L

by Lazydaily

L

10. Chapter 10

"Hey there," Steve said, his voice light and not betraying a hint of the abnormality of the meeting. "I don't think we've met. My name is Steve Rogers, you might also know me as Captain America? What's your name?"

Ah, the old "let's try shoving my fame in your face so I can make you do whatever I want" trick. Years ago Peter might have allowed his wonder at seeing the Captain America to distract him, but he wasn't that kid from Queens anymore; he wasn't that wanna-be Avenger that trailed after Tony and his crew like a love-sick puppy, desperate to be accepted and become one of them.

Now Peter was a little bit older, and a lot more wiser. And there was no way in hell he was going to let Steve Rogers, Captain America, the Invincible Iron Man, or any one else tell him what to do. Especially if it involved coming down and holding hands as Steve led him directly back to the Avenger's Compound.

"Uh, hello? I'm Captain America; you're at the Avenger's Compound right now, in case you didn't know." His hands were still on his hips as he glanced around. "Well, close to it anyway." He looked back up. "Do you think you'd like to come down so we can talk?"

Uh, no, I think I'm rather good up here, thanks.

Peter was stuck. He was stuck, and he knew it. Steve had him trapped like a wolf with its paw in a snare. He could snarl and bite back all he wanted, but in the end he was still trapped in a tree with nowhere to go.

"Come on," Steve pushed. "It's kind of cold out, I think it'd be warmer indoors, don't you?"

I think you and I both know you're not that cold. You told me once that you don't even own a winter jacket, that you kept forgetting to buy one because you never really needed it, no matter the weather.

Steve let out a heavy sigh, one that indicated he was clearly frustrated with Peter's lack of response, but Peter didn't care. He was not coming down just because Steve was throwing a temper tantrum. Well, about as much of a temper tantrum that Steve could throw, anyway.

Steve let out a quiet sigh and reached into his pocket, pulling out his phone. The light of his screen illuminated his bearded face as he began tapping with his thumb. Peter brushed a hand against his own face, which was covered in light stubble. Thankfully at this point in life his beard took a while to grow in, but it sure itched like hell when it did. He'd have to go find the packet of throw-away razors in his attic when he got back to New York; he'd go down to one of the river's canals, and –

"Hey Tony….Yeah, I found him…. Yeah, and you lost him twice…. No, I think he's just a scared kid…. No, don't worry about it, I'll take care of it… bye."

Steve clicked the phone off and looked back up into the tree. Peter stared evenly back at him, though he doubted Steve could actually see where he was.

"Look, Peter – it's Peter, right? Look, we're not trying to hurt you or anything like that. I know it's probably pretty scary waking up in a place you don't recognise. Then finding out you're with the Avengers is probably the icing on the cake."

If Steve's goal was to make him talk, he was out of luck. Peter had been alone for nearly two years now; he had silence down to an art. It also helped that the throbbing pain in his ankle was keeping him thoroughly distracted. He knew sprains weren't fun, but damn, did this one hurt. He closed his eyes and leaned back against the tree, breathing through the pain.

Steve huffed and Peter cracked open his eyes to look down once more. It was a bit hard to make him out in the dark, but he could see well enough to tell that Steve's patience was wearing unusually thin. Well, at least he hadn't lost the ability to piss people off.

"Peter, please – I'm asking you to come down. There's no use in staying up there. I promise, nothing is going to happen to you, okay? We just want to make sure you're all right."

Well there was a multi-variant answer if ever there was one. Was he all right? Depends in which way you were asking. Was he all right physically? Well no, he couldn't really say that he was at his peak at the moment. His ankle was absolutely killing him, and a small voice in the back of his mind said that maybe it was more than just a sprain, but that would sort itself out soon enough. Was his overall physical health all right? Maybe he could stand to eat a bit more, maybe drink a bit more water, maybe he could stand to put on a few pounds and not sleep so often in drainage pipes, but considering his position in life at the moment, he figured he was making do just fine. How about his mental health then? Well now that was even more of a Pandora's Box. But he certainly wasn't going to go into that can of worms tonight, thank you very much.

So yeah. Overall, Peter would say he was doing pretty good.

"You know you could at least talk to me. I swear I don't bite. I'm not Tony Stark."

Was that supposed to be funny? It was kind of true, though. Out of the two of them, Steve definitely had the more gentle temperament. Where Tony was all biting wit and explosive assumptions, Steve was more quiet and tended to actually think before he acted. Their differences in personalities was why they worked so well together as a team. And also why they fought like cats and dogs.

"All right kid, well I guess if you're not going to talk to me and you won't come down, I'll just have to hang out here then."

