Peter Parker

I blink my eyes open.

For a moment, panic constricts my lungs. The environment is unfamiliar—it's not my apartment in Queens, and it's not the hellhole in the Bronx. My first instinct is that I've finally been taken by Oscorp, that the fosters have finally given up on me and turned me over, but...I'm much too comfortable for that to make sense.

I'm warm, and buried in very soft sheets under a lot of very thick blankets. Sun spills through shaded blinds, and I know it's far past when I usually sleep. The clothes are kind of big, and I wonder whose they are until my brain finally catches up, and I remember where I am.

I'm sleeping in Tony Stark's guest room.

In Bruce Banner's clothes.

In the Avengers Compound.

I have to blink up at the ceiling for a full minute before the statements make sense, and even then, the surreal nature of the situation leaves me grasping at smoke. I push the blankets back and set my feet on cool hardwood, looking around the room, trying to understand what's going on.

I remember now that I'd woken up several times in the night, but they were brief spurts of awareness interrupting otherwise decent sleep. This is the first time I'm really getting a look around the room with fresh eyes. Last night…

I don't want to think about last night. It had been the terrifying collision of my wildest dreams and my worst nightmare, and I still don't know how to feel. I can't...accept the fact that Earth's Mightiest Heroes are unknowingly housing a murderer. So...I ignore it. I ignore those feelings, and I ignore last night, and I inspect my surroundings.

I'd bet the bedframe alone is worth more than everything I've ever owned, to start.

It's nothing incredibly fancy, like I'd kind of expected, but it's sleek, black wood with semi-intricate carvings by the posts, and there is no evidence of dents or scratches. There's a matching nightstand and a dresser with a vanity mirror. I get up slowly, holding one of the bed posts until I can get my balance, and make my way to the mirror.

I lean on the dresser and look at my reflection, and...I don't recognize myself.

Two months ago, had I seen my reflection, I would've thought I'd been body-snatched, or something. That I was inhabiting some poor homeless kid's skin.

Now...I look at myself, and I see the last traces of the almost-healed bruises encircling my throat, and rub it self-consciously. I look at the deep purple circles under my eyes and my pronounced cheekbones, my gaunt face. I look at my collarbones and the paleness of my skin.

How did I fall this far in two months?

I close my eyes, letting my head drop, and feel my hands shake against the obsidian dresser.

A question for another day. Not today. Not...not so soon after everything.

Now, I have to figure out what I'm going to do.

Before I can, however, there's a knock at the door.

I blink. Are they asking for permission? "Um…come in?" I cringe at how uncertain I sound.

The door opens with a small whine, and there stands Steve Rogers, Captain America. I blink again, and have to remind myself that no, I'm not hallucinating.

He smiles, and I tense without knowing why. "Morning, Peter. How are you feeling?"

I glance away from him, his honest eyes too much to bear on top of my guilt, and shrug. "I-I'm okay." I wonder where Mr. Stark is, and then I mentally kick myself. Of course, he wouldn't come check on me. He owns a company and manages the Avengers. I bet he has six million super important top-secret things to do.

I glance back when I'm met with a couple seconds of silence, and I see Steve Rogers staring at my chin. At least, I think that's what he's staring at.

Oh, no. Did I drool in my sleep?

Feeling heat creep up my neck, I turn back to the mirror as subtly as I can, raising a hand to my chin. Then I see what he's looking at, and I quickly put a hand to my throat.

The bruises had been a livid purple last night, but now, they're faint blotches of blue and gray and green, the telltale palette of healing wounds.

"U-Um…I…I—" I can't think of a lie, so all I do is stare at his chest, wondering what's going to happen.

They're heroes. They won't give me to Oscorp. I know that much. But will they give me to someone else? Charles Xavier, or something? I can't go there. I—

"I didn't expect that," Steve says as casually as he can, leaning against the doorjamb. Hesitantly, I look up. He's in workout clothes—I wonder if he's been in the gym. His eyes are calm. "You're enhanced?"

I feel my hands shake, so I tuck them under my armpits and nod like a puppet on a frayed string.

"I should've expected it," Steve says, smiling. Why isn't he angry for not telling them sooner? Why isn't he yelling? "You put up a good fight last night, when I was trying to calm you down. I thought it was an adrenaline thing."

I don't know what to say, so I shrug. God, this is pathetic. I can't even string a sentence together.

"Are you hungry?" Steve asks after a few more beats of silence, voice still calm and even. "It's almost lunchtime. I think Nat's cooking today. She's good, don't worry."

Hesitantly, again, I nod, then mentally kick myself. Words, Parker. "Um…y-yes. Yeah, I'm…hungry."

