Disclaimer: "Twenty-five virgins and a lot of Sprite, at the Crucible cast party. Whaaa!"

Hi friends! Happy late Thanksgiving and early Christmas! Hope your holidays are fab!

Here's another fun chapter yay! I really enjoyed writing this one, almost as much as I loved watching Moana and hearing my boi Lin slay

I noticed how one-sided all of the chapters before this seemed, so I wanted to change that up with this one. Hope you enjoy :)

The Broken-Winged Bird

"Hold fast to dreams, for if dreams die, life is a broken-winged bird that cannot fly."

The wind was brisk and refreshing as it rushed past his body and whistled in his ears. Golden light from the sinking sun gilded the cityscape that surrounded him, making all the towering buildings glisten like new pennies. Far beneath his feet, cars and people hurried about like bustling ants, but up here, the world was spacious and free. Inhaling the crisp air into his lungs, he somersaulted through the endless sky, then pressed his fingers to his palm.

I assume Langston Hughes was referring to aspirations when he was talking about dreams in that poem. Just the other night, I had a dream that I was bitten by a radioactive chipmunk instead of a spider and gained the ability to stuff eight slices of pizza in my cheeks. I think I could get away with letting that image die without my life breaking its wings and sucking or whatever.

Peter Parker dropped low on a thread of webbing then flung himself high above the street, grinning with delight. No matter how often he found himself up here, web-swinging across the sparkling landscape of New York City never ceased to thrill him beyond compare. All his trivial problems with school and friends seemed to vanish, and there was nothing but himself and the open sky. It was an entirely different reality where he could simply enjoy being who he was—being Spider-Man. The world below blurred together as he pressed forward and the flip-floppy feeling that spun in his stomach made him giggle.

Well, for my non-chipmunky dreams, I'll pass on the bird metaphor, Mr. Hughes. Mainly because my new situation has resulted in me having to kill some old dreams in order to pursue new ones: better, more significant ones, I hope.

A line of webbing snagged on to the bottom of a sign extended over the street, and he whipped all the way around it before landing on top. The familiar sounds of the city buzzed from every direction as he gazed across the urban jungle with a smile.

Huh. I wonder if there are any cutesy rhymes or cheesy quotes out there that could directly apply to my situation.

At that moment, a flock of birds was stirred from their perch above him and took off in a flutter wings. A splat of white liquid dropped on to his shoulder just before they flew out of range, making him start then groan.

"Seriously? That's how we're playing this? What kind of metaphor is this, Langston?" He smeared it with the back of his hand, then glared up at the black dots vanishing into the sky, waving his fist. "I hope all your dreams and wings break, you flying rats!"

The mangy pigeons didn't offer a reply. He leaned off the flashing sign sourly. I suppose my day was going a bit too good. That charming Parker luck had to nab its regular drop on me, one way or another. With a sigh, he whipped his lunch bag off his shoulder and shoved his hand inside. His fingers bumped something smooth, and he pulled a shiny red apple out with a grin. Of course, nothing like a homemade meal to get your spirits back up. And this view isn't getting old anytime soon. Gazing across the jagged, sparkling city, Peter lifted his mask away from his mouth and took a big bite from the fruit, swinging his feet through the open air as they dangled off the edge of the sign. It sure was a beautiful afternoon, and one couldn't have found a more peaceful spot for a lunch break.

Of course, being Spider-Man, the serenity couldn't last. A sudden tingle crawled up the back of his neck, followed by a sense of alarm. Before he had even registered that it was his spidey sense buzzing inside his head, a large object came hurdling over the tower in front of him. He could hear gears grinding, an engine whirring, and a person screaming. Whatever it was zipped right over his head and crashed on top of the roof directly behind him, making Peter duck with a start and accidentally drop his sack lunch. Spider-Man fell back against the building, yelping in surprise, wondering what the hell had just happened, then frantically scrambled forward and fired a line of webbing after his food. The thread snagged on to the falling bag—great! Except it attached to the bottom, and Peter could only watch as the webbing grew taut and the bag whipped upside-down, dumping all of his lunch on to the sidewalk far below. The empty sack swayed tauntingly in the wind; he knew there was nothing salvageable, and his shoulders sank miserably. Peter looked up at the roof where the unidentified flying object had landed, detached the web-line from his wrist, then carefully climbed along the glass to peek over the edge.

"Hey! Whoever's responsible for whatever crap just happened owes me a new—!" he began to yell, yanking his mask back over his face. But when his eyes fell on the crumpled form sprawled across the rooftop, his words caught in his throat.

