"Hey," Captain America said, making Peter look up at him. "Try not to think so much. No one will judge you if you punch it into the wall," Captain America gestured to the punching bag in front of Peter, whose fingers were twitching in the hand wraps they were in. Peter wasn't used to something so tight - it felt constricting in a really, really bad way. Mr. America (Captain? Peter knew the man wanted him to call him Steve, but it just… didn't feel quite right) gave him an encouraging smile. "Which I've done, by the way. Multiple times."

Peter nodded, scratching his palms a bit as he clenched his fists. He made sure to keep his thumb on the outside of his fists. The boy took on a ready stance like he'd seen in the self-defense tutorials he'd watched, but his feet shifted against the ground, and he couldn't shake the painful self-awareness that he was probably making a fool of himself in front of Captain Freaking America. "Okay."

"Uppercut." said, and Peter obeyed. The bag barely moved, but white-hot pain shot through his knuckles.

Peter's stance melted as he massaged his metacarpals. "What is that thing made of?"

Captain America gave him a small frown. "Is your hand alright, son? I could find some of the gloves Tony designed for me if you'd like."

Peter's cheeks pinked. "Uh, no need! I - I'm fine, sir. I just don't really punch that many people." He threw both hands out like he was shooting webs. "Pew pew! Y'know?"

Peter most certainly didn't think about the weapon. How the last time he'd gotten close to a criminal he'd been shot, or how much it hurt.

Definitely not.

"It's Steve," the avenger said, "But I understand. Your bones aren't as strong as they could be. Let me grab my gloves."

He gestured for Peter to follow him, and with only a little reluctance, Peter did. His knuckles groaned as he walked. As he was getting two massive boxing gloves out of a thick metal case with a large "A" engraved on the top, the Captain asked him, "Where did you learn to fight, Peter? Did you have a teacher?"

Peter shifted his footing. Leaning on his right foot a bit, he responded quietly, "No-one, sir. Just…" Peter cringed, "the internet. I didn't want May to know about what I was doing, so… yeah. No-one."

Captain America frowned down at him, then his face morphed into a kind, if somber, smile. "Well, you have someone now. But I only want you to use this to defend yourself for now, alright? Your aunt said that's as far as I could go."

When Captain Freaking America had approached him with an offer to train with him to help get a better grasp on his powers, May hadn't said much. A small nod giving permission, and a tight smile and hug before he was lead away, but… it was still weird for Peter. A bit. Mainly, it was the thought that Captain America was following May's orders. Sure, he'd known that fact for weeks. Yeah. But it never ceased to strike him, and make him feel a small bit of pride. Parker Pride.

"Okay." he said, then took in the Captain's boxing gloves. They were massive: at least two to three times the size of his hands, with small microtears along the part that hit the bags. He wondered exactly what it must've been like for Mr. Stark to design them. It made him smile a bit, imagining Iron Man sketching out a diagram for boxing gloves. "Those are, ah, pretty big."

Captain America's smile brightened a bit. "Yeah. The guy they were made for is a bit bigger than you."

Peter managed a laugh, just before part of him wondered if he even deserved to have this chance. He tried to shut the thought down, but another piece of his mind had already fired back that this was necessary. Peter recalled the sickening pop! of the thug's shoulder, and the glow of the weapon in his hand; how he nearly destroyed is laptop's keyboard in the first few weeks after he got his powers; the fire in his right hand after the first time he tested his superstrength, and the hole he had driven into the brick wall. He shook his head and attempted to get his hands inside the gloves.

They felt unbearably awkward. He had to put some effort into actually raising them to his face. His hands felt insignificant. Peter was wondering if he would ever get big enough to wear gloves like these, as Captain America said, "You don't have to use them if you don't want to. I know they're a bit awkward."

As Peter nodded, his mind flickered back to the long, long talk he and May had had about his "training" after the first day. May had gently escorted him to the food court, asking questions with a sharper note than Peter was used to.

"Did he push you too hard?"

"Not really."

"Did he do anything you weren't comfortable with?"

