Friday - April 29, 2016

Queens, NY - Jackson Ave.

12:37 AM

Steve Rogers had really pretty eyes.

Peter knew it was probably a strange fact to get hung up on, but his brain couldn't really seem to process anything else. They were a nice deep sapphire blue around the edges, tapering off into a lighter shade near the center, almost an aqua-green with small little flecks of cyan. They reflected the bright purple of the guns in a brilliant sheen of indigo light.

Right. The guns.

The guys currently wielding them, who he was safely assuming were the bad guys, were staring at him with wide eyes that most likely rivaled his own behind the mask. The guns in their hands crackled with purple energy that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. And Steve Rogers...the guy simply stood there, fists clenched and muscles poised as he held Peter's gaze in nothing but plain civilian clothes.

But it was definitely Steve Rogers. That much Peter was sure of.

The man's mouth parted slightly, pinched look spreading onto his face as his eyes squinted together.

"You're..."

Peter began to squint his eyes too. But not out of concentration. No, the lights around them were getting brighter, the purple lights...Oh...

He swiveled his head to the side right as a bright beam of violet energy shot towards him, the blast slamming into the nearby wall and disintegrating the bricks to ash. "Whoa! What the heck-?"

He turned back around just in time to see Captain America slam his elbow into the gut of the shooter, knocking the wind out of him and snatching the gun from his hands.

Peter turned away right as three more blasts whizzed through the air from the encroaching goons.

Quickly clicking his brain into Combat Mode, Peter clenched his fists and felt a surge of adrenaline snaking through his muscles. He crouched down and flipped backwards, the blasts tearing through the ground near his feet. He leapt towards the wall, skittering up it as the shots continued. He could hear the men shouting at each other, most likely about his unplanned appearance.

He continued to scale the wall, leaping away from blasts as they ripped holes in the walls. What the heck are these things? He asked himself as he pushed off the wall and shot into the air, firing a string of webs at the nearest man's feet. He landed on the ground and yanked the webbing back, causing the man to topple to the ground. The gun skidded along the floor right as another wave of thugs charged him. They all weren't holding the same glowing guns though. Some of them had normal baseball bats and handguns.

Weird...

Nevertheless, this wasn't Spider-Man's first rodeo.

He flipped underneath a hot purple blast and twisted around the baseball bat that swung over his head. He flicked his wrist out, catching the tip of the bat and flinging his hand to the side, causing the bat to shoot out of the man's hand and knock into the second guy's head.

His spine tingled and he ducked right as a loud bang reverberated in his ears. He rolled along the ground underneath the bullets and shot his leg out, catching the thug in the back of the knee and sending him shooting to the ground. But not before Peter was slamming his fist to meet him on the way down, knocking him out cold. He twisted his webs around the guy's midsection and kicked him off to the side right as two more of his buddies came at him, bullets flying.

He twisted to the side and latched two more webs to the guns, yanking them right out of their hands. They stumbled forward and he was sliding underneath them, firing another pair of webs at their legs.

They screamed as they were dragged down, only to be flung against the side wall with a loud thud and suspended with a large glob of webbing. Peter was barely able to finish securing them before he was ducking underneath another swing, this time from a long metal pipe.

Peter was tempted to crack a joke, most likely on their preparedness. But he quickly remembered that he wasn't alone. Distantly, he could hear the sound of fists connecting and grunts of pain that alerted him to the fact that Captain America was still there. He hadn't been imaging it. He wanted to just stop and take a step back for a second, wrap his head around what was going on.

But the pipe to the head was making that a bit difficult. He grunted and stumbled backwards, cursing himself for getting distracted as he fired two more webs at the nearby lampposts, slingshotting himself forward where his feet connected with the guy's face.

He toppled to the floor, pipe clattering next to him. Peter hoisted up his arm to web him down before he suddenly felt himself get hoisted up into the air, body frozen and limbs locked in place. His eyes darted around and fell upon another thug, this one wielding another one of those strange guns. But this one was different. It was four-pronged with bright blue and orange sparks crackling at the tips and seemed to be warping the gravity around him.

"Whoa! This feels so weird!" He couldn't help but crack out before the man was swinging his arms back and forth, causing the gun to whip Peter against the stone walls of the alleyway and the metal legs of the elevated subway track. He grunted in pain as he was knocked silly, back aching and shoulder throbbing as he was suddenly reminded of why he had been avoiding Spider-Man for the past week.

His injuries from the Dark Room still hadn't fully healed he realized as he shouted in pain, the jarring hits beginning to make him dizzy. Quickly shooting his arm out, he latched his fingers against the wall as he was slammed against it again, sticking hard enough to keep the gun from yanking him away. Instead, he shot his other arm out, firing a web at a nearby trash bin. He yanked it forward, causing the bin to fly out and slam into the thug, knocking him and the gun to the floor.

Peter quickly fired another pair of webs, one at the gun and the other at the goon, locking them both to the floor. He leapt off the wall and groaned, rotating his shoulder as his body gave a weak ache of protest. He didn't have much time to recover before Pipe Dude was back, swinging wildly in a last-ditch effort to get in a hit.

Peter simply side-stepped him, grabbing his arm on the way by and shoving it forward to slam into the guy's own face, knocking him to the floor with a yelp of pain.

Okay...so this obviously isn't one of Dad's groups. So where the heck did they get the glowy tech? The...gravity gun thingy reminded him of something he'd seen his father's gangs using, but then how did these...amateurs get their hands on it?

He didn't have time to wonder, for another large purple blast was flying over his head. He whipped around towards the source and noticed that the rest of the gang was circling around the Captain.

Rogers slammed his fist into the face of one before ducking underneath the swinging bat of another. He kicked his leg out, knocking his boot into the kneecap of the thug, sending him to the floor. He rammed his elbow into the guy's shoulder and hoisted him up, slamming him into his friend as they both tumbled around in a jumble of limbs.

A third man charged forward, lifting his gun to aim for the Captain only for a line of webbing to latch onto his back and tug him backwards with a yelp of shock. Roger's eyes widened and his muscles slacked slightly as he watched Spider-Man leap off the nearby lamppost and kick the man into the sidewall, head slamming into the bricks before he fell to the floor in an unconscious heap.

Spider-Man landed with a small little thump in front of him, lenses shrinking slightly as he stared back at him. Rogers opened his mouth to speak, only to wince as another blast shot over their heads. Peter turned too, only for another hot purple blast to slam into his chest, knocking him to the floor with a breathless gasp. There was a familiar burning sensation in his chest that definitely confirmed that this was the same tech his father used sometimes, for it left him gritting his teeth as his ears rang.

Strong hands latched onto his shoulders and suddenly he was being dragged along the ground.

("Make sure he never forgets it.")

Defenses up, he shot his hands out and pushed the grip away as the memory screeched around him, eyes meeting Captain America's again and the garbage bin the man had pulled him behind. The thug was still firing the gun, obviously desperate enough to just fire randomly, if only to keep them at bay.

Nevertheless, the small breather was apparently enough of a break for the Captain. "What are you doing here?!"

"Wha-? Uh, I live here. What are you doing here, Mr. Criminal?!" Was this guy serious?

The man opened his mouth again, only to duck down as a particularly strong blast slammed into the wall over their heads, showering them with bits of brick and debris. They both peeked their heads out around the sides of the garbage bin. There were five guys left, including Trigger Fingers, who was now shooting blast after blast at the can. The other guys were rounding up bags that Peter had to assume were filled with cash. Not much of a stretch, the nearest ATM was only a few minutes away, and with this tech at their disposal, it was an easy target.

Peter cursed himself for not going out as Spider-Man earlier. So what if he wasn't at a hundred percent yet? That didn't stop guys like these from going out and causing trouble. Well, he was here now. He cast a small glance over his shoulder at the man crouched beside him.

He'd deal with that later.

"You shouldn't be here," the man said, not bothering to throw him a glance as he kept his eyes trained on the gunman from behind their barricade.

"I shouldn't be here? I'm not the one with a warrant on their head and a penchant for blowing up buildings."

Rogers glanced over towards him at that, and Peter couldn't keep the small satisfactory grin off his face at the look of disbelief smearing onto the guy's own. But he could pick a fight later. Right now, they had some issues to sort out.

"Five left. Shouldn't be a problem," he murmured, quickly focusing back in on the targets ahead.

"Right. I'll take out the two on the left. You go for the guys on the right and we both make the gunman. Got it?"

Peter felt his nose scrunching and an involuntary spark of indignation in his chest. "I'm taking orders from you now?"

"Got a better idea?"

"I - that's not the point."

"Well, explain it to me later. You ready?"

He growled but didn't say anything more as he poised on the edge of the covering, the Captain doing the same. The man held up his hand as another blast ripped the wall behind them before pointing forward.

With a flick of his fingers, Peter leapt out from behind the can and snagged the arm of the thug on the right, yanking his grip away from the bag he'd been going for and dragging him backwards. He twisted him around and slammed his fist into his cheek, ducking underneath the man's own blow and kneeing him in the gut before throwing him over his shoulder.

His buddy began to fire, the bullets meeting the wall behind him as he rolled underneath them. He kicked his leg up, jostling the gun out of the man's grip before he was firing another web, this one connecting with the guy's face. He tugged down, yanking the man to the ground and quickly webbing him to the dirty concrete floor.

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see flashes of purple light and Rogers quickly making his way through the pair of goons. The man tossed one thug over to the wall and the other down into the ground, stepping back to let Peter web them secure before they were turning towards the gunman.

The guy's eyes widened as he realized he was the last man standing before his hand was shooting towards the dial on the side of the gun. Peter felt a sickening feeling of Deja-vu as he held up his hand. "No!"

Before either he or the Captain could race forward, the gun shook and whirred before a bright white light was flickering in the barrel, shooting out in a flash of blinding force that illuminated the entire subway alley in explosive light. Peter felt something shove hard into his side and he was suddenly tumbling along the ground as the blast ripped through the air, firing into the wall and the above fire escape, tearing the structure to shreds and sending it crashing down into a mess of hot metal and stone.

Peter grunted in pain as he felt pieces of brick and metal slam into his back, pressing him down into the ground as it began to cover the area in stone and debris. A ripple of dust exploded out, filling the air with a thick blanket of smog and dirt as everything shook in place, the very ground seeming to vibrate at the force of the blow.

Then silence.

It took a moment, of which all Peter could hear was a dull ringing in his ears and the muted sound of his own breathing. But after a second, he was able to open his eyes and take in a small breath. It was tight with the weight of everything pressing down on his back making it harder to get in a clean breath of air. Or perhaps it was just all the dust around him.

It was cramped as a nauseating sense of claustrophobia began to seep into his skin.

(Jolts of electricity in his muscles, chains scrapping against his wrists, butterflies, butterflies, butterfli-)

Stop. He growled to himself. This was no time to panic. A tempting itch to reach up and pull his mask off made his fingers twitch, but the drumming adrenaline still coursing through his veins told him otherwise.

This isn't over yet, Peter.

He coughed out another breath and pushed down on the floor, grunting in pain as he felt the metal shifting against him, pressing into his sides and poking against his back. He gritted his teeth and positioned his legs for better leverage, muscles straining as he pushed upwards. Finally, the metal gave way and shifted enough for him to push it fully away, gasping for a full breath as he quickly scanned the scene for the thugs, fists clenching and heart pounding.

But there was nobody in the alleyway, nothing but the webbed up criminals and a few abandoned bags of money.

Or...maybe it is...

He took a second to spare one last glance around before letting out a loud groan as he placed a hand to his throbbing head, leaning up against the undamaged parts of the wall. His back ached and he could feel a deep strain in his shoulder from where Curt had bitten him last week, ribs giving a similar protest of pain. Hopefully, he hadn't broken them again.

He could hear the soft crackling of small little flames from where the blast had set fire to the few pieces of garbage littering the scene. Scanning his eyes over the mound of metal and debris, Peter couldn't help but wince at the mess around him. This...wasn't his best work, he had to admit. Well, at least he was alone; nobody to see the carnage.

But as his eyes trailed over the wreckage of the twisted fire escape, his mind jolted as he realized he wasn't supposed to be alone.

"Captain Rogers?" he called, a lilt of panic entering his voice as he whipped his head towards the subway underpass, hoping that maybe the man had avoided the collapsing structure altogether. But hope of seeing the man unscathed quickly extinguished as his mind began to register what the shove he'd felt before the collapse had been.

"Shit."

Without another beat, the teen was leaping towards the mangled mess, hands flying towards the metal pipes and jutting corners. He winced, rearing back and shaking his hands as he felt the sheer heat of the metal even from behind the protective layering of the suit, hesitating for a split second before going back in. He gritted his teeth against the burning in his hands and continued to lift piece after piece of metal and rock away.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, during which his heart had been growing more and more erratic in its beating, he pushed a large section of metal railing away to expose a limp hand. Narrowing his eyes, he continued to dig around the limb until he'd uncovered enough of the Captain's body to pull him away from the burning wreckage.

Grunting at the effort it took to fully pry the man away from the tangled metal, they both collapsed to the floor in a heap of limbs, Peter gasping for breath as his muscles shrieked. But now wasn't the time to take a breather.

Quickly flipping onto his hands and knees, he crawled over towards the limp body of the Captain, taking painful note of each bleeding scrape and every patch of red, burned skin. The man's eyes were closed and his body was horrifyingly still.

("I thought it was obvious that the only reason we're dead is because of you.")

Without a second thought, Peter was jutting his fingers against the man's neck, ears straining, heart in his throat.

He heard the first beat and felt the thrum of a pulse at the same time, making him physically deflate in relief as he sagged down into a sitting position next to the unconscious Avenger.

This was turning out to be a long day.

Peter ran a hand down his face, moving it to rub at the back of his neck as he let out a long groan, both out of pain and exhaustion.

His lack of sleep the day prior was beginning to catch up to him, body heavy and sluggish as he felt the last droves of energy beginning to seep out of him like oil through his skin, staining the floor below a dark black. It wasn't the worst fight he'd been in, by far. It hadn't even been that hard, per say. Just an...unlucky circumstance and an unlikely presence mixing together into a not-so-great scenario.

Peter glanced to the side at the still form of Steve Rogers, still trying to wrap his head around the fact that Steve frikkin Rogers was there in the flesh. The teen tentatively reached a hand out, finger poised as he wondered whether or not he was simply imaging the man.

He shook his head and pulled his hand down. Come on, Peter. Be serious. It's perfectly reasonable that Steve Rogers, ex-Avenger and international criminal, was just wandering around a neighborhood in Queens and happened to pick a fight with a couple of common street thugs in nothing but a t-shirt and cargo shorts.

. . .

Peter poked the man in the arm. Flesh. Real.

He sighed in both resignation and relief as he turned his head away and glanced around at his surroundings now that he actually had a second to think.

