I really shouldn't start another fic before I finish at least one of my WIPs. But...I couldn't resist.

Trigger warnings: panic attacks, brief mention of drive-by shooting, attempted rape of minor characters, past sexual abuse (because Winter Soldier is not a child's bedtime story)

Also, the fics that this one was inspired by: Reintroducing Hope (on Ao3) is definitely one of my Top Fives, possibly with Spot #1. Weak Spots (also on Ao3) is basically porn, so if that's your thing go for it, but it is not anything like Reintroducing Hope or even like this fic. However, I took some elements from that one that will show up MUCH later in the fic (if at all - haven't quite decided yet how much time this fic will span), so here I am, giving credit where credit is due. :)

Peter sighed, flopping down heavily to rest on the ledge of the building. He had a few more minutes before he could really allow himself to go patrol, and he took the opportunity to rest a minute before he took off. Once the sun had set a little further over the horizon there would be an increase in the crime for the night, and he needed to conserve energy while crime was practically nonexistent. Or, as nonexistent as it could be in a place like New York City.

He felt and heard his stomach growl at him as he sat there. Really, if he had been having any kind of regular food intake he wouldn't be so worried about the night ahead being super tiring. In recent weeks most of the crimes he'd stopped had been fairly easy – attempted robberies, rapes, muggings, car thefts, and the like. Once upon a time, that had been nothing.

But now, he was always tired. He knew that it was thanks to his lack of real nutrition, combined with his Spidey powers trying to keep him up and running at 500% when he only had enough food for about 50%.

He'd had a half eaten hot dog thrown his way that afternoon, though – a businessman apparently in a rush and couldn't eat the rest of it. Peter felt lucky that he'd been the first homeless person the guy had come across – and before a trash can, because he knew that's basically what most people saw him as. Homeless people got leftovers, and that was it. Only the unwanted things, never a full meal.

Because of this, Peter was really getting tired of New York hot dogs. Which was a shame, because once upon a time they'd been his favorite thing. Now he could see the amount of tourists that tried out the infamous snacks and decided they didn't like them.

"Hiya, Spidey!"

Peter sighed silently to himself, lips tugging slightly upward at the familiar voice behind him. It looked like it would be a bit longer than he'd expected before he went to patrol – these visits tended to last a good hour. It would be completely dark by the time Peter began his patrol. He didn't move as the infamous Merc with a Mouth plopped down next to him, holding a bag that smelled delicious.

"I brought Mexican," Deadpool greeted, passing over one of the bags and keeping the other for himself. Peter couldn't bring himself to feign any kind of politeness, and immediately dove into the bag to bring out a 9-layer burrito. Deadpool wasn't any better though, already having lifted his mask to his nose and shoving a soft taco into his mouth, lettuce falling out to land unheeded on his lap.

"I think half the time I bring food, you're hungrier than I am, and I didn't think that possible," Deadpool said through his mouthful of food, glancing at Peter with a smirk.

Peter made a vague gesture that could either be interpreted as 'long day' or something obscene, more focused on unwrapping the second burrito in his hands than anything else. Now, at least, he would have some energy before his patrol. Not as much as he would if he were eating on a consistent, regular basis, but beggars couldn't be choosers. And Peter would certainly consider himself a beggar, now.

Deadpool understood his gesture though, because while people underestimated him thanks to his immature attitude and definite mental problems, he was actually very smart and intuitive. He'd have to be, with his job, but Peter appreciated it more than he could say when trying to speak made his throat close with panic.

"Don't I know it, Spidey," Deadpool laughed in response to Peter's gesture. "I came across this guy in Bolivia last week – he was a serial rapist, so I unalived him – oh, don't give me that disapproving look! He's a bad guy, and the world is better off without him in it. But, interesting fellow. He had a pet goat, and you know they eat goats down there of course, but this guy treated the goat like it was his child! Or at least like a pet dog. Anyway, he had no intention of eating it, is my point. And I was all scary and menacing, of course – he knew why I was there – and he just kept babbling about Guadalupe (that's his goat's name) and how she had eaten too much and he needed to clean up her barf. Funny, because I didn't know that goats could barf! Goats are creepy. Have you seen their eyes? Their pupils are shaped like squares. I once had a goat head butt me on a job – not Guadalupe though, because she was busy throwing up and didn't care about me – and I had to re-grow little-Deadpool back. I'm convinced it grew back bigger though, so I really have to thank that yak for its stupidly sharp and pointy horns. Still creepy animals, though. Now, unicorns I can get behind. They've got the sharp and pointy horn, but they're these sweet little creatures that absolutely exist and fuck the world for calling them 'mythical'. No, I have not seen one, but they only approach virgins, and I lost my V-card well over a decade ago. What about you, Spidey? You turned in your V-card yet? I am more than willing to help your perky butt through this. But first, we'll find a unicorn. I need a selfie with one, dammit! Imagine how great that would look on my Twitter page."