Peter was torn out of his thoughts and he immediately frowned, leaning forward to get a better look at Steve, who looked like he was – no, who was actually now sitting down at the base of the tree, shifting his body until he was comfortable and crossing his leg over the other as though he were getting ready to watch TV or read a book. Peter stared at him incredulously.

No. Hell no. No, he was not going to stay out there for the whole night. He was supposed to get tired of Peter's refusal to speak and decide to go home, decide to please play again another day. He was an Avenger, he was Captain America – he had important things to do, places to be, people to talk to. He wasn't supposed to be setting up camp for an all-night stakeout. That was not supposed to happen. Now how on earth was Peter supposed to ever get down?

"You know, that was quite a feat what you did, escaping the compound not once but twice. Tony's a bit miffed, I can tell. I doubt security's going to have a good night tonight."

Well if Tony was miffed, Peter could only imagine what Happy was doing right now. They'd probably had to stick him in the med-ward himself, after the hernia that had likely exploded once he'd heard. Peter bit back the smile from his lips. It was a nice thought to think that even now he could still drive Happy insane.

A few more minutes passed, and then Steve began to whistle. Peter frowned. Was it Steve's plan to try and annoy him out of the tree? Peter gritted his teeth and leant back, when it became apparent that Steve wasn't going to move.

He had been trying with everything he had to avoid them all as much as he could for so long now. When they were close by, he ran. If they spoke to him, he remained silent. He'd been told that if he got too close, if he got too close to any of them, that something bad would happen. That everything he'd been trying to save them from would come to pass, no matter how long he had managed to stay away from them before.

And now he was faced with a choice. A choice to either let Steve sit here, refusing to leave and therefore potentially piss Seftis off and bring him back; or he could speak to him. He could try and get him to leave, he could try and beg him to leave, saving himself and everyone else.

Peter swallowed.

He hadn't spoken with a single one of them in two years. Even when they'd been right beside him, their own lips almost running away from them, Peter had kept silent. He'd resolutely stayed away from that part of their interaction. To keep them safe. To keep them alive.

If it was a game as to who could stand still the longest, Peter knew he couldn't win. Steve was a soldier of the Second World War and now an Avenger. His stubbornness was greater than anyone else Peter knew. So Peter had to let him win. Because letting him win now would be the only way to ensure he wouldn't lose in the end.

Licking his lips, Peter finally spoke.

"Go home."

Steve jerked, his hands falling back down from behind his head. "He speaks!" He looked up as he turned round, a smile on his face. "For a while there I wondered if you could even speak at all."

"Please, Mister Rogers, you need to go back home. Go back to the compound. You shouldn't be here. Please, go home. Please."

"Of course," Steve agreed, getting to his feet. "Just as soon as you get down from there and come with me."

Peter took a breath, steadying himself. "I can't. I have to… I have to get back to New York. I can't go back to the compound."

"And we'll get you back home, I promise. But first we have to finish checking you out and make sure you're okay. You got stabbed, if you didn't know, and they said they also found a bullet wound in your shoulder. I can't imagine those feel all that great right about now."

Actually, Peter had checked himself out when he'd climbed into the tree. The bullet wound was now completely healed, and the area of his stomach where he'd been stabbed looked as though it had never seen so much as a paper-cut. The only injury that remained was that damned scar that ran down the middle of his breast. And the foot. Mustn't forget about the foot.

"I don't need the med-ward," Peter replied. "I just need to go home."

The adrenaline that had been pumping through his veins for the past four hours – well, let's be honest, for a lot longer than that – was suddenly starting to abate, and Peter could practically feel the energy in his body beginning to drain.

"And I told you, we'll get you back home," Steve insisted. "We're not trying to kidnap you, if that's what you think we're doing. Come on kid; do you really think the Avengers are in that kind of business? We sort of try to do the opposite."

Peter leaned forward, his hands pressing into the branch of the tree as he gazed down at Steve. Steve still hadn't, thankfully, found his eyes, and so couldn't see exactly where he was.

Peter stayed that way for a few minutes. Finally he closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Upon opening them, he spoke. "You're in danger."

The smile that had been on Steve's face flickered, but the hands he had on his hips remained where they were. The eyes that had been roaming the tree finally found Peter's and came to a stop. He squinted slightly, then asked, "what was that?"

"You're in danger," Peter repeated, more firmly this time. "If I don't leave now, you'll all be in danger. So you have… you need to let me go. You have to let me go."

The smile fully left Steve's face and his lips fell into a thin line. "Who's after you, Peter?"

The same guy that's after you. Well, who will be after you, if I stay here any longer. Which is why I needed to leave – yesterday. Why I shouldn't have ever been here at all.

But of course he couldn't say that.

"Peter," Steve repeated, much more seriously this time. "Are you in trouble back in New York? Is someone trying to hurt you?"