For a randomized street fight, they had picked a pretty prime spot. The alleyway was dark, lit only by a couple of nearby lampposts that barely served to light the very ground they hovered over, let alone the entire street. Along one side was the now-crumbling brick wall that sectioned off an abandoned parking lot while the other extended underneath the elevated subway platform, which stood a good twenty feet overhead. There hadn't been any trains recently, thank god.

The goons were still scattered around the alley, webbed to walls or floors. Thankfully none of them were conscious to see his impending freakout.

That was good, at least.

With that, Peter turned towards the not-so-good element.

Captain Rogers still hadn't moved, hadn't even twitched. There was a fairly sizable cut just above his eyebrow, a trail of blood trickling down his temple. Peter winced and glanced over towards the mangled pile of metal a few paces away. Judging from how long the cut was and how...destructive that blast had been, the teen was fairly certain the man wasn't going to be waking up anytime soon. And the distant sound of sirens was the backdrop to his realization of a bigger problem:

What was he supposed to do now?

Peter scrunched his eyes and felt his fingers twitching on the ground as his thoughts started to pick up speed.

This was usually the time he'd make his escape, leave the guys for the cops to handle. He still wasn't sure what the locals really thought of his 'exploits'. There were always the cops that were grateful, of course. But there was also a sizable number of people in general who resented the very idea of Spider-Man. And ever the unlucky one, Peter never took the chance of meeting one of the not-so-grateful ones. So he'd never stick around to see them off, at least not anywhere he could be seen.

But now he had some pretty sizable baggage to take care of in the form of a 6'3 super-soldier.

He couldn't just leave the man there, could he? Soon enough, the alleyway would be crawling with cops. Even the most secluded part of the street would be searched and the man would most definitely be found, no matter how well Peter hid him.

And being found meant being arrested, which meant being taken away, most likely to the Raft.

So, what was his other option, then? To take the man somewhere? But where was he supposed to go? He couldn't go far, not with the threat of somebody seeing Spider-Man carrying Steve "Rogue Leader" Rogers around the frikkin city. So, the man had to have someplace nearby where he was staying.

Peter blinked as he slowly began to realize that if Captain America was there then that meant his teammates couldn't be too far either.

For some reason, the thought made his stomach clench uncomfortably.

Nevertheless, how was he supposed to find them? The frikkin government hadn't been able to find them for over two months! How much luck could he possibly have?

The wailing noise was beginning to grow, the faint sight of flashing lights just barely visible in the distance. He was running out of time.

Peter rose up to his feet, the itching anxiety flowing through his muscles too much to ignore. He began to pace, picking at the bottom edge of Ben's jacket, which he'd forgotten all about in the heat of the moment. A quick check revealed it wasn't too badly banged up. Just a few smudges of dirt, nothing he couldn't clean off.

Focus, Peter.

He turned his gaze back towards Captain Rogers. He still hadn't moved.

I could just stay here...wait till he wakes up. The idea held up for a few hopeful moments before his face tightened and he shook his head. No. The threat of being seen was still on the table. And if Spider-Man was seen with a wanted international fugitive...

He could kiss his job goodbye.

The idea made him stutter in his pacing. The idea of losing Spider-Man, of losing his one constant comfort, the one thing he could truly rely on...

Not an option.

Peter jumped as he heard the sound of a distant car engine, head whipping around to make sure they were still alone. Nerves getting the better of him, he looped his hands underneath the Captain's arms and began to drag him underneath the subway platform, just to make sure anybody passing by wouldn't be able to see them in the darkness.

He dropped the man with a loud sigh, pressing both hands to his head as he began to feel the panic building in his chest.

What was he left with then? Was he just stuck?

. . .

You could take him home.

This time he did freeze up, muscles tensing as the idea floated through his mind before he could stop it. Immediately, Peter scoffed, rolling his eyes as he folded his arms over his chest and leaned back against the metal legs of the platform. "Great idea, Parker. Why don't you just invite him over for Sunday brunch?" he muttered to himself.

His apartment was only a block or two away though, and nobody was home, but - no. He wasn't actually considering this, was he? It didn't matter that the man obviously needed medical attention, or that he had the proper supplies at home and the experience to boot. No, of course not. Home wasn't an option. Because it was a crazy idea! A stupid, crazy, bad idea!

("Well...maybe you need a bad idea.")

Peter's eyes trailed over the cut on the man's head, on the blood trickling down the side of his face, dripping into a little pool on the floor.

(His blood dripping, dripping down into the pool around his knees, caking overtop the chains, reflecting the butterflies, bright, red-)

The lights were getting closer. The sirens were loud enough that normal ears would have been able to hear them now.

He could have laughed at the ridiculousness of it. On the off chance his father returned that night, for him to find Steve Rogers hidden away in his bedroom...Peter would never see the light of day again. Not to mention he'd probably be responsible for Captain America's untimely death, which he wasn't so sure he wanted on his conscience.

But not only was it dangerous for Peter Parker. It was dangerous for Spider-Man.

If he took him home, he'd have to take off the suit. There was no way he was wearing it in the house, not even in his bedroom, not even with them gone. He couldn't chance it, couldn't chance the thought of having them spring in on him only to find him dressed as the guy who'd been thwarting their plans for ages now.

And with the mask off, who was to say Rogers wouldn't figure out who he was? After teaming up with Spider-Man, to suddenly find himself in the bedroom of a random teenage boy who sounds remarkably similar to the masked vigilante? He'd put two and two together. He'd figure it out.

Was he really willing to put himself on the line for this guy?

Peter glanced down at that, stared at the man lying at his feet. Steve Rogers...Captain America. The same Captain America that had saved the world at least three times over. The same Captain America that had been every little boy's hero since the forties. The same Captain America that was now a wanted international criminal, who had gone up against Mr. Stark and had left him with that haunted look in his eyes.

Suddenly Peter was very, very angry.

Why was he even debating this? Why was he making this his problem in the first place? It wasn't! Steve Rogers didn't deserve his help. Not after everything he'd done, everything he'd done to Mr. Stark! He was a criminal for a reason, wanted for a reason. Why should Peter waste his time worrying over a guy who most definitely didn't deserve anything he had to offer?

Red lights were flashing before his eyes. Or maybe it was just his anger.

He should have webbed Rogers up as soon as he'd seen him. He was just as much of a criminal as those others, even without the tech, even without the bags of stolen money hoisted over his shoulder. His hands were dirty. Who was Peter to help him avoid justice, justice for his mentor, his friend!

Peter clenched his fists as he glared down at the man. "I should leave you here. Leave you just like you left him," he growled, wondering if the man could hear it. He hoped he could.

Mr. Stark was as depressed as he was because of this guy, because this...this asshole left him to fend for himself. Why shouldn't Peter do the same?

There was no way he was about to risk his own freedom, his own safety, for this jerk. He already had enough problems on his hands. He didn't need to add any more superheroes to the mix!

With that burning thought swirling around his head, Peter stomped out from underneath the overpass, teeth grinding together as he threw a glare over his shoulder. "Good luck, Captain. You're gonna need it," he muttered as he poised his arm up, ready to fire a web and swing away, just forget this had ever happened.

("He was a good guy, though. They all were.")

He paused, finger poised on the trigger as he was suddenly standing in a different alleyway, fighting to see through the encroaching red and blue lights, as he was pulled back to the last time he'd hesitated to leave, the last time he should have just...

("Please...I don't want to die.")

Peter hesitated for a moment before slowly glancing back over to the pile of mangled metal, to the spot he'd climbed out of, to the spot he'd been pushed towards.

His skin crawled and his stomach pooled with a sinking realization.

He'd pushed Peter out of the way, saved him from the brunt of the impact.

He swallowed, his throat dry and course as he lowered his head, teeth pinching into his lower lip. Rogers had saved him. He hadn't had to, didn't even know him, and yet he'd done so anyway. He'd saved him just like Peter had saved Bobby all those weeks ago. His chest tightened and he suddenly felt like he was underneath the pile again, the air slowly being crushed out of him.

Peter let out a small breath, if only to alleviate the pressure building up inside his lungs, and glanced up towards the sky. The moon still hung high overhead, now unperturbed by storm clouds.

Mr. Stark's probably still awake, he thought to himself as he glanced over towards Stark Tower. He could just see the tip of it from where he stood.

The sirens were getting closer. They echoed in his ears.

He wanted to see him again. Wanted to talk to him, get his advice. What would Mr. Stark say if he could see him now, what would he do? Would he be mad at Peter for punishing someone who'd saved him based on his own personal biases? Or would he be angrier that Peter was even hesitating to leave Rogers for the cops?

("Thanks, kid.")

("For what?")

("...Not giving up on me.")

Peter clenched his fists, tried to still the shaking in his hands.

They'd call him...if the cops got their hands on Rogers. They'd call Mr. Stark, drag him into the mix. Throw a mess of politics and media and mess his way and get him involved in a war with no winners, where he'd already come out bruised and scarred.

If he ignored this problem...it'd become Mr. Stark's, his weight to carry, his burden to bear.

The lights were flashing off the nearby buildings. He was out of time. He had to make a choice.

. . .

(So...why don't you protect him?")

But it was already made for him.

. . .

. . .

. . .

This was going to be a very long day.

 

---

 

Friday - April 29, 2016

Stark Tower - Penthouse Floor

12:56 AM

There was no glass in his hand.

Tony stared down at it for a while, a good long while, too long to be normal. He flexed his fingers, felt the dull throb of pain as the cuts were pulled, but there were no shards. Nothing glinted back at him as he inspected the skin underneath the light of a nearby lamp.

The kid had picked them all out.

He stared down at the cuts for a moment longer, grazed his fingers over the long gashes across the skin before he sighed and reached for the sterilized wipes. It only took a second to clean the wound and properly bandage it with something a bit more medically appropriate than a dish towel, but Tony felt himself wishing it had lasted longer. For now, there was nothing left to do nothing except finish what he'd started an hour ago before the pain in his hand had forced him to take a break.

There was only one bottle left.

Tony stared it down, watched the beads of condensation drip down the sides, pooling around the bottom. The glass was clear, allowed him to see the golden liquid inside, staring right back at him.

The garbage can was filled to the brim, so much so that after he'd cleared out the second rack, he'd resorted to stacking them around the bottom of the trash instead. In the heat of the moment, it was easy to move from one bottle to the other, dumping their contents down the sink, a mechanical process that he didn't have to think about; just enjoyed that there was something for him to do, something that gave him a short respite from the thoughts bubbling in his head.

But now there was one. And it wouldn't stop staring at him.

Tony had tried it once, years ago. He'd tried to quit, tried to go clean, forgo that section of his life, the one last piece of his old pre-Afghanistan days.

He lasted two days.

Pepper hadn't been surprised at his lack of resolve. Disappointed maybe, but not surprised. In her mind, or at least what she'd explained to Tony, was that as long as he didn't have a reason to stop, he never would. Tony had shot back the ridiculousness of the statement, saying that she was a damn good enough reason, to which she'd scoffed. They'd fought for a while, Tony couldn't remember how long. He'd been drunk.

It hadn't been much different then as it was now. Pouring out the majority of the bottles was a breeze as his mind continued to circulate with the notion that he could change, that it would be for the best, that he controlled his body. But now, now that there was only one, only one standing between him and the...unpleasantness that came from a detox-session, he felt his resolve wavering, his hesitations growing.

Could he really put himself through that again?

Brave.

Could he be brave?

The thought made him shut his eyes, a reminder of the conversation they'd had not even two hours ago, a reminder of the reason he was even considering quitting.

Pepper said he needed a reason.

He couldn't continue as he'd been doing, couldn't wallow in the safety net that the bottles provided, a numbing relief from the thoughts he didn't want to have. Maybe he could when there was nobody to watch him (or at least, nobody who could stop him if they did), nobody to see the things he was doing and take them to heart.

But Peter...Peter already had enough trouble dealing with his emotions, dealing with his thoughts. And for him to see Tony completely avoiding them, for him to see the billionaire take the easy route instead of addressing them head-on...

Safe to say it wasn't a habit Tony wanted to pass on.

("I want to make a deal.")

His fingers grazed up against the bandages. They were starting to itch.

He'd made a pact, an agreement to be there for Peter when the kid needed him. He couldn't be in the middle of a drunken stupor if he ever showed up on his doorstep looking for advice, looking for safety. Tony couldn't do that to the kid.

He had to prove that he was somebody who deserved Peter's trust, somebody who wouldn't squander it or treat it as nothing.

Tony continued to trace his eyes over the gauze if only to keep them off the bottle in front of him. He pressed his palms down against the counter, the cool surface reminding him of how cold Peter's fingers had been.

Now that the kid was gone and there was nothing truly stopping him from drinking, the itch was there. But as he lifted his gaze and watched another bead of condensation drip down the side of the bottle, Tony began to realize something.

After Peter had cleaned out his hand, when he'd sat and listened to Tony talk about things he could barely talk about with his friends, friends he'd known for half his life, he hadn't been parched. He hadn't wanted to drink, hadn't wanted to bury the words, and suppress his thoughts in a comforting haze of nothingness. It almost felt...good releasing them, watching them leave his mouth, one smokey breath at a time. And he knew why, he knew why it felt so good to let it all out, to voice thoughts he felt so sick mentioning to Happy or Rhodey or even Pepper.

Peter understood. Peter truly and completely understood. Pepper and Rhodey and Happy could try to place themselves in his shoes, try to see things from his perspective, but at the end of the day, their lives were not the same. There would always be judgment, no matter how hard they tried to repress it.

There had been no judgment in Peter's eyes, not even as he'd exposed Tony's aversion to the dark, not even as Tony began to sink into his thoughts, thick and bleak and suffocating. Peter had pulled him out. Peter understood.

Peter knew.

His eyes stayed locked on the bottle, hoped it would disappear, then hoped it wouldn't. Back and forth, his thoughts swirled around and around, making his head throb and his foot tap against the tile below. But there was no change in the bottle itself, just another drop sliding down the sides. A small little puddle was beginning to form underneath it.

He wanted a drink. So he clenched his fist to keep from reaching out towards the glass and forced himself to turn away. But he could still hear the subtle calling of the liquid inside, so he drove his legs forward, one after the other until it got harder and harder to hear. He was heading for his bedroom, but unsurprisingly, sleep didn't seem to be within his grasp at the moment.

So instead, seeing as tonight seemed to be the night for addressing his problems head-on, he quickly resolved to head downstairs and deal with the headache that would be confronting his undoubtedly panicking friends.

After a shower, of course. Something told him the scotch-stained shirt and disheveled hair wouldn't do well to lending to the "responsible adult" image he was resolving to portray.

. . . . .

"Nothing. Nobody from the California branch has seen him, not in or around the building," Pepper sighed into the phone, lifting a hand to rub against her forehead.

Happy's voice filtered in through the call. "No sighting of him around the city here either. I even staked out the Parker place in case he decided to head there."

"And."

"No dice."

