Peter was steadily growing more and more overwhelmed as the evening went on. He had learned everyone's names – or, not so much learned them as been instructed to call them by their actual names and not their codenames. None of them seemed to care that he wasn't actually calling them by anything – it was just important to them apparently that he thought of them by their names, or it was much too formal on his end.

It was a bit strange, to sit at dinner with them and hear their bantering. Somehow, he had always pictured them as these unattainable, statue-like people who were too cool to do anything except…well, he didn't know. Fight bad guys? Practice knife throwing? Something super cool. He had definitely never imagined that they would eat dinner together, not so much as a team but as a family, with all of the bantering and arguing that went along with that. Clint and Tony almost came to blows over the last cornbread muffin, before Natasha swooped in and took it, daring them with a singular raised eyebrow to try and fight her for it while she took a bite from it.

Wisely, naturally, they had both subsided. No one wanted to cross Natasha.

As time went on though, Peter began to feel overwhelmed with the amount of noise and stimulation he was receiving. He had felt comfortable enough to get seconds, but before he got halfway through the bowl, the stress in his body made it taste like ash in his mouth and he felt like he was choking on his own throat. He tried eating more, not wanting to waste the food or draw attention to himself, but he soon realized that drawing attention to his struggle would be infinitely worse.

It's just that – everyone was talking, and laughing, and being loud because they were comfortable with each other and didn't have as many struggles as Peter himself did, and he was so frustrated because he just wanted to be normal. He wanted to be comfortable with other people, and be able to talk, and laugh, and eat, and not feel like his stomach was going to come out his throat if he tried to do any of those things. Frustrated tears pricked at his eyes, but he swallowed them back because he didn't want these strangers to see him cry, either.

"You alright, kid?" a familiar gravelly voice whispered in his ear. Peter startled, not having even noticed that James had leaned into his space. He looked over to meet grey-blue eyes dimmed with concern, corners of his mouth surrounded by stubble turned down in a slight frown.

Peter didn't even have to motion or do anything – Bucky gazed at him for a mere moment before he gave a short, slight nod and rose to his feet, seeing whatever he needed to in Peter's face already.

"I'm done," he told Steve only. "I – it's a lot."

Peter gratefully rose to his feet as well, ready to follow James back to their floor and glad that Bucky hadn't called attention to him but took it upon himself to claim a bad day. He was pretty sure Steve had heard Bucky's comment meant only for Peter, because when Peter glanced at him Steve only nodded, allowing them both to go off and not looking as concerned as Peter would have expected, had it truly been Bucky having a bad day. He remembered the expression on Steve's face after he had figured out that James had run out of words the day before – now he was wholly calm and not looking pained at all – only understanding.

"Pe-ter, you don't have to go, too!" Clint whined in protest when he saw Peter beginning to leave with Bucky.

"Eat your salad, Clint," Steve ordered before Peter had time to panic about what to do. "Leave Buck and Pete alone."

Clint continued to grumble and whine, but he and everyone else probably heard the strictness in their Captain's voice that brooked no room for argument and only called out scattered goodbyes to the two as they made their way to the elevator.

The doors closed in front of them, cutting the sound off, and making Peter aware of the fact that he was breathing much too loudly. James didn't say anything, but he tugged Peter closer with an arm around his shoulders, giving him comfort that Peter readily sank into. He let out a shaky breath and wrapped his arms around Bucky, burying his face in his armpit out of embarrassment, not wanting the older man to see his face even while he accepted the offered comfort.

They got off on their floor, and Bucky guided him to the couch, sitting down beside him.

"The first time I went to dinner with the rest of them," Bucky started after several moments of silence where Peter regained control of his breathing, "I stabbed Clint in the hip. All considered, I think you did pretty well for your first dinner with them."

Peter snorted in surprised amusement at the confession, and calmed even further – probably Bucky's intent behind telling him this.

