpacks and sweaters to millionaires in extravagant suits sipping fancy drinks, a big inspirational speech from Mr. Stark, and all the newest ground-breaking technology that SI was funding.

               “I can go?” Peter asked.

               May pretended to think about it. “I suppose. If you promise to be good. No taking on supervillains. Or staying up past bedtime.”

               Peter was already bounding to his room to start packing. “I’ll be good, Aunt May, promise! I’ll be so good! The best!”

               May chuckled. “You already are, Spider-man.”

A sleek black car pulled up outside Peter’s apartment early the next morning. He couldn’t see through the tinted windows, but there was no doubt in his mind that this was one of Mr. Stark’s cars.

               A quick goodbye to May later, Peter was getting in the car. Part of him had been expecting Happy to jump out and open the door for him, but the window rolled down and over the purr of the engine and blaring AC/DC came Mr. Stark’s voice from the driver’s seat, “Come on, kid, we can’t afford to be late.”

               “Happy isn’t taking us?” Peter asked. He’d never admit it, and he knew Happy wouldn’t either, but he was pretty sure they were actually getting along really well.

               Tony smiled, a different kind of smile, like he wasn’t quite sure of himself. “I figured we could go it just the two of us,” he said. “If that’s okay.”

               “Yeah,” Peter grinned. “That’s cool.”

               It was really cool. Mr. Stark had sort of become like a father to Peter. A rich, famous, awkward, bad-at-feelings, superhero father, but a father nonetheless. And if Tony wanted to spend time with Peter? Maybe Peter had become like a son.

               The thought made him glow.

               They talked about Peter’s school, and Miami, and how great it would be to escape the ever-dropping temperatures, and listened to music too loud and bought ice cream and got a parking ticket (“I’m so sorry Mr. Stark I’ll pay for it I swear!” “Kid. Seriously?”), and while it wasn’t a regular road trip, Peter didn’t think he’d ever had a better one.

               Tony handed the car over to the hotel valet and their luggage to the bellhop. Peter had never been in a fancy hotel before. He wondered if they were all like this, or if he was just getting special treatment because he was with Tony Stark. Either way, it was pretty cool.

               “Expo isn’t until tomorrow,” Tony explained while Peter gawked at the luxurious sweet they would be staying in, “so tonight’s for doing whatever you want, kiddo. I mean…Pete. Peter.”

               “Cool,” Peter said absentmindedly. He didn’t notice Tony’s little slip; he was too enraptured with exploring the bathroom he was pretty sure was bigger than his entire apartment. “I mean, uh, yeah,” he cleared his throat, “cool.”

               “I think there’s an arcade downstairs,” Tony suggests. “Or we could go find the pool.”

               Peter has remembered to pick his jaw up off the floor now, but is still staring, wide-eyed, at the art pieces that adorn the walls of the hotel room, and not really hearing a thing that’s being said.

               “That sounds good,” Peter says, still distracted.

               He only realizes what he’s agreed to once he’s standing on the small tiles of the pool’s edge, clad in a pair of swim trunks May must have packed in his bag, and being suffocated by the strong scent of chlorine.

               They’re the only people here, and Tony has already dived into the water, and he looks very happy, instead of being terrified and looking for the nearest exit like one other particular person in the room.

               “Come on, Pete!” he calls. “The water is nice!”

               Peter’s throat tightens. “Um, I- uh,” he stammers, trying to think up some sort of excuse, but Mr. Stark is waiting for him, eyes twinkling and water dripping from his dark hair, and Peter doesn’t want to disappoint him so he makes his way forward on shaking legs.

               He crouches by the very edge of the pool, despite the thousand alarms going off in his head, and Tony swims over to him.

               “Come on,” Tony says again, reaching out for Peter’s arm. Peter freezes when water droplets make contact with his bare skin.

               Tony, still smiling, unaware of how close to hyperventilating Peter is, takes a gentle hold of his arm, and tugs. It’s meant to be gentle, an attempt to coax him, and it is, really, except that Peter isn’t very focused right now and it’s enough to send him over the ledge into the water.

               The temperature is uneven, a swirl of cold and warm, separate, but still mixed, and the water is wet and it’s everywhere and it’s heavy, why is does it feel heavy, and why is there no air, why can’t he breathe, he’s thrashing, sinking, why won’t his body swim, the breath leaves him in a stream of bubbles, where’s the air, he can’t breathe—

               A strong pair of hands pulls him back up to the surface.

               “Mr. Stark,” Peter manages between coughing up water and sucking in air, “I’m sorry, I—”

               “It’s okay,” Tony says, and in true Tony Stark fashion starts rambling, “it’s okay, Pete, just breathe. I’m sorry, I’m so, so sorry, I shouldn’t have pulled you into the water like that, I’m so sorry, I didn’t know you couldn’t swim—”

               “No,” Peter interrupts, “it’s not that. It’s not that, it’s…ever since that one time, with the Vulture, he dropped me into that lake, and I thought I was gonna die, Mr. Stark, and I would have if you didn’t come and save me, and ever since then, the water just…scares me.”

               And just like that, Tony is scooping him up like he’s a little kid, and carrying him out of the pool room. He gives Peter a towel to dry off, and looks at him, with his hands on Peter’s shoulders.

               “How come you never told me?” Tony asks.

               Peter can breathe better now that he’s away from the water, and he is silently glad Tony knew what he needed to make him feel better. He’s not glad about the guilty look that paint’s Mr. Stark’s face, Mr. Stark isn’t—Tony isn’t supposed to like that.

               Peter shrugs. “It’s not your fault, Mr. Stark. I guess it just never really came up.”

               “Will you tell me next time? If there’s ever something bothering you, I want to help.”

               A nod.

               “Well,” Tony says, straightening and moving to stand, “that’s certainly enough swimming for tonight. Or forever. What do you say we go back up to the room and watch a movie instead? I think we can probably pay-per-view Star Wars or something.”

               “That sounds great,” Peter grins. He means it this time.