The fallen object was bulky and motionless. It was a person, he realized, a man—but not just a man. He was wearing a very strange outfit: a padded, gray-leather costume with red detailing, high-tech gloves, and a thick utility belt strung around his waist, outfitted with a wide variety of weapons. It reminded him of military gear, although a bit more eccentric. But above all else, Peter's gaze was drawn to the strange contraption attached to his back. Smoke was swirling from the center of the pack and two long, metal extensions protruded out at either side. They were...wings. Giant, mechanical wings. When it finally dawned on him who it was, Peter gasped.

"Oh my gosh," he whispered, skittering all the way on to the roof and dropping into a tentative crouch. "It's—it's you? Holy crap. You...were in Germany. Flying-angry-bird-guy, with that—that metal-armed dude. We fought."

The man made no movement or response. It looked like his flight pack was damaged and he was flecked with cuts and scrapes. Either he was knocked out cold, or conked out for good. Spider-Man gingerly inched closer to him, straining to see his face, then pulled back quickly, keeping low to the rooftop.

You need to call Mr. Stark. That was the first thought to come to his head. What the hell was this guy doing in New York City? The police, global task forces, and a bunch of other freaky government agencies were on the hunt for him. He was in league with Captain America, who had busted him out of prison along with the rest of his team. He was an escaped convict—a criminal who needed to be brought to justice. It would be right for Spider-Man to turn him in.

And yet, in that moment, Peter found himself conflicted. This man had been an Avenger before turning against the law, right? A few years back, he had helped Cap save the world from those Hydra ships in Washington D.C. Clearly he was a good person at some point or another. What had changed? Peter still didn't feel like he fully understood what both sides of the fight were about. Was it really all because they wanted to keep that assassin guy—The Winter Soldier—from going to jail? Or could it be something to do with those Sokovia Accord papers he kept hearing about? Were they bad in some way—enough to make Captain America abandon everything he once stood for? It didn't add up.

Before he could sort through his muddled thoughts, Peter was startled by a low moan. He turned to find that the man was moving—slowly, groggily, feebly. Unsure how he would react, Spider-Man skirted along the edge of the roof until he was standing parallel to his head from a safe distance away. He could see now that he was struggling to come to. Behind his broken goggles, his eyes were squeezed shut in pain.

"Ugh...geez...w-wha...?" the winged man moaned, reaching up to rub at his forehead. A deep gash above his eyebrow was spilling blood down his face. "What just...where...?"

It quickly became clear, and much to his relief, that this guy wasn't going anywhere anytime soon. On the contrary, it also became clear that he was badly hurt. Wars and politics aside, he needed help. Peter wanted to hope that if someone from Cap's side found someone from Iron Man's squad in the same defenseless position, they would forget their past grudges and lend them a hand. One superhero to another, right? Emphasis on hope.

This is a horrible idea, he warned himself. Then again, the ones he considered his best usually were. I'm most definitely going to regret this. Nevertheless, swallowing the lump in his throat, Spider-Man carefully inched towards the fallen Avenger, staying low and wary. As the dude griped and grumbled weakly, Peter gave a nervous cough.

"Uh, h-hello? Mr. Bird-Man, sir? Are you, um—are you okay?"

Blinking sluggishly, the man slowly turned towards the strange voice. His head was throbbing and his vision was fuzzy, but he managed to make out a blurry red and blue figure from the haze. It took him a good minute to distinguish the circle with the two smaller white circles as a masked face, and the black blob in the center of the mess as an image of spider. He studied him with a mixture of confusion and fatigue, still lying flat against the roof, then gradually narrowed his eyes.

"The hell...?" he murmured. "You?" After another couple seconds, he began to try to lift himself off the concrete.

"I don't—I'm not sure that's a good idea. You look pretty banged up."

Completely ignoring his advice, the man clambered to his hands and knees, spitting curses like a sailor the whole time, then carefully rolled over and flopped against the partially elevated corner of the roof, letting his arms and wings fall messily at his sides. He laid there limply, closing his eyes and fighting to catch his breath. His left hand was gripped around his torso.

"Where...am I?"

Frowning, Peter shot a look over his shoulder. "Uh...New York."

"Brooklyn?"

"No. Queens."

"Dammit."

Spider-Man studied him curiously as he fumbled with his gauntlets. He pressed at a button on his glove repeatedly, trying to make the engine restart, but nothing happened. When he couldn't get that to work, he clicked on the trigger that was supposed to make his wings fold back into the pack, but that was busted as well. Scowling in defeat, he tore the cracked goggles from his eyes and flung them to the ground, dropping his head against the wall with a scoff.

"So, um...what happened to you?"

Without replying, he unclipped the strap wrapped around his chest to relieve the broken flight gear from his shoulders. His other hand remained firmly glued to his side.