"I think it's just good that it wasn't Sam that I hit," Bucky went on with a wryly amused twist to his lips. "He still goes on about how the first time we met I ripped out the steering wheel when he was driving down the highway. And then the second time I ripped his wing off and kicked him off a helicarrier. Third hit and I think he may start thinking I have a vendetta against him specifically."

Peter looked at Bucky with wide, surprised eyes, not having known that about Bucky and Sam. Really, he didn't know how Sam had joined the Avengers – just knew that it was during the whole Winter Soldier fiasco in DC. But he didn't know any kind of details of their beginning interactions. He didn't know if that's because it wasn't public knowledge, or if it was because he had been completely out of the loop of all news for almost a year.

Bucky laughed quietly at the look on Peter's face, his own expression going a bit abashed. "I'll tell you the story some other time."

Peter had no problem agreeing to this, and settled back into Bucky's hold.

They sat there for a bit, Bucky punctuating the silence every once in a while with a random comment or two, and Peter found himself calming without even realizing it.

After a bit though, Peter found himself feeling restless, with a need to move, to do – something. It was a familiar itch, and one that Peter thought he'd have no problem scratching now as the sun dipped below the horizon.

Sitting up, Peter looked at James and wiped a hand over his face like he was applying a new one, before he pointed to the window, at the city just outside.

"You want…out?" Bucky questioned, an uncertain furrow to his brow.

Peter nodded, but knew by his confusion that he didn't know that he was talking about Spiderman. To clarify his intent, he pointed his wrist at Bucky like he was going to shoot him with webs.

Bucky's confusion cleared, and he nodded, though he looked a bit nervous. "Some time, I'll get you a comm that you can wear in case you need help." At Peter's doubtful look, he went on, "And mostly so that I know you're okay. I know you can't talk, but – I think it'd help. Just in case."

Peter nodded agreeably, hoping that Bucky would forget about this in the future and not feeling like arguing about it at the moment. Besides, it was hard to argue when the opposing party could just look away or close their eyes while still arguing their side.

"Don't stay out too late," Bucky instructed, though it seemed more a request, which Peter was grateful for because he didn't need someone bossing him around like he couldn't take care of himself. He nodded in acquiescence, rising to his feet and going to his bedroom to don his Spidey suit.

Moments later, he leaped out the window at the side of the Tower, throwing out a web to the next building over.

Peter was feeling more comfortable in his skin a few hours later, having stopped a few muggings and having helped a drunk young woman find her way back safely to her apartment. The air felt cool against his skin, barely shielded by his suit, but for once it didn't seem quite so bitingly cold. Maybe it was the hopeful feeling he carried, knowing that he had somewhere warm to get back to when he would go to sleep, or maybe it was the fact that he'd eaten more in the past forty-eight hours than he had in two weeks. In any case, there was a bit more of a spring to his step, a bit more pizzazz in his fighting maneuvers.

The universe seemed to be rewarding him too, because he was kept busy the entire time he was out. They were small things, easily stopped, so he didn't have any kind of risk but he could still get his excess jitters out.

He lost track of time as he went, because he was so caught up in actually having fun with the work he was doing, in actually feeling like he had the energy to do it again. He knew he wasn't healed – the still-vivid rash on his arms warned him against using his webs too much even still, and it was a good gauge for the health of his body – but he felt loads better just because of the past twenty-four hours. It was like when he remembered being sick with the stomach flu, and immediately after throwing up he felt so relieved he felt he could do anything, completely cured.

But he also remembered how in the next few moments, his stomach would curdle again and he'd still have a few more hours of sickness before being completely better again.

Right now though, he was feeling pretty good, in the moments before his "sickness" would crash into him again, so he took advantage of it while he could and took down as many bad guys as he was able to.

It was around midnight when he finally decided to take a few moments to get his breath back, and sprang up the side of a building to get to the roof, landing lightly and nimbly on the edge.