Peter let Deadpool's babble wash over him, while the merc went from one topic to the other with no pause, forgetting about the original intent of his story in the first place. But Peter didn't mind. Although Deadpool asked him questions, he didn't expect an answer most of the time, which Peter was relieved about. He'd only been around Deadpool a handful of times as Spiderman, but the man was surprisingly laid back and fun to be around – not at all what he heard from the rumors about the fast-talking mercenary.

He remembered the first time they'd ended up on the same roof. Deadpool had already been up there, and Peter had climbed up there after stopping a robbery, not noticing the guy until he'd spoken.

"Welcome to the Red Club, Spidey!" was the first thing Deadpool had said to him, clapping his hands excitedly. Peter had been so startled by the other man's sudden presence that had it not been for his Spidey powers he would have fallen right off the roof. He'd caught himself though, peering trepidatiously at the excitable other man in red and black, katanas strapped to his back and countless guns slung about his person. Despite this, the man's stance was relaxed and unthreatening, resembling a child more than he did a deadly killer.

"Mine's Kevlar, but it's okay that yours is spandex," Deadpool went on as though nothing was weird about this. "I mean, with an ass like that, spandex is the perfect frame! No physical protection, but baddies would be way too shocked at the amazing bod that they'll just give up right there. And, protection – right there! The important part is red. Now, I chose mine because it hides blood really well, but you're like, super hippie and nonviolent, so why your color choice? I can't think of any spider that's red and blue, but maybe I haven't been on Google enough. Yellow, take that down – research red and blue spiders. No, not like Spiderman – actual spiders. White, explain to him – I'm talkin' to Spidey, here." Deadpool had turned his white eyes back to Peter, clasping his hands in a pleading gesture.

"Tell me your secrets, Spidey! What is in that beautiful brain of yours? Why the red and blue?!"

Peter, of course, had been unable to say anything, and he tried. He tried to open his mouth, instinctively, to answer the question that came his way, but, of course, his throat had closed up and panic had crawled up his spine, making him feel claustrophobic and like he couldn't breathe. It was impossible for him to get a word out, and he didn't know how to convey this to the masked mercenary.

"Oh-em-gee," Deadpool said after a brief moment where he had clearly realized that Peter wasn't saying anything. "I thought The Man had tricked everyone into thinking you didn't talk now. I'm not used to being wrong. Shut up, White – it's true. This is like a fucking sitcom – no, really! I'm literally called 'the Merc with the Mouth', and you're mute. We should make a sitcom about this. Or a fanfiction! Yellow, write this down. Deadpool and Spidey – no! Spidey and Deadpool: the Mute and the Motormouth. Is motormouth a compound word? I don't know – we'll figure that out later. The alliteration is nice, anyway. That's okay, Spidey. You don't have to talk – I can do enough talking for both of us! Wait – we need power for this. You like Mexican, Spider-babe?"

And after that, whenever Deadpool was in New York he popped by and caught up with Peter. Most of the time he brought food, because Deadpool was always hungry. Peter was grateful, because that's where most of his food came from.

Deadpool didn't know who he was, though. The most Deadpool had ever seen of Peter's face was when he lifted the mask to his nose to eat, and he always rolled it right down into place after. Deadpool made some comment about his baby face, but Peter was pretty sure the guy didn't suspect that he was only a couple of months from being seventeen. Peter knew enough about him that he was positive that the guy wouldn't be making the overt sexual advances and innuendos to a minor. Flirting, sure. But not with the blatant attitude that Deadpool showed him.

Peter didn't mind it, though. After a couple of times meeting with the guy, he'd concluded that Deadpool wasn't dangerous to him – only the bad guys. This included killing as well as anything sexual. He trusted Deadpool enough to know that the mercenary wouldn't even kiss him without clear permission, and if he was wrong about that, he knew that the guy would back off if Peter made his denial clear.