"What's your name again? You were in Germany with Captain America, right? I was there too. We sorta attacked each other. You tried to blow me up and I webbed you and emo-assassin man to the floor." He cocked his head to the side. "Do you remember? Or did you hit your head too hard to remember? You were falling super fast from the sky. Are you badly hurt? If you want, I could call—"

In an instant, the man snagged a gun from the holster on his hip and had it aimed at Peter's face. Spider-Man jumped back reflexively, raising his hands into the air.

"Don't call anyone," he practically spat, the weapon wobbling a little in his fingers. His breathing was ragged and shaky, but his cold glare made it clear he wasn't joking around. Swallowing uneasily, Spider-Man nodded with his arms still held above his head.

"O-okay, okay,got it. No phone calls. Knowing my crappy carrier, I probably wouldn't get any reception up here anyway." His eyes wandered back to the right side of the man's torso, which was still being gripped by his left hand. He noticed his glove was stained red and a dark puddle was beginning to form underneath him. "But you are hurt. Your side's bleeding pretty bad, isn't it? I'm no doctor, but that looks serious to me, so maybe I could—"

"Just go away," he snapped bitterly. "If you wanna help, then take your stupid ass someplace else and don't tell nobody you saw me here."

Ouch, Peter thought, withering a little. He couldn't deny how much the words stung to hear, especially coming from someone he had admired in the past. Although, could he really blame the guy? Their only interaction had been from opposite sides of a fight, and he had probably been on the run ever since he'd escaped. Now he was lying injured and incapacitated beneath a supposed enemy who could blow his cover and have him thrown in a prison cell with the touch of a button. How could he expect this man to trust him, especially when he most definitely did not trust him back?

But he couldn't just leave him here. What if he really was dangerous? And there was also the issue of him bleeding to death.

Inhaling carefully, Peter decided to keep pressing. "Look, I'm sorry, but I can't—I can't just—I'm sort of a protector of this area, see? I gotta keep it safe. And after everything that's happened, I'm not so sure you're a good guy anymore." He crouched a little lower. "But I am sure I don't want you to die."

He huffed with spite, trying to sit upright but quickly opting against it. "You must really think I'm an idiot if you believe I'd fall for that charade. You're nothing but Stark's freaky little attack dog: doing everything he says, kissing his ass left and right. You probably don't even know what you're endorsing or why I'm risking my life for my stance in all this." He laid a hand over his face and sighed defeatedly. "But, hell, why should I even bother? I'm sure by this point you've already called up daddy to fly me back to the Raft."

Spider-Man's sympathy for the injured man was rapidly shifting to irritation. Partially because he was throwing wild accusations in his face when he was only trying to help him, and partially because he was right. Peter knew he didn't understand all of this—what each side had really clashed over, or why—and he was sick of being kept in the dark. How about instead of reminding him of what he didn't understand, somebody just explain it to him?

He needed answers. And he needed to keep this jerk from dying. But he also needed to approach this the right way. Unfortunately, acting (and speaking) before thinking was one of his fatal flaws.

Frowning crossly, Spider-Man responded with an edge to his voice. "No, I haven't called him yet. I haven't called anyone yet. And I wasn't planning to, although you're really tempting me otherwise. I'm clearly not the only one dealing with misunderstanding here. Why do you think I haven't webbed you up like last time or called the police? I want to help you and maybe hear your side of the story, if you'd stop being such a butt about it." He crossed his arms against his chest and tilted his chin up, trying to look confident. "So—um—unless you let me help you, I am going to call someone. An ambulance. Because I have a strict policy against letting anyone die on my watch, and I'm not about to break my streak. So...that's that. Spidey or ambulance. You decide. Um, sir."

The man's expression had jumped from angry to confused to now a bit surprised. His gaze traced him up and down and his eyebrows wrinkled together. Eventually, a look of amusement flashed across his face. After a moment in thought, he scoffed.

"Who even are you?"

Peter was not expecting the question. "Me? Well—I'm, just, y'know...your friendly neighborhood Spider-Man."

"Spider-Man?"

"Uh-huh. I fight crime and stuff."

"Did Tony pick that name for you?"

"No. I did. I was Spider-Man before I met Mr. Stark."

"Really?"

"Mm-hmm. I mean, it didn't take much thought: I am indeed a man with spider powers. And Black Widow was already taken."

To Peter's shock, after studying him a second longer, the man chuckled lightly. "That is a shame."

Stirred with a bit more bravery, Spider-Man swallowed and knelt down to his eye level. "What's your name?"

He eyed him with an almost insulted look on his face. "You don't know who I am?"

"I mean, yeah, I know who you are. I just don't remember your name. Do you even have a superhero name? Bird-Dude, Wing-Man, Flappy McFlapface—?"