The woman resisted the urge to chew her nails as she began to pace around the Common Floor, phone pressing harder into her cheek as she stole a sharp intake of breath. The beeping of another call made her tense. "Hang on, Happy. Rhodey's joining in."

She added him to the call and quickly lifted the phone back up, careful to keep the hope out of her voice. "Well?"

Rhodey's voice quickly deflated the spark she couldn't hold back as he sighed into the receiver. "I checked with Everett. He's not in DC. That's it. We've checked everything else." His voice suddenly tapered off, leaving a thick voiding gap of silence between the three of them that made Pepper's stomach begin to cramp around her insides. She could hear her fingernails tapping against the sides of the phone as Rhodey spoke again.

"It's the only reason why FRIDAY would disable the elevators."

Her nails were in her mouth before she could think better of it, teeth pinching against them. "We...are we sure there aren't any...any other options?"

"We've been crossing out options all day, Pep. There aren't any meetings. No board schedulings. He's not at any of the other branches, no security cams have picked him up around the city. He's up there."

"What the hell, then? What is he doing up there?" Not even Happy's usual annoyed tone could mask the underlying notes of worry seeping through in his voice. And Rhodey's reply didn't settle Pepper's nerves.

"Something he doesn't want us to see."

Her grip tightened around the phone. "Or stop."

She didn't have to say anything else. None of them did, for they were all thinking the same thing. It was the same fears they'd been sharing ever since Tony had come back from Siberia alone, ever since he'd started increasing his drinking to at least two bottles per day, ever since the glazed look in his eyes had started lingering for longer than just brief moments between conversations, lasted for hours, days.

And now none of them were up there to stop him from giving in to that look, that horrifying look that made Pepper want to cry every time she saw it leave its numbing mark on the man's face.

"I can't...we can't just sit here anymore." Her voice wavered. She pressed on. "We have to get up there somehow."

"How?" Happy asked. "FRIDAY's been barring our access since this morning."

She shook her head, gritted her teeth, could feel the seconds ticking by faster and faster. They should have done this earlier. She should have done this earlier. Her hope had blinded her once again. What a fool.

"Suit. Rhodey, you...get a suit. If FRIDAY's on total lockdown up there, I...I don't know, just blast your way through if you have to."

"You blast, you buy."

Pepper's head whipped around so fast, her hair swung around to smack her in the cheek. She didn't even flinch, though. Not as her misty eyes trailed Tony like a hawk as he exited the elevator, hands in his pockets and shoulders slack. He shrugged. The bastard actually shrugged. "Not really an expenses thing, more on the matter of principle, you know?"

"Pepper? Pepper, you there?"

"What's happening. You alright?"

"Boys. I have him. I'll call you back."

"Wai-"

She ended the call without taking her eyes off the man as if he'd disappear if she didn't keep staring straight at him. She could feel her jaw clenching tightly as a sudden stiffness entered her muscles. Slowly, she began to make her way towards him, heels clicking quietly against the floors.

"Are you alright?" Her voice was low, calm, nothing like what she was feeling inside.

Tony paused for a moment, gazing back into her eyes before giving a small nod. "I'm fine. I-"

Without another beat of hesitation, Pepper was slapping him across the face, the sharp sound echoing off the walls of the empty room. He barely even flinched.

"You son of a bitch."

"Should have seen that coming."

Her eyes blazed as she fought to keep from hitting him again, from hitting that calm, carefree look off his face, like he hadn't spent the better part of the day driving them crazy. "Do you not care about anybody? Or is it just us that you like to string along?" She felt a small sense of pride over how collected she sounded, like the words didn't make her want to pull her hair out.

"Eighteen hours, Tony. We were scrambling down here for eighteen hours." Her hands were shaking. She folded her arms to hide it. "I tried to come talk to you this morning, figure out how the meeting went with Ross. You remember that? The Accords? The one thing you cannot afford to mess around with?"

He didn't say anything. She didn't stop to give him time.

"We tried to give you the benefit of the doubt, thought maybe you'd gone off to handle some business, tried to take your job seriously for once. Then our elevator access doesn't work for the penthouse. That's when we start to worry. But, okay. Fine. You need some time to yourself. I get that. But you were gone for eighteen fucking hours on a floor that could double as an underground college bar." Pepper doesn't curse, not usually at least. But the words seem to have taken control.

"Do you know how terrified we were? How terrified I was? All I could imagine was you up there alone, drinking yourself to death while we ran around here clueless. Do you even care? It's one in the goddamn morning, Tony. We have jobs, lives that we take seriously and yet we're stumbling all over the building - hell, the entire city chasing a man who seems to have made it his own personal goal to destroy himself."

There are tears in her eyes, maybe of anger. She doesn't really know, doesn't care.

"Is that what you're trying to do, Tony? Destroy yourself? Because I'm warning you right now. I am not going to stand around and wait for that to happen. I'm not going to watch it happen! I won't! I-"

"I talked to Peter."

Tony's voice is so calm it cuts right through the fuzz that was beginning to fill Pepper's head. She choked on her words, swallowed them down as she tried to process what he just said. She does slowly, blinking at him as she scrunches her face ever so slightly.

"I...you what?"

"The kid. I talked to him. Well, technically I talked to him twice. First last night and then, like...just now. Literally. He left like an hour ago."

Pepper took a breath, took multiple breaths until they stopped feeling so shaky. "What happened?" Suddenly the answer seems more important than justifying her rage.

"You mean before or after he blew up on me on top of the Brooklyn Bridge in the middle of a lightning storm?" For the first time, Tony's face breaks ever so slightly, a tired look creeping around the edges as he blows out a breath and rubs the back of his neck. "Eighteen hours, huh? Is that how long it's been? Feels longer." He sat down on the couch, hands clasped between his legs. He looked tired, looked just like how Pepper felt. She hesitated, stared him down and pressed her tongue against the roof of her mouth before coming to sit on the chair across from him.

"Maybe you should start at the beginning."

 

---

 

All in all, it took less than an hour to recount everything. Pepper didn't say anything as Tony spoke, just listened to everything with a passive, contemplative look, fingers thrumming against the side of the chair every once in a while. Tony didn't bother in trying to read what she was thinking, just concentrated on telling the story, on keeping his stomach settled and his leg still, refusing the urge to bounce it.

He wanted a drink. His fingers were twitching. It had been a few hours since his last, so he knew it was only a matter of time before the symptoms began to come on.

Pepper, thankfully wasn't watching his hands. Her eyes were downcast, hands now folded and pressed against her lips. Her brows furrowed as she shut her eyes. "Are you sure there's no way we could...?"

She didn't need to finish. Tony knew what she meant, which led to him shaking his head. "We can't go to the police, Pepper. As long as he thinks that's a viable option for us to take, he's never going to talk, never going to start to trust me. And I can't afford to delay that. I can't. Not when that means leaving him in that hellhole for any longer than absolutely necessary."

The words were bitter, tasted sour on his tongue. But they had to be said. "We have to take the police, CPS, all of it off the table. I mean, it's no wonder the kid doesn't trust them. Six house visits in the last eight years and they've never once found anything suspicious." He narrowed his eyes, voice taking on a bitter tone. "They've been failing him for years now."

Pepper sighed, lowering her hands as she leaned back in the chair. "They're probably scared, Tony. Richard Parker is one of the most powerful men in the city. If they rose any accusations, he'd crush them under so much litigation and lawyer-speak, they'd never get a say in otherwise. He'd completely destroy their practices in the city, obliterate their credibility."

Tony curled his lip as he felt a spark of anger ignite in his chest. "So, what? They just turn a blind eye? Leave the kid to suffer so they don't have to deal with the consequences of calling out that abusive piece of shit?" He cut himself off before the words could overtake him, letting out a sharp sigh as he turned his head away.

"You know what he said?" He paused as Pepper raised a brow. "Peter. You know what he said when I brought up the police, brought up the only option that could really make a difference here? He said 'nobody would believe me.' And...and the certainty in his voice, it...it wasn't just a guess or a prediction." He narrowed his eyes. "It was fact."

Pepper stared at him for a moment before she sucked in a small breath of her own, realization dawning on her with a resigned look of dread. "He's told someone before."

"And they shot him down."

The floor was quiet, especially now that there was no rain to pound up against the windows. It was silent and heavy with the weight of everything they were saying. Tony could feel it in his muscles, feel it in the way his shoulders ached at the strain. He kept his head down, kept his eyes trailed on the floor below, traced the etches between the tiles.

"Pepper, this kid has been alone for so long. He lies to his friends, keeps his neighbors in the dark, he...he has nobody. I've been playing this all wrong. I thought if I could just tinker in the lab with him, exchange a few jokes here and there, get him to loosen up just a tad then it would be enough...it wasn't."

He stared down at his palm, gingerly brushed his fingers up against the cuts. His hands were beginning to tremble. "You know, in the two months I've known him, I've never seen him wear short sleeves? Just baggy jackets and too-big sweaters." He lifted his eyes to stare soberly at the woman. "How many people do you think don't even notice that? How many teachers never give it another thought? How many neighbors just turn a blind eye, never bother to look deeper, to take a second glance?"

She held his gaze for a moment before turning it to the floor. "They don't care."

Tony shook his head. "I don't want to be like that, Pepper. I don't want to be another person who doesn't care."

"So your deal..."

"A gesture. An offering for him to take...if and when he needs it. He needs to know I'm not just going to ignore it. I'm not going to be another person who doesn't believe him." He stopped, glancing away as he let out a small scoff. "I know it's not much. If things were easier, I would already be at the police station filing as many charges as I can, blasting through the door to that house and dragging the kid out before Richard could spell 'prosecution.'"

He gritted his teeth, glaring out the window to the night sky beyond. The moon was shining, casting bright silver light into the otherwise dim room. "But there's not one bad article about this guy. Not a single one from the past twenty years or so. No blemishes on his record, no misdemeanors, not even a traffic ticket! Just charity balls that raise millions of dollars, donations to any and every organization, volunteer work with the city, outreach programs, restoration projects, conservation orders, everything! The guy's like a modern-day Mother Teresa!"

Tony pushed off the couch at that, finding the nervous energy tingling through his nerves too much to bear sitting down. He ran a hand through his hair and blew out a sharp sigh. "To everybody out there, Richard Parker is the selfless widower raising his son as a single father while doing his part to help everyone he can."

Pepper blinked up at him, lips pursing slightly. "So nobody would ever entertain the notion that he's a child abuser."

Tony clenched his fists at the words, chest tightening as he began to make his way over to the archway leading to the kitchen. "Especially not when said child doesn't corroborate the story, not when he's smiling for the cameras and playing the part of the loving son." He rested his arm against the wall, pressing his forehead against the lifted limb.

His head was beginning to throb now, a dull ache that pulsed behind his eyes and made him squeeze them shut even tighter. His leg bounced underneath him, a steady reminder of the tense air hovering around him. God, he really needed a drink.

Pepper stood up from the chair right as Tony moved away from the wall and into the kitchen. Her eyes followed him as she spoke. "Tony, that's...years of conditioning, years of abuse and neglect and so many other horrible things that I don't even want to think about, let alone imagine Peter going through them." He stopped in front of the fridge, opening the door and quickly spotting the bottles of wine chilling along the racks. Pepper continued to speak. "But he has...and it's colored his personality completely."

Tony tapped his fingers on the handle to the fridge as he listened, eyes locked on the bottles. He lifted his hand and reached in.

"How are you planning on just...erasing all of that?"

He wrapped his fingers around the water bottle on the top shelf and pulled it out, shutting the door before he could spare another glance at the alcohol calling out for him. "I'm...working on it," he muttered, unscrewing the cap before downing about half of its contents.

Tony was vaguely aware of Pepper slowly approaching as he finally pulled the water away. He leaned up against the back wall and pressed the bottle into both of his hands, the cold exterior soothing the slight sting in his palm. He could see the water sloshing up against the sides of the bottle as the slight tremor in his hands continued.

"You know, two days ago, you were thinking of dropping this altogether. Now you're arranging plans for him to stay with you for the entire summer." She pressed her elbows down into the bar counter, watching him intently with narrowed eyes. "What changed?"

At this, the man lifted his gaze. It was easy to read the expression on Pepper's face this time. It was a certain skepticism, a hint of caution he was used to seeing stretch across her features. He sighed, set the bottle down, and grabbed one of the bar stools. "The kid...Peter did." He twisted the seat around and plopped down with a huff. "He was scared, scared of all of this and he still came back. I figured I owed it to him to...you know, at least try. That's all I really can do right now. Try. Pray it's enough."

His head was turned, he couldn't see Pepper's face now. He didn't know if he even wanted to. He knew he probably sounded crazy, knew she most likely wouldn't approve. So instead he kept his eyes on the fridge, imagining the weight of the bottle in his hands, the sound of a glass being poured.

"So...summer, huh?"

Tony let out a small sigh and lowered his head, shutting his eyes. "Pepper, I'm sorry. I'm sorry for all of this. I...I know you didn't ask for this, for any of this. But I promise I'm not going to drag you into helping or-"

"Whoa, whoa." The woman grabbed onto the back of Tony's chair and forcefully spun it around so that he was now facing her. Her eyes were hard. "Let's get one thing straight here. You're not dragging me into anything. I'm here, aren't I? By my own free will? What about that do you think is going to change in the time it takes to get from now to summer or, hell, from now until we nail that bastard to the wall?"

He stared back at her, back at those breathtaking blue eyes that made his heart ache in his chest and his gut flip around his insides. She deserved better. "This isn't your problem, Pepper."

"It isn't yours either, but you're here anyway."

Tony paused, couldn't help the smile that fell onto his lips as he huffed out a small laugh. "The kid said something like that too."

Pepper folded her arms. "Then he's already getting good at calling you out on your bullshit." She sighed and sat down on the stool next to him. She opened her mouth, but no words came out. She turned away, pressed her fingers into her knees, gripped them so tightly, the skin began to turn white. She took in a small shuddering breath and leaned forward ever so slightly. "Tony, listen to me. Do you know why I was so scared today?"

He lifted his head, eyes crinkling slightly as he gave a small shake of his head. She took another breath. "I was scared because...b-because I thought...today's the day. Today's the day you go down drowning and I'm stuck a few floors away just...helpless. I thought...today's the day my inability to help you finally blows up."

He narrowed his eyes and shook his head. "Pepper...it isn't your fault. You walked away for a reason."

"I did."

"Those reasons haven't changed."

"They haven't. I can't stand feeling powerless, Tony. And when we were together, when I would watch you fly off in your suit to tackle problems nobody else could handle or watch you go down to the lab and tinker instead of talking to me...that's exactly what I felt. Helpless."

The guilt returned full-force, threatening to choke the life out of him. "Pepper, I'm so sorry-"

"I'm not saying this to make you feel bad," she cut in. "I'm saying it so you'll understand."