But, back to the original point. Deadpool didn't know who he was. Not his name, not his face, not his age, and definitely not that he was homeless. So, he knew that Deadpool only brought food because…well, because it's what he did. And he had guessed that Peter had a healing factor and with it enhanced metabolism, so he always brought enough to feed about six normal people. He didn't bring it because he pitied Peter for being homeless and starving, and Peter wanted to keep it that way. The great Spiderman, homeless? Peter didn't want that kind of reputation attached to the superhero's name.

He'd only actually, officially met the mercenary about three months beforehand. He'd been aware of him since he was fifteen, hearing about him about six months after he became Spiderman. But it was more whispers then, and none of them spoke of good news. Certainly none of them implied that he would actually welcome Deadpool's company.

Granted, Peter still didn't hear the best things about Deadpool, but now he'd met him and he could differentiate rumors from truth. Oh, sure – Deadpool was definitely not all there, and yes he killed people for money…but as far as Peter could tell, the ones Deadpool killed were ones who deserved it. Or at least were terrible criminals. Peter was hard-pressed to judge the guy. Peter himself could never kill a rapist; it just wasn't his style. But Deadpool had no compunctions about it, so Peter decided to hell with it. He decided that he would never let Deadpool kill someone while he was there, but he didn't feel like he was a villain to be stopped – not like the world made him out to be.

He'd only spent time in Deadpool's presence a small handful of times, but it made him wonder what the mercenary was like when he was dangerous and doing his job. Because he'd never seen anything except lightheartedness and joking from the guy. Surely that was a front though, because there was no way he had become as infamous as he had as a mercenary without a scary persona.

But then again, maybe his actions spoke louder than words and people cared more about the bloody results than the manner the mercenary had gone about getting them.

Peter forced his thoughts away from the dark path they'd gone down, tuning back in to Deadpool's rambling.

"…So then I said, 'no way!' And she was like, 'yeah, I'm gonna fuck you up!' And I was like, 'aw, hell, no. No one messes with Ursula!' And long story short, Ursula died and now I'm on the hunt for a Jamaican lady missing a finger, and another house cactus. I'll name it Ursulason, because it's like Ursula 2.0 now." He shoved the last of his final taco into his mouth, briskly brushed his hands over the bottom half of his face to get rid of any crumbs, and then pulled the mask back into place.

"So, Spidey!" he said excitedly, jumping back to his feet, unable to remain still for too long. He bounced on the balls of his feet like a child asking their parent permission for something and just couldn't wait for the answer. That was an odd mental image for Peter to consider. Someone like Deadpool – dressed like him, but a woman, wearing an apron and standing in the kitchen, looking at a smaller Deadpool while the boy just couldn't contain himself. Peter shoved the image away – it was just weird, if amusing.

Deadpool went on, "You up for a patrol partner tonight?!"

Peter paused with the last of his burrito coming toward his mouth. Deadpool…wanted to patrol with him? He'd never expressed a desire like this before, mostly just spending time with him during or after Spiderman's nightly patrols. At least it explained why Deadpool had found him so early in the evening, however. He must've planned this.

Peter squinted his eyes in thought, turning his head to peer up at Deadpool, giving him a questioning look. Why did Deadpool want to come with him? Their styles were very different. And Deadpool knew that Peter didn't approve of the killing.

Deadpool mistook his questioning frown for a frown of disapproval however, and quickly jumped to reassure him.

"I won't unalive anyone tonight Spidey, I promise!" he exclaimed. "I can't promise no maiming, because I don't really know how to not do that, but – I'll be good! You can be my teacher! I'll follow your lead!"

Peter shoved the last bite of burrito into his mouth, tilting his head consideringly. He still wasn't sure of Deadpool's motive, but he didn't think it was likely he was going to get a clear answer out of him tonight. But his desire didn't seem to be malicious, at least, so Peter decided to give him the benefit of the doubt.

Shrugging, he gave Deadpool a thumbs-up, interrupting the mercenary's continued rambling about something with following his lead on the streets and in the bedroom – Peter wasn't really sure he wanted to know. Deadpool gave a victorious cheer, and Peter stopped him by making a cutting motion with his hand. When he was sure he had the merc's attention, he pointed two fingers at his eyes and then at Deadpool.

"Ooh, Spidey, you can watch me as long as you want," Deadpool purred. Peter rolled his eyes, tugging his mask back over his face and shoving the bag with two more burritos and three tacos into the corner of the roof to keep them safe for after his patrol.

"Whoa, Spidey!" Deadpool exclaimed, sounding offended. "Why on earth are you wasting such precious food from the gods?!"