"Falcon," he said with a snort. "It's...Falcon."

Peter slapped his forehead. "Oh, right! Duh! Falcon! Okay, I remember now. I think I bought one of those packs of tiny microwaveable mac-n-cheeses with your face on the little cups back when you were...well, before everything went to hell."

Falcon shook his head is disbelief. "Holy crap. You really are just a kid, aren't you?"

He shrunk back and scratched at his head. "Uh...no. I'm thirty-six and a half."

"Nice try."

"Whatever. So do I just call you...Falcon? Not the Falcon or Mr. Falcon or the Millennium Falcon?"

"Let's just...let's stick with Sam, alright?"

Spider-Man sat down against the rooftop. "Sam?"

"Yeah. I mean, I'm not like you. My name's already out there. I got a Wikipedia page and all that."

"Ah, okay. Coolio. Sam."

Sam coughed harshly into his hand, then wiped his arm over his forehead, smearing the blood still dripping from the cut on his eyebrow. "How'd you even get pulled into all this mess?"

Glancing down at his side again, Peter bit the inside of his cheek. "Uh...well...how about I tell you while I look at your injuries? And then maybe you can tell me what you and Cap and all the other dudes are really about or whatever?"

Sam raised an eyebrow. "I can take care of myself, thanks."

"I know. I can too. But you're bleeding really badly, and you're getting help from somebody who hasn't crash landed head-first into a building whether you like it or not. That's either me or an EMT. You decide." He knew he was being short, especially considering who he was talking to, but he couldn't help himself. The man's wound held a startling resemblance to another bloody casualty that had taken the life of someone he cared about. He refused to allow another person's death stem from his inaction, regardless of the man's protests.

Closing his eyes, Sam chuckled irritably. "You're such a little asshole."

Peter giggled. "Sorry."

"What are you even going to do? I dropped my med kit, like, forty klicks from here."

Spider-Man hunched his shoulders. "Uh, well, let's see." He made his way across the rooftop to crouch at Falcon's side, moving carefully. "I've had to cope with my fair share of embarrassing spills from the sky, especially when I first started out. I think I've landed in that giant dumpster beside Domino's about six times now."

He could tell that the man was still wary of him. His right hand was draped over the gun lying against the concrete, and his left was still gripped firmly around his side. But, realizing he didn't have much choice except to humor the oddly-dressed superhero, he dropped his head back with a sigh and slowly peeled his fingers off his wound.

"If you try anything, I'll blow your damn head off."

Peter cringed. "Uh, alrighty. Duly noted." Leaning low to the roof to get a better look at the injury, he kept his movements slow and calculated. It quickly came to his attention that the man's gauntlet and side were saturated with blood, and the red puddle underneath his body was growing wider by the second. His heart fluttered with alarm.

"What, uh...what exactly happened to you?" he asked, pulling the torn fabric away from his skin. He could see the wound clearly now—a jagged, messy gash, stretching about two inches in length. It looked like a chunk of flesh had been punched out of his body by a cookie-cutter.

"Aerial assault," he replied weakly. "Some government attack dogs just appeared out of nowhere and started pounding me with lead. Or maybe they weren't government...hell, I don't know. It was an ambush. I lost them in a storm about thirty miles west, but by then the damage was done. I basically coasted until my pack finally gave out, and that's how I got here."

Peter tore the surrounding leather away with one quick yank, making Sam flinch and groan. He didn't think the injury was deep enough for anything important to be damaged, but it was still bleeding profusely.

"Why were you coming to New York?"

He snorted. "Wasn't planning on it. Just kinda happened. I barely remember half of what went down while I was up there."

His whole body was plastered with scratches, but the bullet wound was definitely what needed his attention the most, although he wasn't sure exactly what he should do about it. It definitely required more than what he was capable of.

"I, um...I th-think you might need stitches," Peter thought out loud, feeling himself begin to sweat. He hadn't had to deal with gore like this yet. He didn't know how to deal with it. He knew being a masked vigilante who fought bad guys and protected people might lead to him having to face it sooner or later, but now that it was happening, he didn't know what to do. This man really needed his help—his life potentially depended on it—and he was freezing up. Why had he thought he could fix this? The scarlet pool was thickening rapidly.

"Probably, like I was saying," Sam murmured, trying to keep his breath steady. "But I don't have time for that. Either figure something else out or get out of here. By now I'm sure the assholes who attacked me have narrowed in on my crash point."

Peter could tell he was playing this tough. He wondered how painful being shot was. He had no desire to know anytime soon.