She paused at that, seeming to hesitate for a moment before reaching over and gingerly latching a hand onto Tony's. If she noticed the way they shook in her grip, she didn't say anything. She merely stared down at them, eyes pinched at the edges and a sad little smile spreading onto her lips. "Tony, you're more similar to Peter than you might think. You have it in your head that you have to do things by yourself, that you can't trust anybody to help you with them, can't rely on anybody. But that isn't true. It wasn't true then and it isn't true now."

Pepper lifted her eyes, bore them straight into his, and tightened her grip on his hands. It was solid, stable, a foundation he realized he'd been lacking for so long now. "We aren't Steve. We aren't the others. We aren't going to pack up our things and leave you all alone when you need us the most."

Suddenly he felt his eyes misting. He swallowed it down. "Maybe you should."

"Maybe...but we aren't going to. I'm not going to." She reached up a hand and cupped the side of his face. He shut his eyes and felt himself leaning into the touch, tightening his grip on her hands as well, as if he were afraid she was going to disappear if he let go. Her thumb brushed up against the corner of his eye. "Just because we aren't together anymore doesn't mean I don't still love you. Because I do. Just like Rhodey loves you, just like Happy loves you."

She leaned in closer, resting her forehead against his as he felt his hands slowly stop shaking. "We're your friends, honey. Don't lie to us like Peter lies to his. Don't choose to be alone. Because that's what it is here. A choice. Choose to let us help you. Let us help you help him."

Tony didn't open his eyes, didn't pull away. "This fight, it's...it's not going to be easy."

"With you? I'd be disappointed if it was."

He couldn't help but laugh at that, blinking open his eyes to stare at her face.

Pepper Potts had, for the longest time, been like Rhodey: one of the only constants in his life. When his life was parties and girls and weapons, she had been there. When it became suits and politics and world-ending battles, she had been there. Maybe that was what made Siberia so hard, what made the team leaving so hard.

For the first time, Pepper wasn't there. And for perhaps the millionth time, it was Tony's fault.

But as he sat there and stared back at her, stared at the metaphysical hand she was offering, he realized he didn't care if it wasn't the same as before, didn't care that this wouldn't repair everything between them, didn't care about the possibility that nothing ever would. Right now, Pepper was here. She was here, she was staying, and that was enough.

So when she wrapped her arms around him, he only hesitated for a fraction of a second before burying his head into the crook of her neck and nearly collapsing into her arms, no longer feeling the need to put up a façade of strength. Not with Pepper.

He wanted to say thank you, but the words got lodged in his throat. She seemed to understand, though.

"We're here...if and when you need us. Don't forget that."

 

---

 

Tony stared down at his hand, at the cuts; thought about what they meant, what they represented. He wondered if they'd scar. He hoped they would because for the first time in his life, he didn't want to forget.

Brave.

Could he be brave?

Without another beat of hesitation, Tony popped the cap on the last bottle and turned it upside down, emptying its contents down the sink.

For Peter, he decided, he could be.

 

---

 

Friday - April 29, 2016

Location: Unknown

Time: Unknown

Steve awoke none too gently, not with a flutter of the eyes and a soft groan, but with a jolt of the muscles and a choking gasp that had him sitting up in a heartbeat.

Immediately, his senses were on high alert, eyes instinctively scanning the room for threats as his heart thudded in his ears and his adrenaline spiked. He clenched his fists, muscles poised to leap right into action as he whipped his head around, trying to locate the enemy.

Only...there were no enemies. Just towels.

Steve could feel his chest bouncing up and down as each breath left him in a pant, body stilling as he slowly began to realize he wasn't in an alleyway anymore. He wasn't in a cell or a hostage of some sort. In fact, there was nobody around. He was alone...in a bathroom.

"The hell...?" he couldn't help but murmur as he furrowed his brow, lips parting ever so slightly. There was a low buzzing in his ears, a constant hum that seemed to bounce around his head and made his skin itch.

There had been a fight, right? That much he was almost sure of. A fight with thugs and money and guns. It was real. It happened. So why was he now surrounded by pristine white tile and a ceramic tub? And why was his head pounding?

He tried to think back, recall anything else about the fight, but a spike of pain shot through his skull as he did so, causing him to wince and reach a hand up to his temple. His fingers grazed up against something and he froze. Just below his hairline, his fingers made contact with something that most definitely wasn't his skin. He spotted the mirror up above the counter and quickly rose up to his feet, leaning against the sink as he stared back.

There were...bandages all over him.

His forearm was wrapped from his fingers up to his elbow, masking the burns he could barely spot underneath the gauze. There were butterfly bandages on his forehead and even some stitch-work on his upper bicep. Upon closer inspection, the work wasn't just sloppily patched together, either. It was legit, crafted carefully and with precision.

Whoever had done it had taken considerable care.

As he stared into the mirror, stared at the handiwork, Steve found his eyes slowly begin to take in what else was in the mirror: the rest of the room. He carefully twisted around.

Nothing about it really seemed all that suspicious. There was a shower in the corner, a tub against the wall, and a sink opposite that. It was just...a bathroom. Question was...why was he in a bathroom?

Actually, he had numerous questions. Who had done this? Why had they taken the time to treat him themselves instead of taking him to a hospital? Were they trying to keep him out of trouble? If so, then why? What was there to gain in all of this? And most importantly, where was he? How long had he been out? Hopefully too much time hadn't passed since he'd left the warehouse, since he'd last talked to-

Natasha.

Steve instinctively lifted a hand to his ear, cursing under his breath as he found no piece. His communicator must have fallen off during the skirmish, otherwise Natasha would have already tracked him and hunted him down herself, most likely to give him an earful for missing his check-in time.

He sighed and leaned up against the sink, shutting his eyes as he tried to push down the ringing in his ears and the heavy pressure building up against his head. He clenched his fingers around the smooth surface as the wave of nausea built up and slowly settled as the ringing died down.

Shaking anymore distracting thoughts from his head, Steve pushed down the pain and the nagging questions. He had to focus.

He glanced around the room again, hoping to find any clues, any markers as to where he was. The room was fairly dark, the only source of light coming from the one right above the shower. The rest were off, leaving him in a state of semi-darkness. But it did allow the light coming in from the window to stick out even more, enough for Steve to finally notice its existence. He quickly rushed over, pressing his fingers into the wall as he stared out.

There weren't any high-rises present. No packed streets and bustling cars so he definitely wasn't in Manhattan. The dark streets and low-level buildings that seemed to surround the window led him to believe he was still in Queens.

Queens...

Wait a minute.

("You got heart, kid. Where you from?")

Spider-Man.

Was this his doing? Had he taken him somewhere? Maybe dropped him off at a safe location? If so, then where was he? Was he alright? Had Steve managed to push him far enough away from the collapse?

The new influx of questions made another stab of pain pierce through his head, thudding right behind his eyes. He groaned, pressed his hand into his face before dragging them down, eyes narrowing.

He had to get out of here.

He glanced back over towards the window, realizing with a frown that it was too small for him to just slid through unnoticed. And he wasn't sure he wanted to go smashing holes before he really had a grasp on where he was. If someone really had helped him out of the goodness of their heart, destroying their bathroom didn't seem like the best way to repay them.

His eyes flitted towards the door at the far end of the room. He only hesitated for a second before making his way over. Pressing his ear against the wood, he could vaguely hear the sound of voices, but they were faint, distant. They most likely were in a different room altogether, which meant if he wanted to make a move, now was the best time to do it.

Steve wrapped his fingers around the handle and carefully turned the knob, only slightly surprised that it wasn't locked before gingerly pushing the door open and peering through the crack.

The room was dark, too dark for him to really make out anything through the sliver of the door. So with one last glance behind him, Steve took a breath, tensed his fist, and carefully pushed the door open all the way. The light from the bathroom was dim, but it was enough to illuminate the room just a tad, enough for him to see, at least.

The bedroom was fairly large with all the practical elements: bed, dresser, desk. There was a pair of glass doors against the side wall that seemed to lead out to a balcony. But despite its apparent normalcy, something about the room felt...off.

There were no posters on the walls. No clothes or shoes littered the floor. The desk was neat and wiped clean. The covers to the bed were pristine and plain, no patterns or designs on any of them. Even the garbage bin was empty, not a scrap of paper or gum wrapper inside. Nothing about the room felt 'lived-in', like it was a fake, a model.

Steve felt something strange begin to churn in his stomach, an unsettling feeling that he initially mistook for nausea.

He clenched his fists, body suddenly swept up by the overwhelming feeling that only ever came right before a fight. His muscles were tensing, his adrenaline beginning to burn. There was something wrong here, something that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.

THUD.

Steve jumped, whipped around towards the door. The voices were louder now, but they weren't closer. Shouting? There were a lot of them too, so not just one person. A group? A family? This was definitely somebody's home, the question was whose?

There was laughter now. A lot of it. And thumping, like footsteps. They were light, not heavy or weighted. Somebody small...a woman? A kid? Whoever it was, they were fast approaching. Steve glanced back towards the open bathroom door, only made it about two steps before the door was swinging open and somebody was leaping through, slamming it shut again with a resounding bang.

Steve froze, eyes trailed on the figure that had just entered. They were leaning against the door, back pressing into the wood as they gasped and panted in ragged bouts of air, like they'd been running for a while. He could hear the sound of their heartbeat, loud and erratic, pumping so loud and so fast that Steve wondered if he would have been able to hear it even without his super senses.

The figure didn't move, didn't turn to look at him, seemed to be too preoccupied with catching their breath. Steve squinted his eyes, tried to make out the figure's face, but the light from the bathroom wasn't shining in that direction, leaving their face in shadow.

The soldier glanced backwards again, wondered if maybe he could slip back into the backroom unnoticed and figure something else out later, only for the floor to creak as his foot shifted, causing the figure to whip their head up, eyes catching the barest hint of light as they gleamed.

For a moment, the two just stared at each other, neither moving, neither making a sound. Now that they were facing him, Steve could make out the figure just a little better. Their face was still in shadow, but he could make out the lithe outlines of their body and the shrunken-in, tiny form, no taller than his shoulder.

It was a kid...a boy.

Steve swallowed, throat suddenly dry as he stared back at him.

"Um, do you...know who I am?"

. . .

Silence. Staring. A nod.

"Okay...how did I get here?"

. . .

"Can you tell me where I am?"

. . .

"Can you tell me your name?"

. . .

"Can you tell me anything?"

More silence. More staring. Steve sighed.

Another thud sounded from downstairs, causing the teen to flinch back against the wall. Even with the thick shadows enveloping most of him, Steve could make out the tenseness of the kid's muscles, the tight posture of his body. He was nervous.

"Who else lives here?"

More silence. Steve was getting tired of this.

"Kid you have to give me something here-"

"Don't call me that."

The words were soft, but they were spoken with a sudden swiftness that made Steve's jaw shut. He blinked, ran them back in his head. "What?"

"Don't call me kid. You don't...you don't get to call me that."

He knew that voice. He'd heard that voice before. But...could that really be? Could this really be him?

He knew Spider-Man had to be involved somehow, otherwise he'd still be in that alleyway, or worse, in police custody. So it wasn't too far-fetched to believe the vigilante would take him somewhere he trusted, somewhere he thought was safe. But to take him to his own house...would he really do that?

"Okay...sorry. I won't. What can I call you then?"

More silence. Very unlike Spider-Man.

Steve narrowed his eyes ever so slightly, trying to make out more details of the boy from his place in the shadows. He seemed similar enough to what he'd seen of the vigilante, a hero that leaned a little on the small side. But...had he really been that small in the alleyway? Had Steve really not noticed?

Maybe he was mistaken. Maybe it was just the dark. There was no way Spider-Man was that small, not when he packed so much of a punch. There was no way he sounded so young. It was just his concussion making everything a little warped. There was no way Spider-Man was just a kid.

There was no way this was Spider-Man.

He lifted his arm. "Did you do this? Did you treat these wounds?"

More silence. This kid wasn't much of a talker. Definitely not Spider-Man, then. Germany might have been months ago, but he could still remember the motor-mouth that guy had.

"That takes a lot of skill. You're pretty talented." Steve took a small step forward, tried to make out anything in the teen's face.

Instantly, the boy picked up on the movement as he shifted away, a sharp intake of air sliding through his teeth as he grimaced. Immediately shifting into concern, the man took another step forward. "Are you alright? Are you hurt?"

"Back off." It was quiet, just like everything else. But there was a certain edge to the voice, a flash of something else. Steve held up his hands, imagined the kid was most likely a little shaken over the fact that an Avenger was standing before him.

"It's okay. I just want to see."

The boy growled, an audible snap of noise that made Steve pause. "I said back off! Stay away from me!" He leaned further back against the door, as far from Steve as he could get.

The soldier furrowed his brow, overcome with a wave of confusion and an unsettling feeling in his stomach. "I'm not...going to hurt you. I'm just concerned."

A scoff. The kid actually scoffed.

Steve stopped and took a small step back, the feeling in his stomach strengthening. "What? You don't believe me?"

The boy glanced away, Steve barely able to make out the outlines of his face. "Frankly, no. I don't. I don't think you can care for anybody, other than yourself of course." The kid turned back towards him, eyes gleaming again, but with something different this time. "That's what's most important, right?"

Steve sucked in a breath, blinking for a second before huffing an air of disbelief. "Excuse me?" Was this kid serious right now?

Another thud echoed from downstairs, this one louder than before. The boy glanced behind him, posture still as stiff as before. The soldier narrowed his eyes and took another step forward, causing the kid's head to whip back around.

"Who's downstairs?"

"None of your business," he hissed.

Steve gritted his teeth, swallowing down a wince as his head throbbed. He was confused, he was tired, and he was in pain. He was so not in the mood to deal with some teenager with a grudge.

("I shouldn't be here? I'm not the one with a warrant on their head and a penchant for blowing up buildings.")

A teenager who definitely didn't sound familiar.

His eyes locked on the door and he started for it again, only for the boy to press his back against it like his life depended on it.

"I said back off! Get away from me!"

Steve growled and lifted his hands in surrender. "I'm not going to hurt you! Why would I hurt you?" he sighed in exasperation.

"I don't know. I don't know why you do half of the things you do."

He opened his mouth again, most likely to retort something as his levels of composure began to dwindle, only for his eyes to catch on something.

Despite the darkness encroaching around the teen, Steve could still make out a few details, like the way his body balanced against the door, not just out of apprehension, but out of...pain? He narrowed his eyes, leaned in closer.

The kid was limping, one foot elevated just a tad above the ground.

"Are you...?" His eyes lifted. "You're hurt." Immediately pushing all thought aside, he focused on the teen who obviously needed help right now. He could ask questions later. This took priority. He moved forward, only for the boy to begin moving along the wall to maintain their distance.

"Stop!"

"Let me help you."

"Don't! Don't come any closer."

"Kid-"

"Don't call me that!"

Steve slapped his hands down against his sides. "Fine! Then tell me your name!"

"WHAT THE HELL IS ALL THAT NOISE?!"