Steve nods, ignoring my stutter. I hate it, and I didn't get it until a few weeks in at the fosters', but I'm glad he doesn't say anything about it.

Steve chatters on about something as we walk the winding halls to the kitchen. I think he's talking about Mortal Kombat. I listen with half an ear, smiling softly in the right places, but I'm mostly thinking about what's expected of me at this lunch.

I assume they're all going to be there—that's what it sounded like, anyways. I don't know what questions they're going to ask me. I don't know what questions I can answer. I don't really know what I'm supposed to say or do or feel.

I suppose I should tell them I'll be leaving soon, so they don't have to deal with me anymore, but I don't know where I'll go. I can't go back to the fosters' or the fight club. I wonder if I can catch a bus somewhere and start over. New name, new identity, but…I don't know where I'd start. I think I have…seventy-six cents. And I think it was in the pocket of the clothes I asked Mr. Stark—Tony—to throw away.

Damn. Okay. That complicates things.

I'm startled out of my planning when we arrive in the kitchen to a scene of…well…chaos.

I've been watching and idolizing the Avengers since I was six years old. When my parents died, and I couldn't save them, or do anything about it, I turned to the heroes who could. I knew, even then, the Avengers didn't know about their deaths, so they couldn't have saved them. But they saved other people, right?

Then Mr. Stark said Nice work, kid, and the guilt I'd been lugging around had been completely absolved, lost in the sound of the departing thrusters. I'd idolized them, and watched them, and wanted to be like them. I'd wanted nothing more.

Then, I killed someone, intentionally or not. I killed Crush with my own hands, and last night, that dream had evaporated, but I still idolized them and worshipped them and couldn't believe they were giving me the time of day.

Now, though…

…I wonder how in the world these people ever managed to function as a cohesive unit.

I can see veins bursting in Natasha Romanov's forehead as she stands over a boiling pot, looking as close to murderous as I bet she can without acting on her desires. The wooden spoon in her hand looks as though someone has snapped it in half. I can understand her frustration. The cacophony is driving me insane, and I just got here.

Behind her, at a polished oak table, the Winter Soldier has Sam Wilson locked in a headlock, reaching over the writhing man for a breadstick in Sam's hand. Sam, despite his reddening face, is doing a valiant job of keeping the breadstick away from both the Winter Soldier and who I think is Hawkeye, who's literally leaning over the table with a death grip on Sam's wrist, trying to wrestle the breadstick away from him. To prevent him, Sam has one leg up on top of the table firmly planted against Hawkeye's chest, keeping his other hand just out of reach of the breadstick.

Dr. Banner—Bruce—is sitting at the head of the table, his head slumped exhaustedly on his hands, watching with a completely unimpressed expression. And Tony Stark is standing a few paces back, filming it all.

I expect Steve to jump in in alarm, and I glance at him in confusion and worry when we approach the scene. Instead of him reacting like I'd expected—taking command of the situation like any leader and ordering Earth's Mightiest Heroes to stop killing each other—he sighs.

"How long this time?" Steve says, entering the room while I stand frozen in the doorway.

"Upwards of six minutes," Bruce says, taking a sip of tea. "Nat broke another spoon."

"Shit, now I have to edit out the extraneous audio," Mr. Stark complains, eyes furrowed in concentration as he zooms in on Natasha Romanov's face, which is darkening considerably. "Ope. Nat's mad."

"Steve, if you don't shut them up in the next fifteen seconds, someone's going to die," Natasha Romanov says, her calm, quiet voice completely at odds with her rigid posture.

Steve sighs. "What are you making?"

"Spaghetti."

"And you made your famous breadsticks?" Something on the brink of accusation lingers in his tone.

"Don't you dare pin this on me, Rogers. I made twice as many as last time. It's not my fault they're children."

"Hey, don't you think our guest should get at least one breadstick?" Bruce voices, glancing at me with a gentle, comforting smile. His eyes seem to narrow at my startled expression, and he sighs. "Guys. You're scaring him. Can you be civil for today, please?"

Abruptly, the tangled mass of writhing limbs shudders to a halt, and they look at me. Under the weight, I have to step back. "U-Um…"

"Oh, morning," Tony Stark says, putting a hand on my shoulder on greeting. I don't see him coming, and I flinch. I don't miss the way his eyes darken, but he doesn't remove his hand, instead giving my shoulder a brief, comforting squeeze. "Didn't see you come in. Here's your entertainment for today."