"No, May. It's fine, he was really cool!"

"You said he had you running laps. Did he make sure you stretched first?"

"Yeah."

"Good." May pushed open the doors to the compound's cantine, and as the two of them grabbed food, Peter swore she looked kinda down. He wanted to ask about it,, but the words were catching on the tip of his tongue. They hadn't really discussed, well, a lot of the finer, rockier points of relocating to the compound. Or his lies. Or why he lied.

May lead him to a table in the far left corner of the cantine. Peter sat down across from her, trying to pull his eyes away from the terf outside the cantine. The setting sun gave it a very particular beauty, as orange-yellow light washed over it. The forest in the distance cast long shadows, stubborn, evergrowing divots.

"Pete," May began carefully, "I'd like to talk to your powers."

Peter's blood chilled to the bone. Of course, he felt his face begin to heat up at the same time, because sense was long gone. He'd jumped at least ten sharks in the span of half a year, this shouldn't have come as a surprise. It still was, of course.

"W-what about them?" Peter asked.

"Why did you decide to…" May paused for a moment, speering a piece of lettuce in her salad. Were forks really that loud? "... become a vigilante?" the words felt painfully awkward. Another reminder that he shouldn't have even- "I love you, Peter," she reached across the table and took his hands in her own, "I always will. You were great before you got these - before this all started." she forced a smile, "You had nothing to prove by jumping off rooftops."

Peter sat stock still, face red, attempted poker face collapsing and forming up over and over again, mind racing as he tried to find the proper words. May was right: he didn't have anything to prove. Not - not that badly, anyways. No. He had nothing to prove. "I…"

"I noticed that you weren't sleeping," May said quietly, "I know teenagers aren't very good about that, so I didn't mention it, but I saw it." she squeezed his hands tightly. "I saw your grades drop, too, Pete. I didn't say anything." her grip tightened. "I saw you with bruises and I bought your excuses because I wanted to let you grieve," her grip loosened, but at the same time, her gaze hardened somewhat. "But going out there won't bring Ben back. You don't have to do this in honor of him."

Peter's throat felt indescribably dry. He knew that Spiderman wasn't going to bring Ben back. That was the whole reason he'd made the suit in the first place. Ben wasn't coming back. Ben wasn't coming back, and it was his fault. It was his responsibility. "I…"

May's gaze was sympathetic, but steady. The smell of Peter's pad thai was almost sickening. The conversations of the compound staff going on in the other side of the cantine were too loud. Peter's heart was thumping in his chest. He looked outside, then to his Aunt, at their food, to May, to the other people, outside, his food, her food, May, the other people-

Peter's breathing was picking up in pace. "It's… it's not-" He swallowed thickly, "I'm not trying to bring him back."

Peter bowed his head, staring at his lap. "When you can - you can what I can. You can't just… sit there. I can't sit here and do nothing while other people get hurt. I don't want anyone else to-" he swallowed again, "to…"

"Peter," May said, "They aren't your responsibility. You don't have to save the world."

"I'm not trying to." Peter said. "I just want to help people."

"You're putting yourself in danger," May said, "If you wanted to help, you could've volunteered at an animal shelter. You don't have to fight to make the world a better place."

Peter nodded slowly. "I… I guess."

"I can set you up with a position at the hospital," May said, "Or we can go to that animal shelter. Remember the one? Where Ned's mother volunteers. We can get you training and you can help that way." May squeezed his hands again, "Okay?"

Peter felt bile rocketing up in his throat and flooded his veins, wrapping around him tightly. "Okay."

"Hey, buddy," Captain America said, "you with me?"

Peter blinked, then nodded. "Sorry," he chuckled, "Spaced out there."

"It's alright," Captain Freaking America said gently, "Now, give me a cross this time."

Peter nodded, tightening his already clenched fists. He threw all his weight into the cross, and the bag went flying several feet. He lost balance and stumbled backward as his hand burned.