They both jumped at the loud shout, the kid's head shooting towards the door again.

"N-nothing! I'm just...it's nothing!"

"WELL SHUT THE FUCK UP! WE'RE TRYING TO WORK!"

The teen's eyes were locked on the door, his attention, his focus, all away from Steve. The soldier thought fast, reaching forward and latching a hand onto the kid's wrist before yanking him into the light.

The boy yelped as he was suddenly spun around, but Steve barely heard it, for all of his attention was on the kid's face.

He'd seen it before.

Peter Parker still had the same pale skin, the same mop of curly brown hair that fell down around his forehead and the same bright brown eyes that he'd seen in the magazine. But his nose hadn't been bleeding in the magazine. His face hadn't been red with the early traces of bruising in the magazine. He hadn't looked so scared in the magazine.

The magazine with Tony Stark. The magazine with the man who had recruited Spider-Man. The magazine with the man who had never been fond of children before and would only ever socialize with one if he already had a previous relationship established, a prior setting of contact, say...an airport in Germany. The magazine that proved everything right before his eyes.

"Oh my god. You're Spider-Man?"

Peter's eyes stretched even wider if possible and he was suddenly clawing at Steve's grip on his arm, but the soldier, in his haze of thoughts, barely even felt it. "How can you be Spider-Man? The papers said you were fourteen. I...you can't be Spider-Man. You're just a kid." He leaned closer. "You're a kid!" The words almost burned his tongue as he said them.

"Let go of me!" Peter shouted, finally wrenching himself out of the man's grasp before hastily backing away, clutching his arm tightly against his chest as he stared back at Steve like he was a wild animal. And Steve almost felt like one, his mind was running crazy.

"HEY! WHAT THE HELL DID I JUST SAY?!"

Peter spared another glance at the door behind him before his eyes were locking back onto Steve. The soldier paced.

"You're a kid. You're goddamn kid! I fought a kid. I...I dropped a fucking jet bridge on a kid."

The boy narrowed his eyes just a tad, kept backing up step by step. He dropped his gaze to the floor and gritted his teeth. "I told you not to call me that." His voice was quiet, but his tone was bitter.

Steve stopped in his tracks, mind reeling as each breath seemed to get smaller and smaller, faster and faster with each passing moment, each notch of realization. "Wait a minute...Tony. Tony recruited you, didn't he?"

Suddenly Peter wasn't backing up anymore. His eyes shot towards the soldier and his arms dropped away from his chest, which straightened up just a bit as his jaw tightened. "What's that got to do with anything?" His voice was hard, a cold flint edge lacing the words. Steve barreled right past it.

"He...did he know how old you were? Did...did he even ask?" The disbelief, the fear that had settled in his chest was turning into something else now, something hotter. His fists began to clench at his sides. "I can't believe this."

"Hey...don't you go getting any wrong ideas, now," Peter growled, glaring hard at him.

Steve brushed it off. "The whole time he lectures me on responsibility, on owning up to my actions and he recruits a fourteen-year-old? He...h-he...my God."

"Leave it alone, would you? It doesn't matter!"

"It doesn't matter? He enlisted a fucking child to fight against trained assassins, that egotistical son of a bitch actually-"

"HEY!" Suddenly Peter was right in his face, Steve's jaw locking shut as the boy's eyes blazed. "You better shut your mouth before you say something you regret, you arrogant self-righteous bastard!"

. . .

And he did. His mouth shut right down at the sheer anger in the boy's words, more out of shock than anything else. For a second, the two just stared at each other, Peter's eyes seeming to gleam with a certain hatred that Steve was only familiar with in people who were usually trying to kill him.

What the hell had he done to this kid to warrant such a look?

Before he could ponder the question anymore, his ears picked up the sound of footsteps. Heavy, nothing like Peter's. These were strong and fast and angry. Peter must have picked up on them as well, for his head whipped towards the door and a rushed puff of air escaped his lips, a frantic inhale that added to the fear now overtaking the anger in his face.

"You...you have to hide. Now. He...they can't find you here!" he rushed out, eyes shooting to the open bathroom door. Steve shook his head and opened his mouth, more plumes of confusion rising up in him. But before he could voice any of his thoughts, Peter's hands were on him, shoving him towards the bathroom and damn the kid was strong.

Hard to deny the facts now.

"Peter-"

"Listen to me." The teen's voice was terse now, steady, leaving no room for argument. "You have to stay in there and keep the door closed. Don't come out no matter what you hear."

"What-

"No matter what," he hissed, fisting a handful of Steve's shirt. The soldier was just able to make out the shakiness of the kid's grip, enough to know he wasn't fooling around. The footsteps were closer now. He spared the boy one last apprehensive look before stepping into the bathroom. He moved to close the door, only to stop it right as it was about to shut completely. He hesitated for a moment before carefully leaving a crack open, a little sliver for him to peer through.

There wasn't a second to spare, for as soon as Steve was in position, the door to the room was flying open with a loud bang. Peter winced and whirled around to face the newcomer, a hulking figure out a man that seemed to fill the entire doorway. He had dark skin and a multitude of tattoos running up his arms and around his neck. His posture was still and his face held an air of disgust and annoyance. He held his hands out and shrugged his shoulders, staring the kid down hard.

"What the fuck is going on up here?"

Peter held his shaking hands behind his back, body so stiff and so tight, Steve was sure he was about to explode. His voice was level as he spoke though. "Like I said. Nothing. I'm just...talking to myself."

The man held his gaze for a moment, startling blue eyes seeming to pierce straight through the kid. His muscles rippled beneath his shirt and his stance held an air of intimidating power. Steve felt a chill roll over his skin as he detected an unmistakable air of danger that seemed to radiate off of the man. Peter seemed to notice the aura as well, for Steve saw the slight twitching of his fingers.

The man clicked his tongue and slowly shut the door behind him, the loud creak seeming to echo around the walls in an unsettling wave. Peter didn't move, didn't let his eyes stray away from the man as he began to walk forward, brushing past the teen as he did so. "Talking to yourself, huh?"

His voice was deep, a smooth lull of low undertones, laced with a hint of suspicion. Steve watched him with narrowed eyes, a sinking feeling of distrust and inexplicable aggression bubbling inside him. Peter watched as the man began to walk around the room. "Thought I heard voices."

"There's nobody here, Max."

The man cast the boy a glance from over his shoulder, giving him a quick once-over. He quirked a brow and turned back around. "Uh-huh."

With that, - Max, apparently - began to stalk around the room, eyes peeled and gaze deliberate as he tried to pick apart anything that seemed to be out of place. Peter stayed off to the side as the man searched, stuffing his hands into his pockets. Steve noticed he began to shift his weight back and forth between his feet, glancing away uncomfortably. "Thought you guys were supposed to be gone all night," he said softly, watching as Max stared out the balcony doors, peering around the outdoor space before pulling back.

Max wasn't easily distracted, though. "Why? You disappointed?" He threw the kid a piercing stare. Peter squirmed under his gaze, ducking his head again.

"No. Of...course not."

The man went back to searching, opening up the closet door and peering inside before bending down to search underneath the bed. Steve watched with a baffled shake of the head. What was this guy's problem?

Peter sighed, seemed to be growing antsier the longer the man stayed. "Come on, Max. Just give it up. There's nothing. I-"

"Hey." The man swiftly held up his hand, pointing it towards the boy with a hard glare. "Did I ask you to speak?"

The teen stopped, took a small step back as he swallowed. "No."

"Then why are you?"

He bit his lower lip, dropped his gaze, and stared down at the floor. He didn't say anything else.

Max nodded and went back to searching. "That's better. You're slippin' ya know. You need to tighten that lip of yours, screw that jaw back up tight. Last thing you want is to start getting a tongue, you feel me?" The man rose back up his feet and gave the room one last scan before setting his sights on the bathroom door.

Shit. Steve muttered to himself as he discreetly shifted behind the door, careful not to reveal anything through the crack. He could hear Max's heavy footsteps beginning to approach, his fists clenching as they grew. Something told him his discovery wouldn't be met with much pleasure.

"Why? Worried I'll make you sound stupid if I do?"

The footsteps froze with a startled jolt. Steve's eyes widened at the comment, jaw slacking as he blinked in shock. The footsteps shifted and Steve took the time to peer through the crack in the door again. He noticed Peter standing off to the side. His arms were crossed over his chest now and he was standing up a little straighter, staring at Max with a rebellious glint in his eyes that hadn't been present two seconds ago.

Said man faced off against the teen with a new stiffness to his body. He stared down at him, boring his eyes into the boy's face with such intensity, Steve swore he could hear them sizzling in his skull. "Excuse me?" His voice was dark and held a certain strain, like a string being pulled taut.

Peter stared at the man with a cocked brow, though Steve could pick up the sound of the kid's heart beating at a million miles per second. The anxiety didn't show on the teen's face as he shrugged. "I mean, you're - what? A high school drop-out? Probably wouldn't take much to make you sound like a dunce." He stuffed his hands back into his pockets to hide the shiver in his hands and smirked at the man. "Just gotta use words that have more than three syllables."

Steve's chest was tightening, his hand lifting to grip the inner doorframe. What the hell are you doing, kid? He watched with bated breath as Max slowly stalked forward - away from the bathroom door, Steve realized. Each step sounded heavier than the last, his movements slow and precise.

Surprisingly, Max's face split into a grin as he continued to approach, a laugh of sorts bubbling out of his mouth. "Oh my god. Oh my fucking god." He lifted his hands, curled his fingers in a 'bring it' motion. "Come on. Keep going. Keep talking. I wanna hear it. Go on, let's go."

Despite the humor playing on his voice, Steve could detect the thin splice of fury underneath, hidden by chuckles and an encouraging laugh. If the way Peter's heartbeat picked up even more was any sign, the kid noticed it too. But he didn't stop. Instead, he narrowed his eyes and scoffed.

"You sure you'll be able to keep up?"

Silence. A thick, uncomfortable silence that added to the tension suffocating the room. Steve didn't breathe, was too focused on the scene playing out. Dread pooled in his gut, thick and heavy, threatening to weigh him down completely.

Max smiled, gave a small nod of his head. "Oh, that's...that's good."

Without any warning, he lunged forward, wrapping his beefy hands around the kid's shoulders and slammed him into the mirror hanging off the closet door. Peter's head slammed into the glass with a thud and a yelp, the mirror shattering into a million pieces that clattered to the floor. Steve sucked in a startled gasp, thankful the sound of the shattering mirror covered up the noise.

Max reached down and latched onto the boy's throat, hoisting him up into the air and slamming him into the cracked mess that once used to be the mirror. Peter gasped as he wrapped his own hands around Max's, the man leaning closer as he narrowed his eyes. "You got a death wish tonight or something because I know you did not just call me stupid?"

"Don't." Peter choked out, feet kicking against the wall as he tried to find any leverage to alleviate the pressure pressing down on his throat. Steve narrowed his eyes, felt his teeth grind together, muscles coiled as he readied to spring through the door.

But as he readied to attack, the man caught sight of Peter's frightened gaze.

The teen wasn't staring at Max, his eyes deviated slightly to the left, gazed over the man's shoulder, and stared straight at Steve. The soldier held Peter's gaze as he swallowed, muscles tight and fists clenched. The boy's eyes crinkled slightly, but they didn't leave Steve's face, not until the man slowly began to piece together what the kid was trying to communicate.

Don't.

He wasn't talking to Max. He was talking to Steve...telling him not to interfere. Steve sucked in a shaky breath, hands beginning to tremble against the doorframe. He couldn't just stand there!

But Peter wasn't focusing on him anymore. He was staring back at Max as the man spoke, voice clipped and terse. "See...the only stupid one here is you for thinking you could start mouthing off like that." Peter gasped as the hand tightened around his throat. "So how about I break that fucking neck of your, huh, bitch? You wanna keep talking? Go ahead. Try it. Go on, you wanna keep going?"

Peter sucked in a choked breath, shut his eyes, and clenched his jaw.

"N-no."

Max remained silent for a moment before his face twisted into a sinister snarl, hand clenching tighter around the teen's throat. "Well, I do."

Steve felt the wood splintering in his grip, but he couldn't seem to let go. His knuckles were turning white and his feet itched to move. He pressed his hand against the door, seconds away from bursting out and bashing the man's head into the wall just like he'd done to the kid.

Peter flitted his gaze back over to him, but Steve ignored it as he began to push the door open.

Screw it. And screw this guy.

"MAX! WHAT THE FUCK IS TAKING SO LONG, MAN?!"

Max paused. Steve did too.

Max glared over his shoulder at the bedroom door, curling his lip in annoyance as he growled before turning back towards Peter. The teen's face was growing red as he sputtered in the man's grasp. He scoffed and threw the kid a disgusted glare. "You lucky fuck. You better hope I don't remember this when we finish up down there or I'll come back up here and fix that mouth of yours myself, you got that?"

He dropped Peter down into the shards of glass below, the teen gasping and coughing violently as he lifted a hand to his throat. Max didn't seem satisfied with the boy's lack of response, for he stooped down and grabbed a fistful of his hair, yanking his head back up.

"Answer, bitch."

Peter winced, eyes scrunching in pain as his face twisted. "Y-yes, sir." His voice was hoarse and scratchy, but the answer seemed good enough for Max, for he dropped the kid back down and stared at him in disdain, giving a shake of his head as he spat on the floor.

"Fucking ridiculous," he muttered under his breath as he stormed back over to the door, slamming it shut so forcefully the entire room seemed to shake.

For a brief, agonizing moment, Steve stayed where he was behind the door, listening to the sound of retreating footsteps mingling with the noise of labored breathing coming from the kid he'd just let get brutalized in front of him.

Some hero...

The second he was sure the footsteps were truly gone, he burst through the door and immediately rushed to him. He made to kneel down, only to pause as he took in the glass still littering the floor. He hissed before quickly shrugging off his jacket, bunching it up in his hands and dragging it along the floor to clean it as much as possible before dropping to the ground next to the teen.

Peter didn't make any indication that he knew the man was there, just kept his head down and one hand wrapped protectively around his throat, the other pressing down into the glass pile below, like he didn't even know it was there. His eyes were shut tight and each breath of air seemed to rattle dangerously in his chest.

The soldier lifted his hands, hesitated for a moment as he wondered whether the teen was even going to let him help. Still, he wasn't about to just sit there and do nothing again, no matter what the kid wanted this time. So with a small breath, he scooted closer. "Peter? Hey, can you hear me? It's Steve - err...Captain Rogers."

No response. More breathing.

"Hey, if you can hear me, I'm just gonna try and assess the damage, alright?"

He waited for a minute, but again there was no response. Peter just seemed to scrunch his eyes tighter and turned his head away slightly, shifting his legs against the glass, the sound of clinking and grinding making Steve wince. He took a breath before slowly reaching a hand out to rest on the boy's shoulder.