It was only once he was up there however that he noticed that Deadpool was already seated there, and he mentally kicked himself, wondering how he hadn't noticed him before, or why his Spidey sense hadn't warned him this roof was already occupied.

But, he told himself, Deadpool was…something. A friend, maybe. And he couldn't not-avoid the mercenary forever.

So, he settled into his seat, giving Deadpool a friendly wave of greeting.

"Heya, Spidey," Deadpool greeted, sounding – tired, actually. Peter stilled, noticing for the first time that the man wasn't sitting with his usual flamboyance. He wasn't sitting straight, kicking his feet and nodding his head to an imaginary tune as he usually was. Peter hadn't even thought about the movements before, but now that Deadpool was slouched, just sitting there, not even eating but just staring down below him, Peter couldn't help noticing how different it was, and how – wrong – it felt. Deadpool was this beacon of unbeatable cheer and a complete absence of seriousness, so seeing him still and quiet in the middle of the night, alone…Peter didn't like it.

He paused, before he came to a decision within himself and rose to his feet, crossing the small distance to sit within inches of the older man. He leaned over, bumping shoulders with the mercenary to get his attention and tilting his head in question.

"Aw, no need to worry yourself, Spidey," Deadpool said, the fabric over his mouth shifting in a way that seemed to imply a wry smile. "Just an off night for me. Not an 'off-myself' night, at least not so far yet, but ya know."

Peter blinked in confusion, turning over Deadpool's words before he tilted his head the other way to indicate that that really hadn't been an answer.

Deadpool chuckled. "You're very expressive, you know that?" he said randomly, kicking his feet a bit. "I don't even have facial cues to guess what you're trying to say – I'm relying solely on body language here. But somehow you still always make it pretty clear. Not like me. I can talk and talk and never really say anything. The Merc With the Mouth, you know? 'S what they call me. Maybe some of them say that because I get caught swearing more than any other superhero and anti-hero out there, but it's also 'cause I just don't stop talking. I useta get in a lotta trouble in school for it, but now I have Bea, Arthur, and Betty in particular to back me up so no one tells me to shut up unless they're very stupid or they know they're going to die anyway. And I like talking! I don't know what I'd do without it – I don't know how you do it, either. I'd 've gone crazy by now. Well. Crazier. Pretty sure the voices in my head tells me I'm crazy by any psych's standards. But I enjoy it. Being crazy, anyway. I've always got company! Even if they're right bastards most of the time."

Peter allowed Deadpool's rambling to wash over him as usual, noticing as the man continued to talk to him that he began to relax and brighten up again, swinging his feet and making expansive gestures to communicate the enormity of what he was saying. He felt his own lips tug up in response, watching the mercenary – watching his friend – cheer up as time went on.

He must have been talking – with occasional wordless input from Peter – for almost a half hour before he finally began to talk about what really must have been bothering him.

"…and so I've been looking for this kid for a whole week now, but I can't find him! I know New York is a big city with eight and a half million people to look through, but I'm a mercenary! It's my job to find people, but one homeless teenager is proving smarter than me. I just want to make sure he's okay, yannow? Good ol' Bucky Barnes has been looking too, but he hasn't called in a couple'a days, so I think he might hate me now. Damn shame. I need to meet Captain America before I die! Heh – I won't die, so I guess before he dies. Though who knows for that, either?! Dude's lived a few decades already and looks better than I do. Though, that's not hard to do – dog vomit looks better than I do…"

After that, Deadpool went off about something else that Peter only followed with half an ear. Deadpool was still looking for him? Or – Peter. He was right there, but Deadpool didn't know it, and he never would. But he would've thought that Deadpool would have gotten distracted by something or someone else by now. There were a ton of other opportunities that the mercenary would surely have to meet his idol Captain America (whom Peter now lived with, and wasn't that a trip?). Why would Deadpool be trying so hard on a useless homeless kid who got dumped off at his apartment?