Peter flapped his hand dismissively, hoping that his gesture would be able to translate roughly into 'for later'. When Deadpool didn't remove his hands from his cheeks, eyes still wide with a comical and probably (though maybe not, knowing Deadpool) exaggerated amount of shock, Peter sighed and motioned to the bag of food. Then he moved his arms like he was about to shoot webs, before he clutched his stomach and mimed vomiting.

"Oh my gawd, are you telling me that Spidey – the one who does acrobatics and flips and swings from the skyscrapers of New York – gets motion sick?!" Deadpool sounded an odd mix of surprised and delighted.

Peter sighed. Sometimes Deadpool was really good at figuring out what he meant, but other times, like now, Peter really wished he was able to speak and explain clearly what it was, exactly, he was trying to say. He pointed to the food again, and then spread his hands in a gesture that could universally be translated to mean 'large'.

Deadpool got it then, and he nodded sagely. "Okay, so you can't eat it now. That's okay, then. Just don't waste it," he said in a threatening voice. "That food is a gift – not just from me, but from the gods of Mexican food! They would give you bad kismet for decades for trashing their generous gift!" Peter rolled his eyes and shook his head in agreement before going to make a running jump to the next building over.

Deadpool followed easily, and it made Peter wonder again what exactly the extents of the mercenary's powers were. He knew about the healing factor and probable immortality that went along with that, but he wondered if Deadpool actually had enhanced speed and strength and agility, or if perhaps he had already had those skills before he became Deadpool. It was a question that Peter would love to ask, if only he had his voice. There were so many things he would love to ask the man if he were able to. Probably the one he wondered the most was why the mercenary liked him so much. Why did he come and make a point and an effort to hang out with him? It's not like he really provided anything to their relationship. Deadpool could just as easily be talking to a dog for all the reaction Peter provided, but still the guy chose him. And Peter would really like to know why.

Focus, Parker, he scolded himself mentally, giving himself a shake before he jumped to the next roof over. He really shouldn't be thinking about this when he should be looking out for –

Ah, there it was. His spidey sense tingled slightly and he heard a man's fearful cry, a few streets over. Moving quickly and stealthily to the sound, he peered over the edge of the roof into the alley down below – and why does crime always happen in the alleys? – and saw a man with a wicked-looking knife pointed at a fearful looking businessman. The man with the knife had two other guys behind him, looking somehow simultaneously bored and menacing. The casual way they held their own weapons – a two-by-four with several nails in one end for one of them and a metal baseball bat for the other – showed that this type of stick-up was nothing new to them. It spoke of history, of doing this dozens of times before, of being absolutely willing to use their weapons, should the need arise.

"Just hand over the wallet and the jewelry, and you can be on your way," the guy with the knife was threatening.

Deadpool dropped beside Peter, slightly winded but for once not chattering his ear off. He peered over the edge right next to Peter, taking in the scene below him.

"Please don't hurt me, I'll give you what you want," the businessman begged, voice reedy and terrified.

"Ooh," Deadpool hissed excitedly to Peter. "Is this the part where we shoot the bad guys' kneecaps?!"

Peter made a cutting motion with one hand; a very firm no. He didn't explain further though, climbing over the edge of the roof and skittering down on sticky hands and feet to get farther down, going down a side that was out of view of the guys down below.

Dropping lightly to his feet, he began walking past the alleyway, intentionally snapping his fingers and bobbing his head to an imaginary tune. If he'd had his voice, he would've been humming.

He walked a bit into the alleyway, and he could see that his actions had the desired effect of distracting the guys with the weapons. He stopped suddenly, making it obviously theatrical that he'd noticed them, and gave them a jaunty salute. Months ago he would've let out a chipper, "Hiya!" but this time he had to just content himself with imagining it. Eh, the meaning was the same anyway.

"It's Spiderman!" the guy with the baseball bat hissed, sounding nervous but also determined. Peter sighed to himself. That meant these ones were going to fight him.

"Spiderman?" the businessman repeated dumbly, sounding shocked.

"And company!" Deadpool cheered suddenly behind Peter. Peter didn't jump, though he hadn't heard the man get off the roof, let alone come up behind him. He glanced over and noticed that Deadpool was limping, and – his leg wasn't supposed to be bent like that. Shit, had he jumped from the roof? "Hi, there. The name's Deadpool, by the way. I'll be acting as Spiderman's voice for tonight – kinda like a translator. And he says, SURRENDER, MOTHERFUCKERS!"