Suddenly, he felt a hand shove into his chest so violently, he actually fell back onto his elbows and elicited a loud grunt of pain, eyes widening as Peter whipped his head up. The kid's eyes were bright and aggressive, tinged with a glaze of fear and pain as his face curled into a growl. Steve couldn't help but blink with his jaw hanging open slightly as he stared back at the boy. That shove had hurt, like...actually hurt.

Just how strong was this kid?

Slowly, the glaze against the teen's eyes began to fade as he seemed to register the fact that it was only Steve. Peter held the man's gaze for a moment longer before dropping his head back down with a low exhale, groaning loudly as he slowly began to push himself up. "Got to say..." he started off softly, voice hoarse and raspy. "...didn't really expect you to hold out." He winced as he brushed some of the glass away before leaning back against the wall, sighing loudly as he met Steve's eyes again. "Thanks for that."

Steve analyzed the teen's words, tried to see if there was some sort of sarcastic gibe in them. Maybe the boy was angry at him for not intervening. But surprisingly, the comment was sincere. The kid was...thankful? Steve felt his throat go dry as he tried to swallow.

"You...you antagonized him...on purpose." It wasn't a question. Peter didn't take it as such. Instead, he just shrugged, tilted his head down, and spat out a wad of blood-mingled saliva onto the carpet.

"It would have been a lot worse if he found you."

Steve actually felt himself get angry at that, glaring down at the glass. "Worse than thi-"

"Yes," Peter said, voice cold and hard as a new aggravated look entered his eyes, as if he was challenging Steve to keep arguing. Realizing the subject was as touchy as one could get, Steve reluctantly decided to save it for later.

Now that Peter's head wasn't drooping, Steve could make out each and every bleeding scratch on him, over his nose, on his cheeks, his forehead. There was a long trail of blood that dripped down the side of his face, beading off little drops onto his shoulder. It matched the bloody nose he still had, now complete with a split lower lip as well. He also had numerous little shards of glass embedded into his palm, his legs, and probably even his back from when he'd been shoved into the already-broken mirror. Steve's eyes traced the bruise beginning to blossom behind the kid's eye, the bruise he'd entered the room with.

Steve knew those injuries. They were the same scars, the same bruises he used to get after his back-alley beatdowns. Same split lip, defiant gleam, tense posture. It was like staring into a mirror, staring right back at his scrawny little defenseless face, a face that seemed to have a penchant for black eyes and a habit of cleaning himself up.

Something told him this kid was used to cleaning himself up, too. His jaw tensed at the idea.

Peter shifted against the wall again as he attempted to get up. He stumbled, however, quickly falling back down onto his hands and knees with a hiss of pain. Steve immediately rushed forward with his hands extended.

"Here, let me-"

"Don't," Peter snapped, throwing another harsh glare at the man. Steve paused, slowly retracting his hands as Peter dropped his head. "Just don't."

Steve swallowed, thick and heavy as he slowly leaned away. There was a feeling building up in his stomach, a strange churning that made a restless itch travel through his muscles, a sickening pool of unease that had him scrunching his face as he watched the teen slowly push himself up to his feet, grimacing and swallowing down his groans of pain the entire time.

And suddenly the soldier began to understand why Bucky would always get so angry at him after his little fights, his daily skirmishes. He could see it now. It hadn't been anger on his friend's face back then as he traced over each of Steve's wounds, each bleeding scrape and throbbing lump. It was concern...the same concern Steve most likely had written on his own face, different from the rebellious, defiant look he'd usually shoot at his friend whenever he was scolded for his fights.

Maybe this was karma.

Finally, Peter stood, brushing a hand against his temple. His fingers came back wet as he touched the trail of blood dripping down the side of his face. The kid didn't look angry or upset as he stared at his red fingertips, just tired. He sighed as he dragged his eyes over towards the door. "We can't talk here," he murmured more to himself than to Steve, not even bothering to look at said man as he brushed past him. The soldier could tell the boy was trying to hide the limp in his step as he walked over to the balcony, and he was honestly doing a fairly good job.

Practice...

Another churn of the stomach. Another plume of unease.

Peter opened up the balcony doors and motioned for Steve to follow. The soldier glanced back over his shoulder at the door to the room before following the kid out.

The teen didn't seem content with the added distance the balcony provided, however, as he moved over towards the side of the balcony and eyed the attached fire escape. He hopped onto the edge of the railing (much to Steve's dismay) and expertly leapt off, hands catching the edge of the metal structure as he did so. He didn't look at Steve as he climbed, not even as he disappeared over the top edge of the roof.

Steve couldn't help the small scoff of disbelief that fell from his lips before shaking his head and walking over to the edge. Not being as nimble as his counterpart, it took a little more maneuvering, but he was quickly able to catch himself on the fire escape. After that, it was a short climb to the roof, where Peter was already getting himself situated.

He was currently couched down next to what looked to be a large air conditioning unit. Peter laced his fingers around the edge of a panel and pulled it off, revealing the small empty space behind it. Careful of the actual mechanical wires of the unit, the teen grabbed a duffel bag and pulled it out of the box, quickly unzipping it as he set it on the floor.

Steve carefully walked over as Peter began to pull gauze, bandages, and towels out of the bag. "You have two first aid kits?"

"Three actually."

"Why?"

"Convenience." The teen didn't look up from his work as he pulled out a long brown towel, draping it over one shoulder while he maneuvered a pair of tweezers into his non-bloody hand. He didn't waste any time in searching for glass shards as he hopped on top of the air conditioning box, heels banging softly against the metal. "I brought you up here to talk, so we're gonna talk." He dabbed the towel against his bloody palm and dropped it down next to him, lifting his eyes to stare at the soldier. "What were you doing in Queens?"

Steve didn't say anything at first. For some reason, a niggling seed of apprehension still hung heavy in his gut.

Maybe it was the fact that the last time he'd seen Spider-Man, they'd been fighting against each other in a crumbling airport. Of course, he was still having some trouble wrapping his head around the fact that this tiny kid could somehow be the web-shooting, crime-fighting spider that he kept hearing about. Another spark of anger ignited in his chest at the sheer audacity of Stark, but he forced it down. Now was not the time to be losing his head.

Peter noticed his hesitations and narrowed his eyes. "You owe me answers." The kid's voice wasn't necessarily demanding, just matter-of-fact. Steve couldn't really disagree considering he was standing on a rooftop and not holed up at the police station.

He sighed and folded his arms, now sort of regretting his idea to take off his jacket now that the biting wind was beginning to seep into his skin. "There've been some weapons going around the city, illegal weapons. Somehow, people are getting their hands on alien tech and are manufacturing new weapons out of it, weapons that can really cause some damage if tonight was any indication."

Peter pinched the tweezers against a shard of glass and slowly pulled it out of his palm. He didn't look at Steve as he spoke. "I heard about that. Your friend told me about it...Mr. Wilson." He dropped the shard next to him and took a breath, glancing away. "I...I've seen that tech around the city, even had a similar explosion to deal with not too long ago but...I didn't know it was alien tech." He shook his head and turned back to his hand, pinching the tweezers around another shard in his finger. "How are they even getting access to it? Isn't that something the government would be dealing with?"

Steve moved to lean against the conditioning unit, sighing as he did so. "It is. Somehow they're bypassing all of the security measures and swiping it right out from under their noses."

Peter pulled another shard out, wiping the towel across the dot of blood that pricked up. "Sounds a bit too sophisticated for common street thugs."

"We thought so too. So we've been investigating. I was staking out a supposed manufacturing plant here in Queens." Steve gazed out across the buildings, trying to take note of where he was. "When I got there, it was already vacated. But as I was leaving, I happened to stumble upon those robbers. Safe to say, they weren't very happy to see me."

The teen scoffed. "Yeah, they aren't really big fans of the supers." He pulled another shard and dropped it down before his brow furrowed and his head was lifting. "Wait, but...that doesn't explain why you're still doing this?"

Steve turned and threw the teen a strange look. "What do you mean?"

Peter chewed on his cheek as he peered back down at his hand. He brushed the towel against his palm again, but it was slower this time, more...distracted. "I mean why are you bothering with this? You...you aren't Avengers anymore," he murmured in a low tone of voice.

The soldier stared back at him for a minute, turning away with a deep breath. "Just because the world isn't showering us with praise and adoration anymore doesn't mean we still can't do the right thing."

Despite the mindsets of his teammates, Steve hadn't had many doubts about their missions. The danger and the present threat of the looming government body did warrant cause for hesitations, sure. But Steve had never actually considered stopping. Just because the world had turned their backs on them didn't mean he had to stop trying to do good.

Steve jumped, however, at the sound of a harsh scoff. He turned back towards Peter, who was now giving a small shake of his head. "Right, cause you're just such a good person," he muttered, lifting his leg to lay overtop his knee, revealing the small spots of blood that came from the extra shards embedded in the limb.

The soldier narrowed his eyes and slowly pushed off of the conditioning unit, turning so that he was now fully facing the teen. He watched Peter begin to pick shards out of his calf. The task seeming so menial, so trivial and ordinary, like the kid wasn't bothered by it at all.

But Steve was bothered by it.

"Is there any particular reason why you hate me so much?"

Peter stopped working at that, lifting his head to stare back at the man. His eyes were sharp and cold and seemed to bore a hole straight through Steve's forehead from the sheer intensity smoldering within, a sense of barely restrained resentment tinged at the edges of his irises, burning deep and dark.

"Yeah. There is."

The man tapped his fingers against the side of his leg. "If that's the case then why did you bother to save me?"

Peter's face pinched in annoyance and he glared back down at his leg. "I don't know."

"You could have left me in that alleyway and been done with it. So why didn't you? Why did you help me?"

"I don't know," the teen growled, roughly pulling out the last shard and wincing at the spurt of blood that followed. He angrily grabbed the towel and slammed it against his leg. He slowed, took a breath, eyes crinkling around the edges. "I...I don't know. I guess I just..." He seemed to hesitate, tracing his fingers against the cloth before his eyes twitched. "I guess I just don't want to be like you."

And the sheer scorn in his words, the disdain in his voice finally hit a nerve as Steve straightened up to his full height. "What's that supposed to mean, son?" His voice was hard, laced with a hint of anger.

Peter must have picked up on the shift in the soldier's tone, for his posture instantly shifted to the defensive, shoulders hunching and muscles coiling as if he was preparing for a blatant attack. Steve backed down...if only slightly.

Despite his wariness, however, Peter didn't hold back in his words, though Steve noticed a newfound shakiness to the kid's hands. "I don't want to be the kind of person who just leaves someone alone by themselves, especially when they obviously need my help." The teen clenched his fists. "The kind of person who just leaves them alone to fend for themselves just to save my own skin."

He glared right at Steve as he said it, causing the soldier to furrow his brows, the sheer specificity making him pause for a brief second before the shot of realization finally hit, sending an uneasy chill all throughout his veins and added a new tightness to his chest. He exhaled a long, slow breath that seemed to hang heavy in the air around him.

"Stark..."

Peter's face somehow got harsher. "Yeah. You remember him? I know it might have slipped your mind what with all the fun you've been having beating up thugs and demolishing buildings."

Great. A groupie. Steve thought to himself. The last thing he needed was to get into a fist-fight with one of Stark's loyalists, especially one who had probably gotten all sorts of misinformation drilled into his head. He sighed and rubbed at his forehead. "Look, Peter. I know you probably feel pretty loyal to Tony. I get that. So no doubt you'd believe anything and everything he says to you. But you're only hearing one side, son. He's spinning this so he comes out infallible, untouchable."

His anger was returning. It was a bit harder to push down this time. Stark was basically brainwashing a perfectly impressionable kid just to fit his own personal agenda. Because of course he was. Apparently nothing was too low for him.

"We both made mistakes, you know. Tony-"

"Tony already told me that," Peter cut in with a sharp look. "He told me how you both made mistakes right before he tried to convince me that he was even more responsible for the Avengers breaking up than you were."

At that, the words died in Steve's throat, replaced with a poignant sense of shock. He opened his mouth, only to close it again as he found no response. He took a step back, face tightening and eyes narrowing in confusion as he tried again. "He...he took responsibility?" It was hard to keep the disbelief out of his voice.

"Yeah. He did. That 'egotistical son of a bitch' tried to convince me that you were once a good person." Peter scoffed and turned his head away. "Personally, I don't see it."

Steve didn't say anything for a moment, too busy trying to process everything.

He knew Stark. He knew his tendencies. He was capable of claiming responsibility for his past failures, sure. He'd admitted his culpability surrounding Ultron in Berlin. But for him to actively strive to set people straight about what happened? To claim responsibility in front of someone like Spider-Man, someone who probably would have believed anything Tony said? And not only that, but for him to defend Steve to his own protégé?

It was...surprising to say the least. Unexpected.

Peter drummed his fingers against the top of the air conditioning unit before pushing himself off. Steve watched in silence as the kid wiped the towel against his head, clearing it of the blood as best he could before tossing it back onto the floor. He reached into the duffel bag and pulled out a roll of bandages. He started to turn away again, but faltered before he fully could, gently tapping the roll against his arm as he pressed his tongue into his cheek.

"You know...there was a time I would have been gushing at your feet if I'd met you, showering you with praise." He gestured with the bandages at Steve, who said nothing as the boy spoke. "Come on, you're Steve Rogers. Captain America. You're a living legend. Every kid's hero.

This time he did turn away, used his teeth to rip off a section of bandage before he began to gently wrap them around his palm. He didn't bother to look up from his work as he spoke again. "At least, you were...before everyone found out how much you didn't deserve to be."

Steve sighed and turned away, shook his head as he pushed down the indignation that flared. This kid just didn't get it. "Look...you're angry. I get that. But you're only angry because you don't understand."

Peter scoffed again. It was starting to annoy him.

"It's true. You have no idea the nuances in play here. All you know is what you've been told. And that's not the whole truth." Steve was tired of being harped on, tired of people looking down on him and his team just for doing what they thought was right.

The kid finished up with the wrapping and tossed the remaining bandages into the bag. Immediately after, he folded his arms and stared up at the man that definitely had a good foot and a half on him.

"Why didn't you sign?"

Steve faltered at that. "What?"

Peter shrugged. "I don't know the whole truth? Fine. Then tell me. Explain it to me."

"I...that's-" This wasn't where he'd expected things to go.

"Come on." Peter threw his hands out. "Now's your chance to prove you're not just blowing hot air."

The soldier blinked down at him, narrowed his eyes as his air of composure wavered ever so slightly. "I don't have to prove anything to you, son."

To his surprise, Peter didn't seem angry at his response. He just lowered his hands back down to his sides. "You're right. You don't." He pointed out towards the glowing lights of Manhattan in the distance. "It's them that need the proof, proof that you're not just some crooked hero who doesn't care about them. Cause that's what it looks like from where they're standing...from where I'm standing."