This wasn't what he had wanted to happen. He wasn't looking to trigger Steve's hero-streak. But then of course, what else could he have expected? What other reaction could he have possibly have thought to get?

And that was the crux of the whole thing. He wasn't thinking. He was running on adrenaline and exhaustion, he was running on panic and fear. He was driving on desperation, trying to do something – anything – that would get Steve to leave, that would get everyone to just leave him alone, leave him to go back to his attic where he could crawl into a corner and close his eyes and wake up to find that this was all just a horrible, terrible, terrifying dream.

"Peter!"

"No!" Peter finally snapped. "No, I'm not in any danger. I'm completely fine, but there are those –." Peter's voice caught, and he swallowed. "There are… there are a lot of people that don't like you guys." That, at least, was certainly the truth. "And if… if they find out that I'm with you, they'll… they'll not only come after me, but they'll come after you too."

Steve's shoulders seemed to relax, and he sighed softly. "Peter, I hate to break it to you, but we're hated and disliked by a lot of people. We get hate mail and threats every single day; people saying they're going to come after us, going to try and kill us, going to try and kill our family and friends. But we live in one of the safest places in America. Not to mention that we have a lot of talented people hanging around. Whoever is threatening you, we can handle them just fine."

Peter bit his lip, saying nothing.

Steve huffed. "Peter, what's the problem? There's obviously something you're not telling me, so just spit it out! I promise, we will help you – whatever it is. We're not going to let you get hurt. We can keep you safe."

For a long, few minutes, there was nothing but silence. Peter stared down at Steve, and Steve stared back up at him. Finally, Peter spoke.

"Can I ask you a question?"

Steve raised a brow. "Shoot."

"What if…" He swallowed, then licked his lips. "What if someone were after your friends? What if… what if someone was planning on hurting them, was planning on hurting them badly, and you… and you could stop it. What would you do?"

Steve was quiet, as though seriously thinking the question over. "Well," he said after a moment, "I'd like to think I'd try and stop them, and –."

"And what if you stopping them meant that you could never see any of your friends again?" Peter quickly pressed, leaning forward. "What if to protect them, you had to stay away from them? What if to protect them, you could never speak or interact with them in anyway ever again? For the rest of your entire life?"

"Peter, what –."

"And what if you were told that if you ever saw them again, then they would all die? That if you got too close to them, if you were even in the same vicinity as them – that your deal would then be broken and they would be killed? Even when you had done everything in your power to avoid them? What then? Would you still save them? Well?!"

Steve stared up at Peter for a long moment, the lines in his face set in a frown. Finally, he said, "Of course. Of course I would. If saving my friends meant I'd never get to see them again, I would make that sacrifice." He gave Peter a hard stare. "And I would make it again in a heartbeat."

Peter took a deep breath that he hadn't realised he'd been holding, and leaned back down into the tree. He hadn't realised how fast his heart had begun to beat, and somehow his eyes had begun to sting unusually hot. He closed his eyes, swallowing down the lump that had suddenly appeared in his throat.

Of course. Of course Steve would make that choice. He had made that choice. He'd chosen to end his own life by driving his plane into a glacier in order so that his friends and the rest of the world might survive. He'd chosen to never see them again, rather than live in a world without them. He had been given the same choice Peter had, and he'd made the same decision that Peter had made.

Peter wished now more than ever, that he had only been given the choice to die, too.

"I won't go back to the compound," Peter finally said after a long moment. "And you have no right to force me. All I want is to go back to the city. I just want to go home."

He just wanted to go home.

There was an even longer silence after that. Peter began to wonder whether Steve would actually try and climb up the tree and physically bring him back, kicking and screaming, or if he would finally just let him go.

Steve looked round for a moment, before walking over the tree opposite from Peter's, brushing away the fallen leaves with his foot, and sitting down.

Peter frowned. "You're gonna stay here?" he asked, staring at Steve incredulously. "What, you're gonna actually stay here the whole night? You're gonna sleep out here?"

"Yup," Steve replied, leaning down against the tree's trunk, shifting until he got comfortable. He folded his hands across his stomach and closed his eyes.

Peter blinked, then frowned, shaking his head. "No, you can't – you're not actually going to –."

"I find that decisions are sometimes made best on a clear head and a full-night's sleep. Here."

He took off his jacket and threw it at Peter. Peter caught it easily, still looking at Steve with wide, disbelieving eyes.

Steve smiled. "In case you get cold. Goodnight, Peter."

Peter continued to stare for a few minutes longer, before finally leaning back against the tree with a thud.

There were a million different expletives that Peter could think of, and more than a few that he wanted to say. This was ridiculous, of course. This was all just completely ridiculous, completely unbelievable, completely bullshit, completely… completely….