That seemed to have broken the spell that the bad guys had fallen into in their surprise, and seemingly as one, they ran forward with weapons raised.

The guy with the knife got to Spidey first, but before Peter could even dodge the swipe, Deadpool was there, shoving the guy back with a flat hand to his chest.

"Well, that's just rude!" Deadpool huffed as Peter dodged the guy with the board and then tripped the guy with the baseball bat. "I tried, Spidey! Didja hear me? I used words and everything!"

Peter wasn't paying attention as Deadpool continued to ramble, kicking the back of one guy's knee and then striking him in the head with just enough force to knock him out. His spidey sense blared and he was just in time to dodge the guy with the knife making a swipe at the back of his neck. Before he could go for a hit to knife guy, Deadpool was behind him, grabbing the guy in a choke hold around the neck with one arm and squeezing said arm tight enough to make the guy pass out, his other hand holding the wrist that gripped the knife.

Peter saw that Deadpool wasn't exerting lethal force and grabbed the last guy, shoving him into the wall of the building. The hit was hard enough to daze him, and Spidey grabbed a zip tie from his pocket to tie the guy's hands behind his back for when the police came. He quickly followed suit with the guy Deadpool had taken care of.

The businessman had long since run away, taking advantage of the distraction the fighting had caused, and Peter was glad. Since losing his voice, he found it difficult to help people out of shock and comfort them enough that they could call for help. It was easier when they just ran away. And with Deadpool there, the merc might have been able to calm the guy, but somehow he just didn't seem the soothing type. But maybe Peter was being too judgmental.

"Man, that was hard!" Deadpool exclaimed, not sounding upset in the slightest as Peter grabbed a phone from one of the guys' pockets to call the police to come find them. Peter gave Deadpool a look, raising an eyebrow skeptically at the man's comment.

Deadpool understood and waved his hand quickly and dismissively. "Not the actual subduing them, but the not shooting or stabbing! Bea was calling my name the entire time, and don't even get me started on Betty! Do you always do it like this?!"

Peter shrugged, not sure exactly what Deadpool meant. Did he always stop muggers? Always use zip ties? Always…something.

"I mean, do you always do it without guns and knives and weapons and maiming?" Deadpool clarified, sounding baffled. Peter nodded, raising his eyebrows as though to ask what's wrong with you? What kind of question is that? Though Deadpool probably wouldn't get that.

"Wow!" Deadpool enthused. "Respect, Spidey! That's hard! Up top for Team Red!" He raised his hands excitedly, and Peter humored him by slapping both of them before jumping to climb up the wall again. Then he paused, pointing back at Deadpool's leg, which didn't seem to be as bent unnaturally as it had been moments before but still didn't look right.

"I'll be fine, Spidey," Deadpool said cheerfully, turning his leg from side to side like he was modeling a shoe and not showing a hint of pain. Peter wondered if it truly didn't hurt or if Deadpool was just so used to it that he didn't react so strongly anymore. "Good as new in fifteen minutes. Twenty, tops!"

Peter sighed. He couldn't have Deadpool jumping off of roofs the rest of the night – breaking his legs repeatedly would be pretty stupid. And he was certain that Deadpool would continue to do it without a word of complaint, just to keep patrolling. He wasn't sure how he knew; it was just – intuition. And he still needed to figure out why Deadpool wanted to come with him tonight. He'd actually been – helpful, with those muggers. Yes, Peter could have done it on his own, but that wasn't the point. Deadpool had still helped. But the question was, why?

He was no closer to figuring out an answer to this question by the time morning commuters began to make their way into the New York City streets and they decided to call it a night. The sky was just beginning to lighten to a slight purple, though the sun was yet to become visible, and Deadpool had bid him a jaunty farewell, disappearing quickly in the streets, somehow blending in despite the ridiculous black and red costume. Peter thought it must be a mercenary thing. Or a Deadpool thing.

He made his way through the city on tired feet, after changing quickly behind a dumpster – and by changing he meant pulling on his hoodie and jeans and tattered sneakers on over his Spidey costume. Looking like any other homeless kid on the streets of New York, no one paid him any mind as he found his way to the park bench he'd mentally claimed as his own.

The bench was next to a park, but far enough away that people didn't really go up there. The bench was beside a small jogging path, but besides the fact that it was out of the way, the hill it was set on was also steep enough that not many people took the roundabout path that led to this particular spot, so it was generally a fairly quiet place to be. Not that New York was ever quiet, but it was as quiet as Peter supposed he could expect. It also had a nice covering of bushes that, when seated on the bench, hid him from view of the casual park goer. Someone would have to be actually passing him on the path to be able to see him, and it was just how Peter liked it.