There must be something he was missing, Peter decided. Maybe Daredevil had threatened him. Peter didn't know the vigilante of Hell's Kitchen all too well, but he could imagine the man with the horned mask would have no problem threatening or even just striking a deal with Deadpool to find Peter. To…make sure he was okay? That couldn't be right, though. He could maybe kind of understand that Bucky thought he was important and worth protecting (not that he needed it, but it was nice anyway). Even Steve he could understand taking the time to take Peter under his enormous wing of protection, because Steve and Bucky were basically like brothers and so when Bucky was protective of Peter and Steve was protective of Bucky he would also be protective of what Bucky was protecting.

But – anyone else? Protecting plain old Peter? They must want something from him. But what?

Maybe Daredevil knew his identity. He had seemed a bit too unfazed by Peter's fighting skills, too sure in his movements as he took him to Deadpool for protection, of all people. There had been no question whether or not Peter would be comfortable with or even trust the merc to protect him, and that was strange to expect of a random homeless kid.

But why wouldn't Daredevil look for Peter on his own, then? Why send Deadpool?

But why else would Deadpool, not knowing of Peter's identity, care to find a random homeless kid if not for someone employing him?

He shook his head a bit to clear his mind of these thoughts, wondering if he would ever understand Deadpool's habits and thought process.

He rose to his feet at a lull in the other man's rambling, because it was getting late and he should probably get back to the Tower. He knew that Bucky would be in bed by now, but he had agreed not to stay out too late, which he was only remembering now. He wasn't sure what time it was, but it was surely getting a bit into the realm of "late".

"You need help patrolling again?" Deadpool said when he got up though, jumping to his feet as well in undisguised excitement.

Peter paused as he was about to mime sleeping. He hadn't been on patrol with Deadpool in a while, and he could see that the man still had some jitteriness – the same that Peter had been dealing with early that night. He didn't know if it came from restlessness or from residual anxiety about what had been bothering him before, but he felt immediately guilty at the thought of leaving his friend Deadpool alone like this.

He told himself that it was purely because if left to his own devices, Deadpool would probably go and kill a bunch of people, and no matter what the guy said, that couldn't be good for his mental health, shoddy as it was already. It was certainly not because he knew exactly what Wade felt like and felt sympathetic.

Honestly, he could kind of understand Deadpool's response to stress and loneliness, how he took jobs in and out of the country not for the money but for something familiar to do, something to make him feel. Although Peter couldn't be as reckless, being much more breakable and definitely killable, he generally de-stressed by going out patrolling. So maybe helping Deadpool de-stress through partnered patrolling could help both of them.

So, rather than miming the need for sleep, Peter decided that he could spend time out a bit longer, help Deadpool out a bit.

Well, not just Deadpool. Patrolling was always good for the people of the city, too. That was why he did it, after all. Mostly.

He wished later that he had just decided "screw it" and gone back to the Tower after all.

Maybe then things wouldn't have gone to shit.

They worked for a couple of hours, and Peter found himself actually having fun. He didn't feel so stressed out anymore, or as on edge about maybe revealing something to Deadpool. He was more comfortable with the man, having made that small mental shift where he could see the similarities between the two of them, as different as their methods were. Feeling that kinship made him more at ease around him, even while a voice in the back of his mind warned him to keep his distance.

He did his best to shove that voice away, though. He had decided that Bucky could be his friend after a relatively short amount of time actually knowing him. He knew that it was because his hindbrain recognized that Bucky could defend himself.

So really, he should do the same for Deadpool. He had known him for much longer – a little more than four months now. And he had seen Deadpool heal from so many things, had heard in unnecessarily graphic detail how many times Deadpool had come back to life after several different times of being murdered. His curse that he had decided that Bucky was probably mostly immune to probably didn't and wouldn't touch Deadpool, either.

And so it was with all of this in mind that he firmly told the voice in his head to shut up, that Deadpool could be his…his friend.

