Author's Note: Gasp. Could it be…. It is! An update! I didn't know those could still happen….. After much soul searching I have come to the conclusion that I will do my best to continue this story, now hopefully with less multiple-week-long absences. I hope you enjoy this chapter!

"The greatest glory in living lies not in never falling, but in rising every time we fall."

~Nelson Mandela

Chapter 2: And In This Bed He Now Lies

Captain America is in front of me. The Captain America that took down Hydra in the 1940's and helped win the Battle of New York with the Avengers is literally only a few meters in front of me. The Avenger Captain America has just crash landed in my yard only a few meters in front of me and is possibly injured or….. Oh God, what if he is dead! These thoughts all rushed through Peter's mind in a jumbled hurry as he caught sight of the source of the disturbance. Only the last one stood out and finally made him spring into action.

Peter dashed towards the crater and stepped cautiously over the smoldering debris before carefully knelling beside the hero's still body. The iconic red, white and blue fire resistant uniform was torn is several places and darkened black were it suffered in protecting its wearer from the flames created by his high altitude fall. It appeared as though its efforts weren't in vain, though; only a few minor scraps showed through the tears, but any internal injuries or breaks remained a mystery. The Captain's famous nigh-indestructible shield was nowhere to be seen.

Ruthlessly shoving down the shock and the side of him that was freaking out at being so close to one of his role models, Peter forced himself to focus on checking over the possibly injured man. After taking his pulse and assuring himself that the hero wasn't dead, but merely unconscious, Peter hesitated over the body, unsure how to proceed. Although the enigma of the serum that had made the soldier so resilient had always intrigued him, especially after his own abrupt transformation, Peter never had either the resources, nor the time to try and figure out what it had done to Rogers- how it had changed him. The specifics would have made his next move much easier to decipher; as it was, he had no idea whether or not the hero was even able to be hurt or if he was capable of helping him.

"Peter?" Aunt May's trembling voice brought his attention away from the fallen hero. She was standing inside the doorway, one hand on the frame and the other resting over her racing heart, looking over at Peter with her face drawn in distress. "What is going on? Those awful things from the sky aren't back, are they?"

"No Aunt May," Peter quickly assured his last living family member, "this wasn't an alien attack. It's just that a…. man fell from high up into our yard. Well, he isn't really an ordinary man, but-"

"What?" the older woman gasped. "Someone fell onto our lawn? Oh my Lord; is he okay!"

"Uh, I'm not sure, but-"

"Quickly, get him inside! Lay him down somewhere soft and I will get an icepack and bandages. We'll have to call the hospital- I hope the traffic won't slow the ambulance too much- and, and then…."

"Aunt May, please breathe! Go get the first aid kit from under the sink in the kitchen and I will carry him into the living room. Don't call the hospital; I don't think they will be able to help with this." Peter knew that the Band-Aids, Neosporin and aspirin that were packed in the kit wouldn't be of any use to the serum-enhanced super soldier, but his aunt needed something to do in order to keep calm and he didn't want an audience to witness him easily pick up the Avenger. He had to act fast; the noise had caused the rest of the street to go silent in alarm and it wouldn't be long until curious neighbors went out onto their front porches to investigate the commotion.

Once she left, Peter slid an arm under the unconscious hero's back and gently guided the masked head with his other as he lifted the taller man and settled him stomach-down over his left shoulder, going slowly enough to catch any sound that would indicate the movement was worsening a wound. The entire process was made far less uncomfortable with the help of Spider-Man's strength, but this also caused Peter to be just that much more paranoid about accidentally hurting his patient.

After gingerly walking up the porch stairs to decrease the jerking motions, Peter rushed into the house and through the front walkway leading to the main living space. Once reaching the couch, he slid the body off his shoulder and began to lay the man down.

"Oh, wait don't set him there!" Peter froze and turned his head towards his aunt, the Captain held awkwardly in his arms as he hovered over the couch. "That was the first piece of furniture Ben and I both bought when we decided to move in together so long ago, as well as the only new luxury we could afford; everything else we had purchased was secondhand. I said it wouldn't match anything else since it was so nice, but Ben was very insistent on getting it. He kept saying he saw how it had caught my gaze and that I looked over at it every time we passed through that room of the store, just like how I couldn't keep my eyes off of him when we first met." The reminiscent gleam in her eyes abruptly departed and Aunt May looked down as she began to fiddle with the old white plastic box in her hands.

"Listen to me, prattling on about the past. You set him down, Peter, and I'll see what we have in here while you check him over." Peter felt his heart melt as his aunt opened the kit and mumbled to herself about needing to be better prepared, a hollow smile failing to conceal the wet sheen forming over her eyes. He looked back down at the body he was carrying.

The dirt-encrusted, ash and blood covered suit would defiantly ruin the well-worn sofa that held so many memories and was so dear to his aunt. No matter how strong a front she put on, Peter knew the loss of one of the precious few reminders of Uncle Ben would hurt his aunt deeply. He had already caused her so much stress with his old nighttime activities; he could at least spare her this.

"You know what Aunt May? It would be great if you could go grab a wet towel from the sink and bring it up to my room. The lighting is way better up there and it will be easier to give him some privacy once he comes to. And then once you're done, could you make something to eat; I have a feeling this guy will have quite an appetite." Peter could relate to having a higher-than-explainably-normal metabolism; it had made dinners with Gwen's family rather embarrassing since his stomach kept growling even after the main course had been served and eaten. Gwen….. No, not now.