Sighing heavily and with great fatigue, Peter dropped onto the bench, curling up on one side almost instinctively. It was how he'd always slept, and even with the shape of the bench being wildly different from the shape of an actual bed he still automatically moved into the position he was familiar with any time he settled down.

Right after closing his eyes however, they snapped back open and he grunted to himself in frustration. He'd forgotten the rest of his Mexican food on the roof of that building. He was much too tired to go back for it now though, he decided. He'd have to catch a quick nap. Then he'd go get his food. Yeah.

The sounds of New York waking up eventually served to lull Peter to sleep.

The sun was high in the sky when Peter's spidey sense tingled in the back of his neck, and his eyes flew open and he was sitting up on the bench before he had consciously registered to do so. Way too many times before – before finding this bench out of the way of regular foot traffic – he had been approached by either well-meaning people who only caused him more trouble when they inevitably called CPS, or by people who tried to drug him and do bad things to him, just because he was homeless and no one worried if they went missing or got hurt.

He recognized a moment later that the warning in his nerves was nothing more than a small hum – only alerting him to someone else's presence, rather than an active danger to him. He relaxed a bit, noticing a man standing on the running path, watching him a bit warily. He had to have been the one to have triggered Peter's spidey sense.

The man looked unassuming. He was wearing a long-sleeved running shirt and jogging pants. His dark hair was pulled into a bun high on his head, but sweat-slick pieces had fallen out to frame his face. He was probably no older than thirty or so.

"Hi," the man said after a slightly awkward pause of just staring at each other. His voice was a bit rough like he wasn't used to speaking. It kind of reminded Peter of the sound his throat sometimes made when he tried saying something. "You alright, kid?"

Peter blinked, and nodded, not knowing what the guy wanted. Why was he still standing there? He'd clearly stopped in the middle of his run to talk to Peter – why would he do that? What did he want?

"Are you lost?" the guy asked then, looking as confused as Peter felt. Which was basically like a chameleon in a bag of Skittles. He wondered a moment later how on earth his brain had come up with that comparison. Must be the starvation.

Slowly, Peter shook his head, eyes flicking up and down the guy's body, looking for some hint that he wasn't who he pretended to be. Why was this guy bothering with Peter?

"Oh," the guy said dumbly, and Peter set his feet on the ground, getting ready to book it. His spidey sense wasn't warning him of danger, but this was weird, and he didn't want to wait for it to become dangerous.

"Sorry," the man said quickly when he saw Peter's movement. He took a step back, even though he was already far enough away that Peter could easily escape without touching the guy. "You don't have to leave, if – I just…you look cold. And you're sleeping on a park bench. I just wanted to – to make sure you're okay."

Peter nodded again, more firmly this time, and gave the man a sharp thumbs up, still watching the guy warily.

The man shook himself, looking a bit pained. "Sorry," he muttered, turning to continue down the path he'd been running. His voice changed then, turning into something almost like a Brooklyn drawl but not quite. "Didn't mean t' freak y'out."

Against his will, Peter felt a twinge of sympathy for the guy and a little bit of guilt on his part. The guy was just trying to help out – he wasn't going to hurt him. And now Peter felt bad for putting that look on the man's face.

So, before the guy could jog off, and cursing himself mentally in his head, Peter waved his hand to get the guy's attention. When the guy looked back, he did his best to give him a reassuring smile and a softer, less deliberate thumbs up to show that he was really okay.

"Okay," the guy muttered, eyes flicking away from Peter and then back, not looking at his face. "Good."

Peter paused, and then pointed at the guy, and when he looked at him, he raised his eyebrow and put his thumb up again – are you okay?

"Y-yeah," the guy stumbled a bit, looking uncomfortable. "I'm…I've never gone running before. Like this. My therapist said I should find a hobby, and…" he cut himself off, shaking his head quickly as though to get himself to focus again. "New York is different from what I remember," he mumbled to himself, and Peter didn't think he would have heard it if he didn't have his Spidey powers that increased his sense of hearing.

"Sorry, kid," the man said, shaking his head again and glancing at Peter. "I'll leave ya alone, now. Glad you're alright."

And he jogged off, leaving Peter behind him, silent as usual.

Please let me know what you guys thought!