I glance at the three heroes who are slowly extracting themselves from the table and each other, at a loss for words. Sam's hand is still squeezed firmly around the breadstick, and I wonder who would want it now that it looks like a piece of melted modern art.

Apparently Sam does, though, because he shoves it into his mouth the second the Winter Soldier releases him.

"Dammit all to hell, Sam," the Winter Soldier growls, his eyes murderous. The words are almost lost to Hawkeye's tirade of language even Uncle Ben didn't use that one time Ned and I snuck into the city for a Lego convention and almost got trampled in a protest.

Sam tries to mumble something through the bread, fails, and settles for flipping the Winter Soldier off, instead.

I almost choke. I know what the Winter Soldier is capable of. Sure, he's better now, but he was a ruthless, brainwashed killer for decades. He's going to kill him. Holy shit, he's—

Before anyone can do anything, though, a butcher knife is embedded in the table between Sam and Hawkeye, and the room goes deathly still. I don't dare breathe, but Tony's hand doesn't even flinch in surprise on my shoulder.

"If you're going to act like children for the rest of the day," Natasha Romanov's slow, even voice says, and shivers are jumping up and down my vertebrae, "I'm going to systematically disable every single device in this building, up to and including every gaming device, phone, tablet, and computer we have. Then I'm going to break into your rooms, steal your favorite clothes, books, and belongings, and then I'm going to bury them in the anthill by the lake. And then I'm going to drug you, hogtie you to each other, and cover you in honey, and then I'm going to leave you under the bee's nest on the edge of the forest until sunrise tomorrow. And after that, if I even think you're going to speak at a volume louder than seventy decibels, I'm going to hack FRIDAY and deny you entry to the gym, the pool, the library, the outdoors, the kitchen, the pantry, the garage, and anywhere else I see fit. So are you going to shut up and sit down and eat, or do I need to have Tony order some honey?"

I'm left absolutely quaking in the wake of the tirade, so I balk in surprise as the three objects of her rage wave off the threats with shrugs and half-hearted promises of more reasonable volumes.

Steve sighs. Bruce sips his tea.

"Dammit, now I have to order a new table," Tony mumbles, leaving my side to finger the gouge in the table left by the sizable butcher knife.

"Morning, Peter," Sam mumbles around the remnants of the breadstick. Hawkeye is sitting in a slump of depression, eyes laser focused on Sam, and the Winter Soldier has gone to pester Natasha Romanov, which I—I can't even fathom the level of either stupidity of bravery necessary for that after what she just said, but she doesn't seem to be trying to kill him.

"Um…g-good…good morning," I say slowly.

"Well, it's a little late," Tony says with an amused smile, "but welcome to Avengers Compound. These are the rest of our currently present ragtag heroes."

The Winter Soldier waves, stealing a spoonful of spaghetti sauce. Sam smiles as he finally swallows. Hawkeye lifts two fingers in greeting, still looking depressed. I blink.

Maybe I would've been safer on the streets, after all.

A/N: Omg that was literally so fun to write XD Hope you liked it! Poor Peter literally has no idea what to think right now lol.

Also, quick explanation of the title: I think a lot of you are confused. Remember how Peter fights in a fight club? And in the movie Fight Club the first rule was "you don't talk about fight club"? And how Peter was threatened into silence and is now TERRIFIED to talk about any of the things happening to him? So. First Rule. Lots of jumps lol XD sorry for the confusion

Reviews! Thanks so much for all your encouraging words about my computer debacle! You guys are very sweet :) Love you all: TC Howl, screechy fangirl, sillysammijo, ShadowedRose17, PoisonIvy533, IbarraD1, WALU1G1, 113800, Aria Yagami, justHereToEnjoyTheStories, monkeybaby, .Rao, Dobby and Padfoot, Belbelanne, Freya Atterton, Melooonnnn, Dobby and Padfoot, Melloonnnn, 4evrdorkly17, IbarraD1, PoisonnIvy533, Blondie 24-7, DragonStars, AvengersAssemble13, ImmortalMyrrdin, Aviendha91, Gmac, FranzyPearlFan, xSapphirexRosexFanx, Guest, 113800, WALU1G1, Belbelanne, Freya Atterton, TitaniumNindroid, Elisisia, DarylDixon'sLover, TomatoGirl12, 0331Tilly, Guest, .Rao, BuBBles3531, sillysammijo, Dragonstars, ShadowedRose17, Megan844, and Guest!

Aria Yagami: omg thank you so much for such a sweet review!

Again you're all so awesome! Sorry there wasn't much substance to this chapter, but I figured we could use some levity after the arguably crushing intro X'D Thanks for the support! Have an awesome day!