Steve stared at him, at the teen who seemed so wary of him yet so ready to defy and challenge him at a moment's notice, like his anger for the Captain outweighed any fear he might have (and Steve was sure this kid probably had a lot).

Despite his desires to prove to the world that the Avengers weren't dangerous, that they were still a force for good, he'd never actually had to do it before, never had to defend his actions in such an informal and yet so personal manner. Still, Steve couldn't help the burning itch in his throat to explain his reasonings.

He knew why his actions were right. Maybe it was finally time for someone else to know as well.

He ran a hand through his hair and took a breath. It was cold as it swirled around his lungs. "I had to protect my team. The Accords...I knew from the start that they were dangerous. Some of the things they talked about: detainment indefinitely with no trial, required identity monitoring and DNA collection, board sanctions prior to any operative missions, no matter the severity. It was just..."

He clenched his fists, the same anger and resentment he'd felt the first time he'd read the Accords burning bright once again. "They took away our rights, treated us like weapons, like we weren't even people. I...I couldn't sign those papers, son. I couldn't just...relinquish our freedoms for the sake of - what? Making some politicians up on Capital Hill feel a little more secure in their mansions?

To his surprise, Peter did seem to listen. The kid shook his head, stared down at the ground. "You think Mr. Stark could agree to that either?"

Steve felt his face twist in disgust. "Didn't he?"

"He signed the preliminary. But what do you think he's been doing this whole time? Not just chasing down one thug after another in an endless sea of criminals in the hopes of maybe finding the source to a single weapons outpost. Watch the news. He's fighting for people like you, people like me, people who have the right to live freely without the fear of cameras looking over their shoulder."

Peter gestured to himself. "Why do you think I'm still able to go out there as Spider-Man every night? Cause those Accords you're so afraid of haven't been made official yet. Mr. Stark's fighting to revise them, a fight that would be going a lot easier if you were there to back him up." His last words were accompanied by another pointed glare.

"See that's what this is, Captain. Compromise. You give a little, you take some in return."

"I understand that."

"Do you?"

Steve narrowed his eyes. "Yes. I do. But I also understand that not every scenario has a compromise. Stark asked me to trust the same government that almost caused the deaths of over a hundred thousand people in DC, the same body that allowed a parasite like HYDRA to grow unchecked, grow strong enough to almost completely take over! You're telling me that they can be trusted to handle something like 'reigning in' the Avengers, that they can be trusted to not abuse the same system they want to throw us in?"

Peter took a breath, let it out slowly, like he was trying to remain calm himself. "I get that you were uneasy with the Accords. I do. But your solution was to just shrug, turn your back and completely abandon any hope of reconciliation, of fixing the actual problem?" He shook his head and stared at the man in disbelief. "You just decided that placing all of the trust in yourself was good enough? What about Lagos? What about those people who died? Don't they deserve some guarantee that something like that will never happen again, that the Avengers will take responsibility and shape up?!"

Steve felt his fists clenching, felt the same burning seed of doubt that had first arisen after Lagos and buried it down the same way he had back then. He took a step forward. "If we hadn't been there, those terrorists would have gotten away with a biological weapon that they could have used to wipe out thousands of lives. We stopped that."

"You can't judge the what-ifs, only what did happen. And the fact of the matter is that you cost those people their lives." Peter's eyes burned with something a little darker as he continued. 'What, are you just saying they don't matter? That their lives meant nothing to you?"

Steve gritted his teeth, a burning building in his chest, breathless and hot. "Of course not! I..." He sucked in a sharp breath, stealing a glance away as he tried to compose himself, but this boy was pressing all the wrong buttons, itching underneath his skin. "Look, like it or not, you're a kid," he started sharply. "You haven't been around as long as we have. And I know you might want to stay in your little fantasy world where everything works out fine, but the rest of us don't have that luxury." He took another step. Peter, in return, took one back. "We had to grow out of it. And the fact of the matter is that in this line of work, you can't save everybody. You can try, but sometimes...sometimes you fail."

He paused, ceased his advance, and instead turned his gaze to stare out over the city, a heavier tone entering his voice, low and quiet. "Collateral is a part of every war. And every soldier must face that." The words burned his tongue. But he knew the truth behind them.

Peter, however, didn't seem content as he let out a harsh growl. "Except this isn't war. And those people aren't soldiers!"

"But we are," Steve shot back. "Everyone who goes out there and fights to protect those people falls into that category. And I knew I couldn't protect those people by signing those papers. I couldn't. And I certainly couldn't protect my own people by signing, my team."

The soldier gave a small nod, pressed his tongue against the inside of his cheek as Peter glowered at the ground. "I'll admit it. The Avengers have the capabilities to become a pretty great threat. But we're also the best equipped to handle the bigger threats. Alien invasions, world-ending crises. Hell, I'm supposed to trust the same government that fired a goddamn nuke at New York? That's the body you want running the Avengers?" His fingers twitched again, arms crossing over his chest. "Corruption runs all throughout those rings, whether you want to admit it or not."

Peter's face seemed to change at that, a minuscule detail that Steve picked up on. He didn't look as angry rather than he did uncomfortable, uneasy, like the words had struck a nerve.

"The Avengers cannot get mixed up in those chains. How can we trust and fight for an entity that is so vulnerable?" Steve turned away as he asked this, scanned his eyes over the sea of buildings stretching before him. In the distance he could make out the East River, the glow of Manhattan reflecting off the water.

His eyes drifted up, catching sight of the gleaming lights of Stark Tower. His fingers twitched again, a steady rhythm he no longer had to think about.

His eyes narrowed. "Stark wants to believe he can make amends...thinks the Accords, the accountability will somehow make him feel better about everything that's gone wrong, will take away his guilt." There was a new venom in his voice, a shrewdness that etched onto the words themselves. "His ego has always been his biggest flaw and it's still present now."

Peter growled, an audible rumble in the back of his throat. Steve ignored it in favor of kindling the embers beginning to burn in his chest, smoldering brighter with each moment that passed. "He was so threatened by the idea of the public not backing the Avengers anymore that he went turned on his own teammates to sign legislation that would ultimately destroy us!"

"That's not true!" Peter snarled, fists clenched and posture visibly tense with anger.

"Isn't it?" Steve wasn't backing down, though. For the first time in two months all of the stress and tension and frustration he'd been holding back in exchange for keeping the peace between his teammates was finally bubbling up, a new freedom to his voice that he otherwise kept on lockdown. For once, he didn't have to worry about playing peacekeeper. For once, he could go on the offensive.

"I've known that man for over four years. You've known him - what? Two months now?" He scoffed and shook his head. "I know you might want to think you know everything there is to know about him, that he's just the greatest thing since sliced bread, but that sort of childish adoration isn't going to help you in the long run, son."

Peter sneered, didn't seem content to listen to Steve's words of warning. "What? You wanna talk about helping me all of a sudden, Mr. Collateral is a part of life? Give me a fucking break." He stalked closer, tilting his head up to stare the soldier right in the eyes. "You talk like you're oh-so-righteous, like you're so much better than the infamous Tony Stark." He pointed an accusatory finger, all but jabbed it into the man's chest. "But at the end of the day, you couldn't give a damn about the people down there, people like me, whether we live or die."

Steve jolted at the words, staring the teen down with his piercing blue eyes as a sharp swirl of air entered his lungs.

Maybe it was the concussion still ringing in the back of his head. Maybe it was how tired he felt after dealing with the fight, the hiding, the yelling. Maybe it was just an inevitable timebomb waiting to go off and now happened to be the end of the fuse, but whatever it was, Steve felt his last remaining strings of composure beginning to fray.

"You think I don't care?" he murmured, voice low and cold, eyes burning with an icy intensity. "You think I don't remember everyone I couldn't-" he cut himself off with a harsh inhale, lifting a hand to rub at his mouth, trying to ignore the brief shakiness of his hand as it rubbed at his skin.

He was tired of this.

New York, DC, Sokovia, Lagos, Germany, Siberia.

Everywhere they tried to do good, everywhere he tried to do good, it never seemed to be enough. There were always people he couldn't save, people he let down. He knew that. In 1945, he accepted that, accepted that sometimes nothing was ever enough. It wasn't an easy lesson, but it was one Steve had learned to live with.

But watching the world pick apart his attempts, constantly remind him that his efforts still weren't good enough, he could honestly say it was making those doubts just a little more prominent, made that ache in his chest just a bit sharper.

"You're still fresh, aren't you," he started softly, Peter watching with distrust ever-present in his bright brown eyes. "You haven't been doing this for very long. It's fun, isn't it? Being a superhero, swinging around stopping car thieves and helping little old ladies." His tone was patronizing, harsh and critical as he all but glared at the teen. "But you have no idea of the real struggles of this job."

He took a step closer. It was threatening, intimidating. Peter backed up, face scrunching into a tiny bit of insecurity. Steve found he didn't care. "In Germany, the airport...you didn't have a care in the world. Didn't know what we were there for. You were only there to impress, there to have fun."

He leaned closer, cornering the kid against the back of the air conditioning unit. His voice was deadly. "This job isn't about fun. It isn't about doing what you want. It's about sacrifice."

("I gotta put her in the water!")

"It's about making the hard calls and learning to live with them."

("Close it.")

"And sometimes that means losing people."

("BUCKY!")

"It comes with the job. It's hard and it's horrible, but it's inevitable." He took another step, mere inches away from the kid now as he growled. "So don't you dare say that I don't care. You have no right, not when you have no idea the pain and the sleepless nights that come from failure, from the guilt that eats at you as you think about those people who relied on you, those people who thought you'd save them, watching them fall, watching them die with no power to stop it."

("Did you know?")

Peter wasn't looking at him anymore. His eyes were on the ground. His fists were clenched. Steve barely even noticed, too focused on keeping his voice from shaking, on keeping his legs steady and his head from swimming in the static that was threatening to overtake it.

"You have the privilege of being spared that torment, so don't you try and tell me off, pretending that you have even an inkling of the pain that comes with this job, because how could you know? How could you possibly know?!"

The fist was fast, so fast that Steve didn't even have time to register what was happening before he was being knocked to the ground. He fell with a thud, collapsing back onto the concrete with a sharp jolting pain to his cheek. It took him a second to truly comprehend what had just happened before he was blinking away the stars and lifting his shocked eyes to meet Peter.

The kid was standing over him now, offending fist clenched so tightly it was shaking. His chest heaved, each breath like a struggle as his shoulders shook, eyes watery and cheeks red as he gritted his teeth and stared at Steve with a look of pure despair and hatred rolled into one scathing glare.

"Fuck you, Rogers."

He spat the words so softly yet so forcefully. Without another word, he spun around on his heel and marched over to the other side of the roof, leaving Steve in a dazed heap on the floor.

The static numbness that had begun to encroach on his vision was receding, mind clearing as the startling anger began to die down. He breathed, soft and shallow, chest thudding up and down in an unsteady fashion as he tried to calm. He gently lifted a hand, brushed his fingers up against the warm skin of his cheek. The shock coursing through him slowly began to dwindle as he blinked his eyes and glanced down at the ground, ears ringing with a soft echo.

It was familiar, the same whining tone he'd used to hear in his ears as he lay alone in the alleyways, the loud laughter of the other kids bouncing off the walls as they left his scrawny little self all alone, bruised and beaten. It was the same ringing that would follow him all the way home, limp after limp, up the steps and through the door, like a stench he could never outrun, a shame he could never hide from.

There was silence now, a deep quiet that seamlessly mixed with the soft breeze that continued to wrap around his skin.

He was in the city, in Queens. Steve should have been able to pick up on the sounds of car backfires, voices and bar beats, shouts and traffic honks. He should have heard the noise. He always heard the noise.

But there was no noise. Nothing except for the ringing...and the soft sniffles of the kid sitting a little ways away on the edge of the roof. The kid he'd just screamed at. The kid that had just gotten the shit kicked out of him. The kid that had saved his life earlier that night.

And for the first time since the beatings had begun way back in 1929, Steve truly felt that he finally deserved the punch-out.

He sighed, shut his eyes and turned his head away. You're an ass, Rogers.

His words began to wash over him in a hot roll of all-too-familiar shame, his lack of self-control disgraceful. He was supposed to be proving this kid wrong, proving why he and his teammates didn't deserve to be called criminals, to be called bad guys, and here he was proving exactly why the world saw them as such, why they saw him as such.

Why can't you ever just walk away? Why can't you just stand down?

Tony had his fair share of flaws. But Steve just couldn't seem to work past his own.

Maybe he should have stood down in Bucharest. Then those officers wouldn't have gotten hurt and he wouldn't have been arrested in the first place. Maybe he should have stood down in Berlin. Tony would have gotten him to sign and Bucky would be safe in a rehabilitation ward. Maybe he should have stood down in Leipzig. Rhodey would still be able to walk. His teammates wouldn't have spent those torturous weeks on the Raft. Maybe he should have stood down in Siberia.

He should have told Tony.

He should have told Tony.

The soldier opened his eyes again, felt the hard gravel of the rooftop surface digging into his palm, leaving deep red indents in the skin. The moon was out tonight, big and bright, just the same as it always was, just the same as it was a year ago, two years ago, just the same as it was before the Accords, before the fights and the screaming, when he could walk onto the common floor in the dead of night and find a certain billionaire wide awake and open to talk about whatever. And just like that, Steve was suddenly overcome with a shocking sense of grief.

He'd never noticed before just how much he missed his friend.

Both of his friends...

His eyes drifted away from the orb in the sky and instead settled on the boy it was currently illuminating. Peter hadn't moved from his spot, hadn't bothered to pick up the rest of his supplies. He just sat on the edge of the roof, legs hanging down over the ledge, hands in his lap. From here, Steve could see that his past suspicions were correct. There were small little tears in the kid's shirt, most likely from where the broken remains of the mirror frame had sliced into his back.

Steve chewed the inside of his cheek for a second before furrowing his brow and rising up to his feet.

Steve Rogers, ever the flawed man, just didn't know when to walk away. And right now, he found he didn't want to.

If Peter heard his approach (which Steve was almost positive he had), he didn't let it on. He just kept his eyes drawn and down. Upon closer inspection, Steve noticed the kid was rubbing circles into the back of his uninjured hand, pressing into the skin softly with the tips of his fingers.

Steve grabbed the duffel bag as he advanced, fingers tapping against his leg again as he took a small breath, faint and airy.

"Why did you let him do it?"

Peter knew immediately what he was talking about. The kid sighed, wiped at his eyes. "Leave me alone."

Steve knelt down and set the bag down next to him. Peter didn't turn to face him as he continued. "You're strong. I saw it in Germany, felt it not even a minute ago. You could have stopped him if you really wanted to, knocked him through a wall in the process no doubt." He glanced down at the bag, at the collection of medical supplies: rolls and gauze and bandages, tweezers, alcohol, sutures. It never seemed to end. "So why didn't you?"