Growing desperate, he glanced around the rooftop, scanning for anything he could use to stop the bleeding. Maybe he could ask somebody in the building for help? Or if he could borrow some supplies? Or maybe...steal some? At this point, he wasn't above the idea. Or, hell, maybe he really should just call an ambulance. He'd rather have the guy hate him than let him die. Peter's breathing grew shallow with fear, and he scratched at his wrists. Ugh—why did Mr. Stark have to make these web-shooters so damn itchy?

Wait. Web-shooters? He glanced down to his hands, lifting the devices closer to his face. The web fluid he'd manufactured: it was stretchy, adhesive, and tensile. It could fill in holes and patch up leaks. It was like liquid bandaging. That...that could work, right? Temporarily, at least. He had never thought to use it in that way before. It was worth a shot.

Glancing back to Sam, Peter swallowed. "Okay, so...I've sorta got an idea. Just—just try to stay still, okay?"

Sam frowned. "What're you gonna do?"

Without answering, Peter carefully aimed his wrist at Falcon's side and folded his fingers to his palm. Instantly, a glob of webbing shot from the device and splattered over the wound, making Sam leap and cry with agony.

"Gah! W-what the hell? What d'you just—?"

"Sorry," Spider-Man apologized timidly. He thickened the coating and outer edges with a couple more layers of webbing despite Sam's groans and curses. "You were freaking me out and rushing me! I think that should keep it closed and stop the bleeding for now."

"Is this...?" he gawked in horror, straining to look at his injury. "From your body?"

Peter giggled. "No. I can't make webbing like a real spider. That'd be nasty. This is a special web fluid concoction I spliced together and installed into a pair of shooting devices. See?"

Spider-Man held his wrists out proudly for Falcon to see, but he was too busy moaning in pain to care.

"Y-you're—ow—the strangest person I've ever met. And I've met a super-soldier with a metal arm from the 1940s."

Peter watched as he gingerly dragged himself to a sitting position, holding his side with an agonized expression, and grimaced a little. "You mean, um...the Winter Soldier?"

Licking his dry lips, Sam lifted his gaze and eyed him suspiciously. Peter could tell he had struck a nerve, and wondered what he should say next. But after a short pause, he sighed. "He's not who you think he is. Yeah, he's crazy, and terrifying, and a major pain in my ass, but half the time it isn't his fault. He's a good man who's been forced to do bad stuff. Mind control and a bunch of other freaky crap I don't understand." He dabbed at the cut along his eyebrow hesitantly. "And look, I know I can't really vouch for the guy. I barely know him. And for the majority of the time I was around him, he was trying to kill me. But Cap really cares about him, and I'm Cap's friend. So I trust him enough to back him in all this."

"Even if that means breaking the law and putting people in danger?" Spider-Man retorted cautiously. Sam snorted in response.

"Excuse me? You wanna talk about breaking the law? What do you think you're doing, throwing on a ridiculous costume and a mask and taking up vigilantism?"

Peter blinked perplexedly. "What?"

"Yeah. I wasn't sure it was you at first, but now I am. I talked with a journalist awhile ago who knew about you. She told me how some new guy in mask who climbed walls and fought criminals was swinging around New York." He nodded towards him. "That's you, right?"

Crouching down on his haunches, Spider-Man narrowed his eyes. "Well, yeah, like I said before." He brightened. "That's pretty cool, actually. Did she write an article about me? Start a blog maybe? A Spidey-themed Pinterest page? That'd be awesome." Then he shook his head. "But, um, anyway, I think what I'm doing is a little different than what you're doing."

"Really? You think you're better than us? You're taking the law into your own hands. You get in the way of the authorities and try to do their job for them when you're just a kid with no knowledge of the situations you're invoking your will in."

Peter pouted. "But I...I help people. I use my powers to stop bad guys and protect people. It's the right thing to do. I know it is. I save lives."

"And why the hell do you think Cap and I break the law and put ourselves in danger?" Sam shot back. "The only reason we've gone against the system is because we want to continue protecting people from the real bad guys who're trying to hurt them. If you think we're criminals for doing that, then you'd better be willing to call yourself one, too." Chuckling scornfully, Sam laid a hand over his face. "Geez, kid, did Tony even tell you what you were fighting for when he dragged you to Germany? What the Sokovia Accords actually say?"

Peter's face reddened a little under his mask. He rubbed at the back of his neck sheepishly. "Uh...w-well...not...entirely..."

