A/N: Okay...take two...This site is like 10x harder to navigate than I remember...Also, it's in present tense now because I'm a professional and enjoy switching tenses between chapters ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Peter wakes up slowly among the murmuring of his friends. He's somewhere warm and soft. His mind feels like it's disconnected from his body. Distantly, he's aware of aching everywhere, the distinct discomfort of bruises making itself known. But he's drugged up to his eyeballs; the floatiness is definitely due to a wonderful cocktail of painkillers.

The disorientation of waking up, not really remembering where he is or why he can't remember, is enough to make him panic a little. Usually, when something like this happens, he's in the clutches of one of his many enemies.

Peter meant to spring up from the bed and onto the ceiling, but with the overwhelming sluggishness, all he can do is sit up and snap his eyes open. It isn't exactly the startling display of strength he's hoping for, but someone does scream.

"Jesus!" The high pitch of Sam's voice would be funnier if Peter weren't so deeply uncomfortable. "Why? Why do you feel the need to scare the shit out of me?"

The throbbing all over Peter's body becomes too sharp, forcing him to lie back again. His brow begins to furrow. The fuzziness occupying his mind is making it hard to remember what happened before he ended up in a bed.

His team is quiet as Peter attempts to establish context. He turns his head slowly, observing the room, inspecting it for anything out of the ordinary. It's the same room they usually hold him in for recovery after getting injured serious enough for medical attention. The frequency with which he found himself in this room may be worrying for others, but merely an addition to the routine for Peter.

On the bedside table sits a small and charming basket. It looks cheap but the flowers stuffed in it help improve his mood somewhat. Dandelions curl around each other, bright yellow petals vibrant against the soft brown fibers of the basket. Grass, roots, and a generous amount of dirt clinging to them. It's obvious whoever plucked them wasn't exactly delicate but meant well all the same. Nestled in the flowers are a KitKat bar and a sticky note.

Dear Webs,

I ate the Crunch bar because I got hungry. It was really good. I got you flowers so you feel better soon.

Love, Deadpool

Under the note is a little doodle of what seems to be Deadpool and Spider-Man snuggling on a large burrito. The sentiment is nice, but it doesn't clear up the missing block of time at all.

"The last thing I remember," Peter says slowly, face darkening, "Is the goblin."

It comes rushing back far too quickly. The fight, the excruciating pain of being used as a wrecking ball by his friend's father, but most of all, his own incompetence. It's always like this, he supposed. He lets down everyone around him only to wake up patched up, completely unaffected by the consequences of his own actions.

Sliding out of bed, Peter ignores the eyes on him. A part of him is glad that they'll let him walk out of here, but it's dwarfed by the self-loathing and anxiety building in his stomach and chest. He steps into the half bathroom adjacent to the room and shuts the door without a word. By the tiny sink is a change of clothes. When he comes out dressed with a suit snug underneath, the room is empty.

His team is gathered outside. They all have a stormy expression, though the magnitude differs for each person. Sam seems angrier than the rest, obviously upset somehow by Peter's reaction.

"Peter. I know you're struggling—," Ava begins, tone calm but resigned.

"It's fine." Peter doesn't meet her eyes but he tries, he really does, but all he can think of are the bandages they're all sporting. "It's fine. It's fine." He tries to keep his voice steady but his mind hasn't recovered from the painkillers the nurses put him back on. His heart starts to speed up. "No…no it's not, actually."

They reach the main deck as his mood crescendos and Peter makes up his mind. The whole damn ordeal has his blood boiling. The pain racing across his nerves, nudging at his bruises and the stitches on his shoulder, is nothing in the face of his rage. It's not pointed at them – why would it be? It's his fault they're hurt. It always is.

"I'm sorry you were all caught up in this. But I'm not going to let it happen again. I won't let anyone I care about get hurt because of me, not again."

The Helicarrier is easy to escape with his webs ready to form a parachute. It's not so easy to get away from the guilt, but that won't stop Peter from trying.

A/N: Shorther than I'd like but I'm workin' here guys I'm tryin' so let's hope I can get another chapter out soon!