It attested to just how upset she was that Aunt May didn't try to argue with Peter, but merely turned back into the kitchen and went to the sink. He didn't even have to whip out his emergency I-am-only-stubborn-and-obnoxious-because-I-love-you pout; it was worrying.

Peter readjusted his grip and began to carry Captain America back towards the front door and up the staircase. The blast from his fall had rattled the walls and weakened the railing, creating new hazards as Peter had to turn sideways and inch his way up, being careful not to lean on the failing support or bang the Captain's head on anything. Once reaching the threshold of his bedroom it took some fumbling around before he managed to open the door. His specially designed lock was still engaged from when he had left for school that morning and it was infinitely harder than usual to type in the passcode and enter his room while supporting so much deadweight. His aunt always claimed that the entire set up was useless as they wouldn't barge in on him without knocking, but as a teenager, Peter had insisted on taking measures to ensure his privacy. He should have listened to her.

Inside the room, Peter was finally released from his burden as he laid the unconscious body on his twin sized bed. The flannel sheets bunched under the hero's weight and a few of the monochrome photographs pinned beside his bed loosened and fell onto the man. Peter bit his lower lip and stared anxiously at the bed and its occupant. Something was wrong.

With the tips of his pointer finger and thumb, Peter grabbed the edge of the glossy paper resting atop the chiseled face and moved it inches over onto the pillow, angling it so the picture was right side up and nearly parallel to the man's ear.

"Yeah, that'll do."

Peter dropped himself into his desk chair, letting out a deep sigh as his head thunked onto the wood. Or, more accurately, onto the edge of the keyboard that occupied the surface he was trying to thunk on. Groaning, Peter lifted his head and looked forlornly at the long list of t's, a's and s's that had invaded the report he was typing up for his AP Literature and Composition class. His work was sad enough without having to see how a couple dozen random letters doubled his entire paper, which currently only consisted of a hastily thrown together thesis statement and two bullet-pointed topic sentences. Sigh.

Goodbye relaxing weekend and hello weird superhero business: I welcome you back with torches and pitchforks. Oh Universe, you are so cruel to bring this literally to my doorstep before I am ready to get back in the game. Really, it only started twenty minutes ago and you have already caused me pain- don't even try to deny it, I know you placed that keyboard there on purpose- plastic isn't nearly as soft as wood. Jerk. Now I am stuck with an injured mega-soldier lying unconscious in my tiny bed and I have no idea what to do! And all you give me are letters, and only one of which is a vowel! So cheap… Hmmm… A's ,t's and s's. Avengers… T. S…..Tony Stark. Oh. Thank you Universe.

As the unofficial leader of the Avengers team- they all lived in his tower, at least- Stark was the best person to call about Captain America's injuries. Peter opened a browser and looked up the contact information for Tony Stark. It was likely that the number on the site was just a public fan service and some guy in a call center on the other side of the world would answer, but he had no idea how else to get in touch with the billionaire. Going to his place of business wouldn't help as Peter didn't have a keycard to get in, and showing up at his mansion would probably get him arrested.

Rising to grab his cellphone from his backpack, which was still downstairs where he had left it by the door before the crash, a clattering noise brought Peter's attention to the floor. A little black stick had fallen from his pocket and was now resting innocently beside his shoe, the silver S.I. staring up at him. So much had happened in the last hour that he had completely forgotten about his scuffle with the robbers and the flash drive he was going to turn in.

Peter bent down to pick up the plastic device, turning it over in his hands. Its very existence was mysterious: what was so important about the plain thing that those men would risk robbing a bank in broad daylight for it? The odds were money wasn't their goal since they didn't take anything else, so what was on the flash drive? Information, maybe? But about what?

Looking back at his computer screen, Peter weighed his options. He could spend the next few hours on hold as he was bounced from operator to operator and repeatedly thanked for his continued patience in varying fluencies of English, waiting for the Captain to wake up, or…

Hopping back into his chair, Peter didn't allow himself time to second guess his decision and immediately inserted the drive into his computer's USB port. He held his breath and gripped the arms of his chair, cursing himself for acting without thought again while simultaneously grinning like a loon, excited to find out what was so special about the flash drive.

Seconds ticked by, each emphasized by the steady heartbeat that pounded in Peter's ears. Bumb-um. Bumb-um. Bumb-um. Then a minute passed with the screen not giving so much as a flicker to signal something was different. Peter found himself focusing on the tiny people walking the streets in the picture of Manhattan he had taken from the top of the Empire State Building as Spider-Man that served as his screensaver. He checked the devices panel; the system didn't recognize any new external device plugged into it yet. After five minutes of aimlessly spinning in his chair, Peter finally gave up on waiting and groaned in frustration at the disappointing results. Absolutely nothing had happened. Whatever the robbers had been trying to get, it was obvious they had stolen a dud. Peter arose from his seat to go and get his phone, the old wood floor creaking underfoot.

"Uraag." Peter froze at the moan coming from his bed and looked over to see the now conscious spangled hero raising a hand to his forehead.

End Author's Note: Oh Peter, when is anything ever that simple for you…

I just recently read Hemingway's A Farwell to Arms (it's so much better than The Old Man and the Sea in my opinion), so I am experimenting with stream-of-conscious a bit with Peter's italicized thoughts. Love it? Hate it? Don't care in the slightest and are now questioning why you even bother reading these author notes? Interested Trinities want to know .