"They prevent the Avengers from helping people. Instead of letting us go to the places that need our help, some back-minded government panel would have total control over us: where we are, what we do, and when we can do it. There could be an army of aliens blasting a crater in New Guinea, killing thousands of innocent people, and we'd have to wait on a bunch of crotchety old men to give us the green light, if they're even willing." Sam shook his head sadly. "We didn't agree with that. We couldn't. Not after all that's happened and everything we've been through. We all knew we had to fight to protect the world the way it needs us to protect it, even if that meant going against the government or the U.N. or even our friends. We had to do what we believed was the right thing to do." Exhaling dejectedly, Sam lifted his gaze to stare at Spider-Man, his expression cold. "And from what you've told me, I would think that'd be something you'd agree with."

The young teen seated in front of him looked taken back, even with his mask hiding his face. Peter held Sam's stony gaze for a second longer, knowing well he was speaking sincerely, then turned away to stare at the concrete, eyes wide. Whoa. Is that true? I knew the Accords had something to do with the Avengers and how they operated, but I didn't...I wasn't sure...

It was alarming news to hear. But even worse, he realized that Falcon was right. He most definitely did not like the idea—at least, not the version that Sam was describing to him. Superheroes being controlled, restricted, and ordered around? Only being able to help people whenever they were told to? If that's what the Sokovia Accords were proposing, then...he didn't agree with them. The more he thought about, the more clear that became. He didn't agree with them at all. How could he? Everything he had done and was doing ran totally opposite of that ideology. Spider-Man swung around the city stopping bad guys and helping people on his own terms with his own morality guiding him. He stepped in to save people wherever and whenever he could, because he understood firsthand how terrible the consequences of nonintervention could be. Would he like it if it suddenly became someone else's job to decide when and where he helped? If some out-of-touch politician with their own set of priorities was in charge of everything he did as a hero? If he had to ask permission to save a helpless citizen every time one was being mugged right before his very eyes? Absolutely not. How would that even work? He wasn't an Avenger (at least, he didn't think so; not yet, anyway), but he assumed that if the Avengers were being regulated, the Accords would eventually stretch out to affect heroes like him, too—especially after his involvement in Germany. Would he have to carry some special sneaky government phone? Would they chip him like a dog to track his whereabouts 24/7? How would he keep all this a secret from Aunt May? Oh gosh—he'd have to tell them his identity, wouldn't he? There was no way he'd be able to remain anonymous if the government was in control of him. Was this really the reality that he had been fighting for with Mr. Stark and Colonel Rhodes and all the others?

Then it hit him like a punch in the gut. Mr. Stark. He had...come to his home. He had spoken with him and his aunt. He had listened to everything Peter had said about why he was doing this and what he believed in. And yet, after all that, he had still recruited him to battle for the imposition of the Sokovia Accords. He had brought him along to fight for something that he obviously didn't even support. When you can do the things I can, but you don't, and then the bad things happen, they happen because of you. That was what he had told him. That was what he believed. And that was completely against what the Sokovia Accords stood for. Mr. Stark had to have known that, didn't he? Then why did he still enlist him for his side? Had he...had he actually just used him? Tricked him by not explaining what he was truly fighting for, just so he could use Spider-Man's abilities to better his chances of beating Cap's team? Agent Romanoff had warned him earlier that that might have been the case, but he hadn't wanted to believe it. He certainly didn't want to believe it now. Especially when considering that Mr. Stark knew who he was, where he lived, and his family. If he really did support the Sokovia Accords, and he was being told what to do by the government, what if he was ordered to reveal Spider-Man's secret identity to them? With one word, Mr. Stark could destroy Peter Parker's life and put everyone he cared about in danger. Peter suddenly felt sick to his stomach. His mouth had gone dry.

"Take it how you will, kid," Sam said, finally snapping Spider-Man from his thoughts, "but I think you've got this all backwards. Maybe you ought to look at things a little more carefully before plopping your ass on the wrong side of a war."

Peter's eyes remained locked on the concrete. "So...is that what you guys are still trying to do? Protect the world, stop bad guys and all that, even though the government is hunting you and attacking you?"

Noticing the change in the young hero's tone, a solemn smile pulled at Sam's lips. He stretched his arms gingerly above his head. "Yeah, guess that's one way to put it."

If this guy and Cap and that growing dude are criminals, then I'm a criminal too. It had never occurred to Peter that what he was doing as Spider-Man was technically illegal, which meant he was being a total hypocrite in this situation. Maybe it was because he'd never really had any bad run-ins with cops yet—and certainly none that resulted in a chunk of his side being blown off. Gag.

"But speaking of hunting and attacking," Sam continued, "I really need to get outta here. Those men could show up any second to blast the rest of me to bits." Gritting his teeth, he slowly crawled towards his flight suit.

"What?" Peter exclaimed, rising to his feet. "Where are you going?"

"Away from here."

"With your wings?"

"Damn things are busted. I'll have to walk or something." He pushed and fought the metal extensions, trying to get them to fold.