He shivered with anxiety at the thought, but…he would try. He would do his best to accept that Deadpool genuinely liked being around him, and that he would be safe doing so.

"…and then the guy sicced this fucking sentient cactus on me!" Deadpool exclaimed later, telling him yet another story of one of his crazy jobs. He had a lot of them, and they were never boring.

It was the early hours of the morning, but not late enough that the sky was beginning to lighten yet. Peter thought vaguely to himself that he should get a watch for situations like these – there was nothing to differentiate the hours at this time of night. Between the hours of one and four, traffic was marginally lighter than normal, but not enough that he could guess what time it was by its flow.

They were sitting on a building overlooking the East River, seeing the lights of Manhattan across the way that never went out. They weren't even eating, but Peter enjoyed (and pushed down anxiety about) the companionship between them, swinging his own feet beside Deadpool's.

"I'm real' glad I can talk to you, Spidey," Deadpool said with an uncharacteristic, vulnerable sort of honesty. "You're good at listening – and not just 'cause you're mute. I can't talk to most people, you know? That's not even all because of looking like an old avocado – that's always been the case. But you never tell me to shut up, and y'know, I hope you don't get bored and I just can't tell, but I like to think I'm pretty good at reading people, and I did just say earlier that you're very expressive, but maybe I'm wrong? But, you keep coming back. Maybe you're a masochist, I dunno…"

Peter could sense that the rambling this time was due to nervousness, and he didn't want his friend (his friend!) to feel uncomfortable, so this time he did cut him off with a pat of understanding to the leg right beside his. Wade was tense for a moment, trailing off, but then he relaxed and let out a breath of relief.

"Thanks, Spidey," the masked man said, reaching up to sling an arm around Peter's shoulders, tugging him closer in a slightly awkward but still comfortable side hug. It was an easy movement, one born of familiarity, but something niggled at the back of his mind at the action.

It didn't feel…wrong, exactly…but there was something pressing at his memories, trying to tell him something about this hug, about Wade's chin resting on top of Peter's head, trying to remind him of something important.

"You wanna patrol again sometime this week?" Wade was asking him, lifting his chin off Peter's head but keeping his arm wrapped loosely around his smaller form.

With a jolt, Peter suddenly realized what was equal parts familiar and strange about their position. He felt his heart drop to his stomach with dread and sickness at the realization, because –

He used to hold Gwen like this. Next to each other, on a bench maybe, but he was bigger than her and was usually the one doing the holding rather than being held. He was the one who would rest his chin on top of her head with casual ease and familiarity, comfortable in each others' presence.

But…but she had been his girlfriend. They had been in love.

Deadpool was…Deadpool was Deadpool. He was his friend. He didn't know how old the man was, but by how he talked, he had to be at least in his late twenties.

And Peter – Peter was sixteen.

Thoughts whirling with realization and guilt, Peter jerked upright. He needed – he needed to get away. He couldn't deal with his thoughts right now, not with Wade right there.

He nodded jerkily in response to Deadpool's question, just barely remembering to answer the man. He rose on unsteady legs to his feet, pointing at his wrist where a watch would sit to explain his reason for leaving right then.

Wade's posture was concerned though, because of course he never missed anything.

"You okay, Spidey?" he asked, reaching out a tentative hand like he was going to touch him but wasn't sure what his reception would be. "You're looking a little spooked, there."

Peter nodded again, insistent, and tapped his wrist again before giving a wave of farewell and running the other way.

He jumped off the roof, knowing he shouldn't but shooting out a web anyway. Jumping from building to building using hands and feet would be safer, but using his webs was faster, and he needed to get away as fast as possible because anxiety and guilt was shooting through him in tidal waves and he just needed to move.

