Here to Help

We'll work on that

TWs: Nightmares, mentions of past emotional/physical abuse from a parent, and while Peter doesn't have an eating disorder, his behavior/the descriptions may be triggering to some

I paced around the kitchen, thinking about yesterday, as I had been all night. I tried going to sleep but every time I closed my eyes, all I could see was Peter crying and asking his aunt if he was allowed to sleep. Needless to say, the notion drove any exhaustion I might've felt far from my mind. This woman--this monster  neglected and abused him, and all the while he had school and Spider-Man to worry about. This kid has so much weight on his shoulders, and he doesn't even realize it.

"Sir," Friday said suddenly, making me almost drop my coffee.

"Jesus-- Yeah Fri?"

"Peter's heart rate is rising at an unusual pace, I believe he is having a nightmare," she said.

"Oh shit, okay, thanks Fri," I said, setting down my coffee and rushing to Peter's room. I knocked on his door and called, "Underoos? You alright? Friday's a bit worried."

For a second I thought there was no answer. But then I heard muffled moans and crying coming from behind the door, though I couldn't tell what he was saying, or even if he was saying anything at all.

"I'm coming in kid," I said, feeling a bit of panic rising in my throat.

Peter was twisting and shaking, his covers kicked off him and his hair stuck to the sweat on his forehead. He writhed on the bed, moaning and crying as though he were in pain.

"Peter!? Hey, Peter wake up, wake up kid," I said, running over and trying to shake him awake. All he did was whimper and turn over.

"No... stop... please..."

"Pete? C'mon kid, you gotta wake up, it's not real--"

"I didn't mean it, it was an accident, I'm sorry--Help me, help me Dad, help me it hurts!"

"Peter!"

"Dad help! HELP DAD HELP ME--"

He snapped awake with a strangled gasp, clutching and scrabbling at his chest, wheezing as tears poured down his face and mingled with the sweat already there.

"Hey, hey you're alright, you're okay--"

"I can't breathe, I can't breathe--"

"Yes you can, you can, look--" I took his hand and pressed it firmly to his frantically rising and falling chest. "That's you, you're breathing, that's you, do you feel it?"

He went silent for a second before nodding, though his breaths still sounded strained and painful.

"Okay, you gotta calm down kiddo, we're gonna do the same thing we did yesterday okay? Breathe deep, all the way down okay?"

He nodded.

"Focus on your breath," I continued. "Feel the air going past your nose and mouth, down your throat, filling your gut. And then feel it going out, feel your stomach sinking, the air going past your nose and mouth. Just focus on the feeling of breathing."

He never stopped looking at me as he did his best to calm down. He stared at me and clutched my hand like I was the only thing that kept him anchored to earth, while his other hand pressed flat against his chest, reminding himself he was still breathing. It was about ten minutes before his grip on me loosened.

Though he was no longer having a panic attack, he still looked small and helpless, like when I found him in the alleyway. He had himself propped up weakly against the headboard, looking like he would blow away if I breathed too hard. But then I remembered what seemed to cheer him up back when I found him alone and scared.