Spider-Man didn't know how to feel at this point. He didn't know who he could trust anymore. Tony Stark was so freaking cool, and he had done some really nice things for him, but...now he wasn't sure if they were for the right reasons. Meanwhile, this guy and his crew had been spreading fear and mayhem across the entire world over the last couple months, but all in pursuit of protecting it. Which was the right path to take?

As he watched Sam struggle to move his injured body and adjust his broken wings, Peter decided that it didn't matter, at least not right this moment. Sam was doing what he believed was right, and he could only dream that Mr. Stark was doing the same. For now, he was going to do what he believed was the right thing to do for the current predicament he was faced with.

Inhaling resolutely, Spider-Man strode across the roof and stopped in front of the pack, dropping into a crouch by his side. Sam flinched.

"Well, that won't do," Peter replied.

"What?"

"What's the Falcon without his kick-ass flight suit? Nothing but a sad, angry man whose flightless face will never be featured on a microwaveable mac-n-cheese cup ever again, that's what."

Sam blinked, then snorted. "Gee, thanks."

"I can't have that. Those mac-n-cheeses are my midnight munchies staple." Beneath his mask, Peter smiled shyly. "And, um, you seem like a pretty cool dude. I wish I got to hang out with Captain America all day and be a bird-themed badass." He chuckled, then sobered up a little. "Plus, um, if what you said before is what you're really fighting for, then I want to make sure you get to keep doing it. I honestly didn't know why you all were breaking the law and getting into so much trouble, but I'm glad you told me. It does sound like you're supporting something good, even if Mr. Stark and everyone else don't see that it is. And you're right: I should've looked into everything more before joining the fight. Sorry about that."

Sam studied him quietly before breaking into a smile. "Huh. Well, it's cool. Especially the badass comment. You may be obnoxious as all hell, and, like, a fourth grader, but you probably have more sense about you than half the Avengers right now. Maybe you should try talking some of that sense through Tony's thick skull."

Peter was terrified to even bring up the subject around him by now, but gave a small nod regardless. He was glad the two of them had managed to reach some kind of peace, despite the grudges still held by the sides they had supported. He looked up at Sam expectantly. "So, uh, may I?" he asked, prodding at the metal gear with his finger.

"May you what?"

"Take a look at your wings. I might be able to fix them."

"You?"

"Uh...yeah? Me."

Falcon scoffed. "You a military mechanic now too?"

"Well, no," Peter said, popping open a flat panel that revealed the inner workings of the flight pack, "but, um, I know a thing or two about building stuff and electrical circuiting and all that crap. I can at least try."

Sam watched the boy as he fiddled with the wires and engine delicately, wondering where on earth Tony had found this guy. He had crazy powers, an innocent kindness about him, and an incredibly smart and solid head on his shoulders, despite his obviously young age. The kid was an enigma.

"Damn, bud. You've sure got a lot going for yah."

He giggled shyly. "More like I'm a dork who needs to find a more social way to spend my free time. But don't go complimenting me yet." He reached far into the pack and found something lodged inside the metal. With a yank, he ripped it free and held it up to his face. A bullet—probably the one that had caused all the damage. If the titanium hadn't stopped it, it would've blown a much more deadly hole through Sam's body. He studied it curiously, wondering why the people who were after him were so quick to jump to lethal force, then tossed it over his shoulder, getting back to business.

"Let's see," he mumbled as he worked. Two exposed wires that had been snapped in half were touching, creating sparks that were burning the rubbery insulation surrounding them. That's what was causing all the smoke, which meant the repairs required were a lot less complicated than he had anticipated. All he had to do was link the correct wires back together. Moving carefully, he held the two sides of one frayed line against each other, then made them stick with a small shot of webbing. Satisfied, he did the same with the second wire, and laid them both back in their correct places. It was possible that the bullet had shredded through something else in the pack, but he hoped whatever it was wasn't too important. Thankfully, the engine itself didn't appear to be damaged, and he closed the panel back up.

"Alrighty," Peter huffed. "Try starting it up again."

Skeptical but optimistic, Sam lifted the flight pack off the roof and carefully slipped it back on to his shoulders, clipping the belt around his torso. He clicked the activation button on his glove, and with a couple of chugs and sputters, the engine slowly hummed to life. Sam stood and laughed in shock.

"No freakin' way!" he cried, lifting tentatively off the roof then whipping into a triumphant spin. "You—you actually did it!"

"It was honestly nothing," Peter chuckled sheepishly, "just enough to get you to a real mechanic and a real doctor. The web fluid I used to stick everything back together probably won't last more than a couple hours, so I'd get going pretty quick if I were you." He tilted his head to the side. "Do you have somewhere to go to get patched up?"