Peter didn't say anything for a second, long enough for Steve to wonder if the kid would just keep ignoring him. Finally, Peter lifted his eyes towards the sky and shook his head. "Believe it or not, Captain, brute force isn't always the answer to your problems," he muttered with an annoyed look that slowly devolved into one of exhaustion. He gazed down at his wrapped palm, picked at the edge of the bandages with his nail. "I can't just punch my way out. I know that's something you probably don't understand."

He wasn't wrong. Steve wasn't a stranger to using his fists to solve his issues. Nevertheless, he wasn't above the alternatives, no matter what his teammates said.

"You gonna hit me now?"

It did catch him off guard, he had to admit. But he didn't let the surprise show too much on his face. "No. Of course not." His voice was level, calm, a stark difference to the sheer bullheaded anger he'd shown previously.

Peter's was the same, mundane and matter-of-fact. "Why not? I hit you. I was mouthing off."

"That doesn't warrant me hitting you back, son. Nothing warrants that."

He kept picking at the bandages, face passive and empty. "Discipline's important."

"That's not discipline. That's abuse."

"Potato, potahto."

Steve held back his response, had to physically bite his tongue to keep from opening his mouth. He knew a simple conversation wasn't going to change anything here. This kid was repeating a script, a line of dialogue he'd most likely been fed for a while. Steve wasn't about to break through that in a single night.

Peter seemed grateful for the man's silence, the soldier deciding to make his move now. He held up the pair of tweezers he'd found in the bag, Peter eying them strangely before glancing up at the man's face. Steve angled his head sideways. "Your back. It's still bleeding."

Immediately, Peter shifted away, angling his body so that his back was out of the man's line of sight. Steve sighed, determined to remain calm as he tried to lower himself down to the ground as much as possible, if only to appear like less of a threatening wall of muscle. "You can't reach those shards and you know it," his tone was careful in avoiding any accusatory notes.

Peter stared at him in mistrust, eyes narrowed and body stiff as he flitted his gaze back and forth between Steve and the tweezers in his hand. Finally, after a long moment of tense silence, the teen deflated slightly as he sighed in reluctant acceptance, angling his disgruntled look towards the floor as he warily began to shift so that his back was easier to see.

Steve took it as the green light, shifting his own position so that he was now kneeling right behind the teen. Now that he was up close, he could see through the rips in the kid's shirt, noticed not only the freshly bleeding wounds courtesy of the protruding glass shards, but also the longer, deeper, older scars that wound up and down the boy's skin, like deep carvings in the earth.

One breath. Two. Calm. Composed.

He gingerly pressed his hand into an unmarred section of the kid's back, if only to get him used to his touch. Peter jerked at the contact, body nearly shivering from the stiff tenseness ringing through him, but he didn't voice any protests. Steve nodded and carefully maneuvered the tweezers, pinching them around the first shard. Peter didn't say anything as he removed it as carefully as possible, didn't even wince. Just sat still, tightly wound like a coiled spring, ready to lurch at a moment's notice.

But after a few more shards and another couple minutes of silence, the teen's fingers began to twitch against the ledge of the building. Steve noticed, didn't spare it much of a glance as he concentrated on removing another shard. He hesitated for a second, wondered if maybe he shouldn't push his luck too far. But the curiosity quickly became too much.

"What's the matter, Peter?"

He felt Peter stiffen even more as he spoke, the kid's fingers freezing in their twitches. But after a second - through which Steve made absolutely sure to keep his movements extra gentle if only to show the boy he meant no harm in his question - Peter took a small breath and lowered his head ever so slightly. "How...h-how did you know who I was? When you saw me...how'd you know?"

Steve gave a small nod of his head, knew the kid would probably ask that of him eventually. "The papers have been mentioning you a bit. I saw your picture...with Tony. So when the first face I see after fighting with Spider-Man is Tony Stark's new supposed protégé that sounds remarkably similar to the web-slinger he recruited, well...I'm not as dumb as you think I am." He gave a small grin at that, wished he could see Peter's face at his comment. Instead, he just kept his focus on removing the last few shards.

He noticed Peter was still tense. Again, he waited for the question.

"You gonna tell anyone?" His voice wasn't defensive or angry. It sounded...resigned, tired, like his fate was about to be handed to him on a silver platter he had no control over.

Steve pursed his lip. "No. Not...if you answer some questions."

If Peter was surprised, he didn't voice it. Instead, he remained quiet as Steve pulled out the last shard, dropping it down onto the floor to join the rest. He grabbed a clean towel from the bag. "I'm just gonna clean off the blood, okay?"

No response. Just a nod.

The soldier gingerly lifted up the bottom of the kid's shirt, gently pressing the towel against his skin. It only took a moment to clear away most of the blood, took a bit longer to tear his eyes away from the scattering of scars. He lowered the teen's shirt, tossed the towel to the floor. Peter finally turned, face stoic and eyes heavy. Steve realized the boy was waiting for him to ask his questions.

"Those people down there...who are they?"

Peter hesitated for a moment, seemed to search Steve's face for a trace of something. When he couldn't find it, he sighed and gave a small shrug of his shoulders, resting his chin on his hand as he seemed to realize he didn't have much choice. "My aunts and uncles. At least, that's what I call them in front of the cameras." He waved his hand. "They're my dad's friends, his...associates. I've known them since I was like, eight. They're...interesting."

Steve leaned forward, finally relived he was starting to get some answers, however small they were. "Does your dad know? Does he know what they do?"

At this, the kid remained quiet. His fingers began to twitch again, thumping against his leg, continued to flit his eyes around the soldier's face. Finally he shrugged and glanced away, effectively shielding his eyes from the man's prying gaze. "My dad's a busy guy."

That wasn't an answer. Steve quickly realized he wouldn't get one. (And that, in itself, was answer enough.)

He swallowed, took a steadying breath as he tried to collect himself, keep his cool. It wouldn't do any good if he started getting all riled up again. He glanced away, if only to take a moment to compose himself, and as he did, he couldn't help but lock onto Stark Tower again.

"Does Tony know?"

Peter's posture shifted. He was back on the defensive.

"...Yes."

"Is he doing anything about it?"

"Yes," he fired back immediately. "As much as I'll let him, at least. So watch it." He leaned closer to Steve, face pinched tight into a dirty look. "I don't want to yell again, but I won't listen to you rag on him."

Steve didn't nod. He didn't back off or continue his harping. Instead, he took in the look not on the kid's face, but in his eyes. He wasn't just angry for the sake of being angry. He was defensive, sure. But not for himself. He was defensive of Tony. That look in his eyes...it was protective, a warning shine.

He took a small breath, felt another question bubbling in his throat. This one was different though, felt different.

"Why do you care about him so much?"

Peter reared back slightly, an offended look crossing his face for a brief second before it slowly disappeared as he noticed the lack of an accusatory tone in Steve's words. The soldier didn't stare him down in an intimidating manner, didn't sneer or condescend. His face held nothing but curiosity, no malice, no anger.

The teen blinked at him, opened his mouth then closed it again. He turned away, lifted a hand to rub at the back of his neck before it was plopping back down into his lap. "Because...he cares about me. Figured the least I could do is return the favor." His voice was softer than Steve had heard it be before, an open vulnerableness the kid had been reluctant to show the entire night. Peter tilted his head, glanced up towards the Tower. "I think the Tony Stark you know and the Tony Stark I know are two very different people."

It was like looking at the magazine again, looking at the picture of Peter and Tony together on that curb. Steve was looking in on something he had no concept of, a certain bond he couldn't comprehend. Once again, the feeling of intruding, of seeing something he shouldn't be seeing returned to him, like he was peering into a relationship he had no right to be spying on.

Steve swallowed again, but it was difficult this time. "Maybe not that different." The man glanced down at his hands, at the bandages wrapped around his own arm. He could feel the burns underneath, the familiar itching sensitivity. He could even feel the stitches in his arm, the skin tight and warm.

"I never thanked you, you know?"

Peter cocked a brow. "What? For punching you in the face?"

Steve smiled. "For saving me."

The teenager locked his eyes onto the man, stared into his face like he was trying to see the sincerity behind his words. He said nothing, leading them to sit in silence for a while. Finally, he blew out a small little sigh, soft and subdued, causing Steve to glance back over. Peter's hands were curling back into fists and for a moment, the man wondered if maybe the kid was angry again. But instead of shouting, the teen's words were quiet, gentle.

"Captain Rogers...despite what you might think, despite...everything I've said tonight..." he paused for a moment, bit his lower lip and flexed his fingers. "I don't think you're a bad guy."

Once again, Steve was caught off guard. But then Peter continued.

"Stubborn, stupid, arrogant, disloyal, selfish, smug, condescending-"

There is it.

"Yeah, I...I got it."

Peter furrowed his brow, relaxed his hands and turned towards him. "I know what bad people are like. They enjoy the things they do, the harm they cause others, like...like it's a game to them. You...you're not like that." He gave a small nod of his head. "Yeah, you've made a ton of bad decisions, but that doesn't make you a bad person. You've never done any of them just for the sake of hurting people. Despite all your flaws, you do still...try to do the right thing. You try to be good."

The kid shrugged and turned his head away. "Sometimes that's the best we can do...is just try."

Steve didn't say anything, didn't know if he should. Peter didn't seem to mind his silence as he continued.

"I understand why you didn't sign the Accords, but...I don't understand you leaving." He gazed at Steve not with a look of anger or disgust, but almost...sadness? "How could you do that to him? He trusted you and you just...left him."

The soldier sucked in a deep breath, felt it rattle around in his chest, hollow and empty. "It was one of the hardest things I've ever done. Despite evidence pointing to the contrary, Tony was my friend. He was...he was a good friend."

"...you shouldn't have left him."

"I know. I shouldn't have. But I can't change what happened. I can only work with what's in front of me."

If the teen was dissatisfied with his answer, he didn't say so. Instead, he tapped a foot against the floor of the roof and stood, wincing slightly at the movement. Steve followed him with his eyes and then with his own movements, rising up as well. Peter took a few steps back, as if he finally realized just how close the soldier was to him. He folded his arms over his chest, wrapping them tight around himself as he suddenly looked unsure, uncomfortable.

Now that he wasn't on the defensive, now that he wasn't yelling in anger or defending his friend, the teen looked...smaller. He looked like he wasn't really sure what to do with himself, shuffling back and forth between his feet. Steve almost cracked a smile at the display.

"You should go," Peter murmured. "If they come to check on me and I'm not in my room..."

Steve nodded, tried to ignore the familiar churn of unease. He resisted the urge to glance back over towards Stark Tower as he stared at Peter, a new sense of anxiety beginning to form as he mulled over his question. "Are you going to tell anyone about this? Tony maybe?" Safe to say, their little impromptu operations would be a bit harder if there was a new influx of tipped-off cops swarming the city.

However, Peter just wrapped his arms tighter around himself and leveled the Captain a hard stare. "You keep my secret...I'll keep yours."

More secrets. Great.

It was a no-brainer, though. If keeping his lips sealed about Spider-Man to his teammates was the price for keeping them safe, then so be it. He'd deal with the consequences later.

The man turned, eyed the ladder to the fire escape they'd used to get up there. Natasha had to be worried by now. In all honesty, he wouldn't be surprised if she was already out there scouring the streets for him.

Man, was there going to be hell for him to pay when he got back.

But as he wrapped a hand around the edge of the rusted metal, Steve found himself compelled to turn. He cracked a smile as he stared back at the teen. "You're a good kid, Peter." Despite the sting still burning in his cheek, or maybe even because of it, Steve knew it to be true. "I'm glad Tony has someone like you watching his back."

Peter blinked at him, eyes widening slightly at the praise. The teen opened his mouth but didn't say anything, choosing instead to glance down at the ground, stare at his shuffling feet. Steve nodded and made to head down the ladder again, only to pause once more.

This time it took a little longer for him to turn around, but the churning in his stomach was what finally compelled him.

He sighed, twisted on his heel, and marched back across the roof. Peter looked startled at the sudden look of determination on the Captain's face, cocking a brow as the man walked right past him and knelt back down over the duffel bag, rummaging around for a minute. "Umm...what-" he started, only to cut himself off as Steve stood up and walked back over.

Peter backed up just a tad as the man approached, but stopped as Steve held something out to him. It was a piece of bandage, ripped from the roll. On it was a line of numbers scribbled on in sharpie...a phone number.

"If, uh...if you ever need anything, or if you're just..." Steve trailed off, face pinching into a look of mild unease before he swallowed it down and leveled the kid another small smile. "I'm available. Just call...if you need me."

Peter stared down at the slip of bandage, then back up at Steve. It almost looked like he was about to take it, only to lean back slightly as he glanced away, brows furrowing slightly. "I won't. Need you...I mean."

Steve, ever prepared, just gave the paper a little shake. "Just humor me, then."

The teen flitted his eyes back over, shifted his weight between his feet again before finally huffing out a small sigh as he snatched the slip, stuffing it into his pocket without another word. Satisfied, Steve gave a little nod and walked back over to the fire escape. He wrapped both hands around the top of the ladder before glancing over his shoulder.

"Stay safe, Spider-Man."

The boy blinked at him, arms coming to fold over his chest, as he glanced away, licking his bottom lip. "You too." His voice was soft, but Steve heard it. Of course, the kid was quick to fix him with another annoyed look, jutting his chin out defiantly. "But this doesn't mean I like you, alright?"

Steve couldn't help the little chuckle that escaped. "Noted."

With that, the man began to make his way down the fire escape, the metal creaking slightly as he climbed down. It only took a second for him to reach the ground floor, head instantly swiveling as he debated which path to take. From up there, he'd made mental note of where the East River was. Following it should land him back at the warehouse in a few hours' time, depending on how fast he was and how many drunken pedestrians he'd have to hide from.

"Captain Rogers?

He lifted his gaze, found Peter leaning over the edge of the roof. Despite the distance, the teen didn't raise his voice much. Neither of them really had too, for they both knew the other could hear just fine.

"Yeah?"

The kid's face tightened into a firm frown, eyes hard and steady in their piercing gaze. His voice was level, seemed to carry for miles despite its quiet quality.

"I won't let you hurt him again."

Steve felt his fingers twitch at his sides, felt the familiar ache in his chest and the heaviness of his gut. He stared up at Peter, held his firm gaze with an earnest look of his own. "Believe me, son. That's the last thing I want to do."

Peter didn't falter. "Then why do you keep doing it?"

He swallowed, fought down the hint of nausea he'd been repressing since he'd woken, and sighed. "I guess I'm not as good of a friend as I like to think." He threw the kid a smile, a small, gentle one that he hoped carried the full weight of his words.

"But I'm hopeful that one day, I'll be able to change that."

With that, Steve turned away from the house, away from Peter, and began to mold into the shadows, his destination in hand.

Still, as he pushed off away from the house, away from one of the longest nights of his life, his ears still picked up the quiet reply of the strange kid he had a feeling he hadn't seen the last of.

"We'll see."