He knew that Wade joked, and he was never afraid to make innuendos or compliment some physical part of him or all of him. But, Peter had thought that that was just – just Deadpool. It was what he did. Deadpool said it himself – he talked and talked without ever saying anything important. Peter had of course assumed that that's what Wade had been doing with him.

And he'd just accepted that Wade was his friend. But had he been reading things wrong this entire time? Did Wade expect something else? Was Wade angling for – for a romantic relationship?

He didn't have a problem with the idea of dating a man in general – he'd known he was bi since he was thirteen and realized he wondered just as much what kissing a boy would be like as he had kissing a girl.

But…but that would have been if that someone was in the same age range as him.

Did Wade even suspect that Peter was younger than eighteen? Because if he had, then why…why would the man – the grown man – be attracted to him?

Peter was pretty sure the man wasn't a pedophile. And sure, he looked older than the average sixteen-year-old, notwithstanding the slight frame he had the musculature of someone in his young twenties. And Wade had never heard his voice, didn't know if it would sound too young. And he didn't have a school schedule that he had to keep anymore, so he saw Deadpool at all hours of the day. Maybe he should give Wade the benefit of the doubt, that he truly had no idea how old Peter was.

But he was still just a teenager, and he didn't want to date someone as old as he presumed Wade was. And the idea that maybe Deadpool hadn't been interested in friendship all this time, but that he wanted and expected something more…

Peter realized that his mask was wet, sticking to his face with his tears. He hadn't even noticed that he'd started crying, but now that he had he couldn't help the wordless sob that was ripped from his throat.

He just wanted to get back to the Tower, lock himself in his room and hide under his covers, wishing that this night had never happened. He was feeling confused and betrayed – by Wade, and by his own ignorance and lack of thought.

Why had he never noticed before now? Why had he just assumed that it was just Deadpool being Deadpool? Surely there must have been signs before now. Wade used nicknames, he flirted, he made sure that Peter was safe and tried to help him with his own mental struggles, and Peter had just chalked it up to him being friendly.

God, he was such an idiot. No one was friendly without a reason, without an agenda. Here he had been freaking out about maybe being friends with Deadpool, when really the entire time he should have been more worried about Feelings.

He had no idea what to think at this point. He had thought he and Wade were just friends – ha, "just". Now he didn't know – had he been unintentionally encouraging Wade's crush? Was it really his own fault for not just doing what he always did, following his instinct and pushing the man away from the beginning?

It certainly felt like it was all his fault. He had just been so grateful that the mercenary hadn't thought it was weird that he was mute, that he just took it in stride, and he hadn't had the strength to avoid him or send him away.

He only had himself to blame for this, he realized. His curse hadn't hurt Deadpool, but he had. He could never…he could never –

He couldn't finish the thought without choking on another sob, and it was with an angry grimace that he shot out his wrist at another building, arm burning like liquid fire as his spinnerets were overtaxed.

He only realized a moment later what he'd done, as he released the web behind him and found himself rapidly falling toward the street below, the web he'd just shot out snapping at several weak points.

Panic flooded his mind, and he desperately tried shooting out another web – if not to carry him to a building, then at least to slow his fall.

But his webs were weak like soggy bread, and there was no resistance to keep him up or slow him down, and they fell apart as soon as one end stuck to the building. He was left with no support, plummeting as a dead weight toward the ground.

He hit the sidewalk, and pain exploded all over his body. His attempt to curl his body to try and mitigate damage only caused him to roll once, twice, three times before he fell against a wall, halting his progress.

Gasping for breath and dizzy with pain but currently unable to catalogue his injuries, he stared up at the buildings above him. He thought he was out of the way of foot traffic, on a quieter street, but he couldn't tell with the ringing in his ears.

Darkness crowded at the edges of his vision, and he tried forcing it away, because passed out right here would leave him vulnerable, completely defenseless in his Spiderman suit.

But it was no use, because his head was pounding and his chest ached and he was feeling much too sleepy…

A moment later, the oblivion of sleep forced him under.