Landing back against the roof and retracting the wings into his pack, Sam stared down at the kid with a mixture of confusion and amusement. He was short—a lot shorter than he remembered; he hadn't been able to see Spider-Man in contrast to his own height until now, when they were standing directly in front of each other. It was almost sad to think that someone so young with so much power and potential was all tangled up in the midst of their disagreements and their mistakes, which he had no control over. His mindset was so simple, yet so pure: do what you believe is the right thing to do. He could only dream that the world could operate on such simple terms without everyone ending up at each other's throats.

Shaking his head, Sam sighed. "Uh, yeah. I think so." He turned to face the edge of the rooftop, pressing his hand to his side. "And I...I really appreciate all this. If I had run into anyone else from Iron Man's team, I'd be back in a cell for sure."

Spider-Man walked to stand by his side, crossing his arms against his chest. "Well, um, please don't make me regret it. You seem pretty awesome and all, and I'm still repressing the urge to ask you to, like, sign my forehead or something, but I'm not a hundred percent certain that what you're doing is right." He threw his hands up defensively. "And, h-hey, let's be clear, I don't know if what I'm doing is the right way to go about this either." His gaze fell to his feet. "But either way, I really hope you and me and all the other super people are still somehow united by our mutual goal to save the world or whatever, and that maybe someday you guys can all work together and put your differences aside to help people as a big, badass team again."

He waited, thinking Sam would surely laugh at his juvenile wistfulness. Instead, Sam smiled softly.

"That'd sure be nice, kid. Hold on to that dream for me, would yah?"

Spider-Man looked up at him surprisedly, hands falling to his sides. Sam returned his grin, seeming to understand their quiet camaraderie, then locked his gaze on the horizon. With a sharp breath, Falcon shifted forwards, shuffling his feet closer to the edge, when he suddenly slipped. Peter jerked out and caught him in an instant, narrowly stopping him from tumbling off the building.

"W-whoa," he stammered, supporting him with an arm under his shoulders. "Are—are you okay?"

"Yeah, heh," Sam chuckled, gripping his head in his hand. "Whoo, man. Sorry 'bout that. I guess I'm still a little out of it. I'm fine."

"Are you sure? I mean, it'd be kinda awkward, but I could try, uh, web-swinging you to safety, or—?"

"Nah, nah, you've done enough," he assured him, relieving his weight from Spider-Man's shoulders. "You don't need to be seen helping the likes of me anyhow. You're in this deep enough as is. I'll be fine."

He backed away from the edge a little, kneading sorely at his temple. Spider-Man watched him nervously, hoping he was actually planning to go to a doctor and not just saying so to get him off his case. He was really beaten up.

"Hey Sam?" he said as Falcon took a low stance.

"Yeah?" he replied.

Spider-Man fidgeted his hands timidly. "Could you maybe, um...after you're all fixed up and whatnot...say hi to Cap for me? And tell him that he's awesome? I mean, that I think he's awesome? I mean, he is awesome, obviously, but I just want him to know that it's me who is reminding him of the fact that he is indeed awesome—"

"If I see him, I'll let him know," Sam chuckled.

He grinned brightly. "Thanks. Oh, and also that, y'know, I'm sorry. For fighting you all without really knowing the whole story."

Sam nodded. "Alright."

"Yay."

Balling his hands into fists, Falcon broke into a sprint across the rooftop. With a click of his thumb, the massive metal wings unfurled from the pack and extended out at his sides right as he leapt off the edge. For an instant, he free-fell, and Peter wondered in a panic if he had actually fixed his gear or not. But to his relief, Sam quickly caught the breeze and zipped into the air, spinning with all the grace and effortlessness of a real falcon. He was headed towards the clouds, clearly to avoid any further detection.

Spider-Man hoped he had made the right decision in all of this. By now, that was all he could do. At the very least, he hoped Sam would be alright. He seemed like someone who really wanted to help the world, and who was willing to put himself in danger's way to do so. That was everything that Spider-Man wanted to be and more.

As Peter watched him soar, a little starstruck and fan-girly, something suddenly dawned on him. Frowning, he glared up at the twirling Avenger as he ascended towards the expansive darkness, cupping his hands around his mouth. "Hey Falcon! One last thing!"

Sam glanced over his shoulder, having to yell over the wind to be heard. "What?"

Spider-Man raised his fist into the air and waved it angrily as Falcon vanished into the cold, gray sky.

"You still freaking owe me a new lunch!"

Haha, so fun. So I totally didn't mean for this story to turn into an actual, like, continuous story instead of individual one-shots, but that's kinda what it's looking like by now :P oh well. hope u like. Would love to hear your feedback :)