May took a deep breath, rubbing her eyes as she let loose an obnoxious yawn. It was only three in the afternoon, but the time here was odd. At points, it went by in blurs and flashes. She could sit down in their library and get paperwork done in droves, from nine to five like it was one of the few days the hospital let her telework. At others, the hours seemed immutable, set in stone. Each second that passed would be filled with a poignant mix of disappointment and concern, every minute chock-full of harsh mental whispering about the current situation.

Natasha had yet to seek Peter out. That was reasonable. May could understand her concerns; once the shock had worn off, the knowledge that her nephew was related to the best assassin in the world was terrifying. She and Ben had considered setting Peter up with a counselor, just in case he showed any dangerous signs. They hadn't gone through with it, but May was very seriously reconsidering it now. She didn't enjoy the idea of using someone else's money, but she knew that if she genuinely asked for it, it would probably be provided.

She finished typing an email and sent it with a small click. The room around her had fine, blue-grey carpets with a tall glass ceiling and bookshelves about as high to boot. Her armchair was plush and primly held together by stitching that probably cost more than her salary. She adjusted her glasses as she closed her computer, closing her eyes, immersing herself in the silence of the library.

Occasionally, she would see Steve Rogers come in and take a book off the shelves. He would sit in one of the other armchairs, and read for hours at a time. More often than not he read, strangely, political-science novels, with an occasional sprinkling of autobiographies or memoirs by famous artists. He would always give a congenial "Hi" when he came in, and when she didn't leave before he did, he would occasionally ask if he could get her anything. Captain America asking if she needed her water bottle refilled was a gesture she never thought she would ever be witness too or be on the receiving end of, but it was kind of him.

May got up and stretched putting her computer back into her bag. She knew that right now, Peter was with Steve training, which she only disliked by a quarter. Yes, she understood the why of it - she'd approved it - but she hated the idea that her nephew would be learning how to fight. Peter wasn't built for that world, and she was loathe to imagine what could happen to him.

Brushing the thought aside for the moment, May decided to take an hour or two to herself. A long, warm bath felt very much over earned at this point.

She found the way to her and Peter's shared suite and entered her bathroom. As she drew herself a bath, her mind circled back to a questions that had become all-too commonplace in recent months: What would Ben think of this? Richard? Mary?

The size of her and Peter's shared quarters was twice that of her apartment. The floors were cleaned every other day by professionals, and while there had been a small problem with the water last week, they had a plumber on it within minutes. She slid into the bath and pondered as the hot water stung her whether or not they would be proud of her performance. Her missteps had been gigantic, but who would even suspect their teenage nephew of developing superpowers? From a school field trip, too. With the fact in her mind everything fell into place, yet part of her was exasperated that it could even fall into place at all. It shouldn't have. This was crazy.

She wondered how Richard and Mary would have handled this. Would they have let her not tell Peter? Hiding it was disturbingly easy, but that hardly made it feel acceptable, especially on certain days. It was, of course, Natasha's choice when it came down to it, but Peter had already lost his "mother". His real one was walking these halls at this very moment, planning the operation that would make it safe to return home, and while the woman was exceptionally well at concealing it, May knew it had to be getting to her; because she herself felt at points like the guilt was eating her alive, and for Natasha it had to be ten times worse.

May finished her bath and dried off, changing into more comfortable clothes, catching a glimpse of Steve running Peter around the facility's track. She turned away and poked her head across the divide separating Peter's part of the quarters from hers. The space had picked up a bit of Peter's natural messiness within days, and his bag, books, and clothes were kept in confined centers of chaos. His bed was undone, and his laptop was open on his desk.

May felt a small, fond smile cross her face. Some things, despite the circumstances, hadn't changed. She went over to the laptop and saw that the light on the left side was still lit. He'd left the computer on; If it hadn't run out of battery by now, it would soon, and Peter wasn't a big fan of chargers. May did her best to keep water away from the old computer as she reached for the power button, but as she did so, her elbow managed to press the spacebar down. The screen immediately blazed to life, and May was face to face with sight that made her heart sink.

Why was Peter checking his email?