Peter bit back the growl that wanted to escape his throat, and instead settled for finding a more comfortable spot on the tree branch.

Fine. If Steve wanted to play that way, then fine – he'd play that way. He'd warned him as best he could, he'd all but said it straight to his face what would happen if he stayed – but Steve still refused to be moved. His endless need to be the hero had gotten him into plenty of trouble before, and it was about to get him into more now.

Peter could only hope that Seftis wasn't watching, that for the moment he was busy somewhere else. It had been over two days since he'd been taken by the Avengers, and the creature had yet to appear, but that didn't mean he wouldn't. It only meant it was a matter of time before he did.

And Peter would be ready. He'd go down fighting, and maybe he'd even get in a few lucky punches when he did.

He could hear the sounds of birds singing nearby, their voices crisp and clear in the cold air. They were noises that he didn't think he'd ever heard so close before, save for when he was watching a TV show or happened to be walking through the park.

They were awfully nice, so much so that Peter was more than happy to have them sing him back to sleep.

It was the sun, however, that woke him, refusing to let him drift back into dreams. It shone brightly through his lids, as though it were trying to lift them up and forcefully welcome him into the day.

Groaning, Peter squeezed his eyes shut even more, trying to turn over to get away from the light. It was then that he realised just how incredibly uncomfortable he was, and that he had cricks in his neck and places in his back that he didn't think he'd ever had before.

The sounds of movement nearby reached his ears and Peter opened his eyes, blinking a few times before suddenly flailing and sitting up like a shot, his wide eyes as he looked down and scanned the area beneath him.

Steve Rogers was lowering his phone from his ear and placing it back into his pocket. He looked up and met Peter's eyes, and Peter suddenly realised that without the cover of the night, he was completely exposed within the tree.

"Good morning," Steve said brightly. "How was your sleep?"

Peter could only stare. He was still here?!

"I've made a decision," Steve said, not waiting for an answer. "We're only a few miles out from a road that will eventually lead to the highway. I've talked to Tony, he's going to have a car waiting for us when we get there." Steve smiled. "If we get there and you're still feeling fine, I'll take you back to New York."

Peter jerked, scrambling until he was leaning forward in the tree, staring over the branches in disbelief. "Woah, wait, what – really? You're really gonna take me back to New York?"

"Yep. As long as you haven't collapsed by the time we reach the car, at which point we're heading straight back to the compound."

Peter stared for a long moment, before his brows narrowed in a frown. "Why?"

The smile on Steve's face softened, and he looked away. "I don't know why you're so adamant about not going back to the compound, but… but I know what it's like to be taken to where you don't want to go. And if you want to go home, and you're in good enough health, then… well, I don't see why I should force you to go back. Besides," he said, looking back up. "I like you, kid. Don't know why, considering you dragged me on an impromptu run through the forest in November, but I like you. So I'll take you home."

Peter stared at Steve for a long while, mulling over his words.

"You promise?" he said at last.

"Sure, kid, I promise."

Peter paused for a moment, then licked his lips. "Do you give me your word?"

Steve frowned, but smiled. "I'm sorry?"

"Do you give me your word that once I get down from here, you'll take me right to the car and straight back to New York? Do you give me your word as… as Captain America? As an Avenger? Do you give me your word as Steve Rogers?"

Steve stared up at Peter for a long moment, the smile on his face now gone. Finally, he answered, "Yes. Yes, I give you my word. I give you my word that once you get down, I'll take you straight back home. No detours, no surprise visits. Just straight home."

Peter nodded. "Good. Fine. Okay, all right."

It took him a moment of maneuvering, adjusting his leg and keeping his foot – which wasn't throbbing as painfully as last night, but still hurt like a bitch – a good distance away from the tree. He started climbing back down on the other side of the trunk, hidden from Steve and his smart, calculating eyes. His fingers stuck easily to the bark, and soon he was back on the ground.

He looked down at his foot, finally taking a good look at the state of it. He grimaced.

The ankle was clearly twisted – oh all right, it was clearly broken – as the foot jutted sharply to the left. Peter attempted to straighten it, but as soon as he put any pressure on the muscles his ankle screamed in pain, and he immediately stopped.

Peter took a breath, steadying the now-racing beat of his heart.

Okay, all right. It was evident that his body was trying to heal it, but just as it had done with the bullet wound, it was trying to heal it too quickly. If he waited too long, his foot would become permanently crooked and he'd be walking on his damned ankle for the rest of his life. Which meant that the only other option was to –

"Peter, what the hell is that?"

Peter's head snapped up and his eyes met Steve, who had walked round the tree and was now staring aghast at Peter's foot.

"Um," Peter started, trying to think of what to say. "I – my foot got injured when I was running. I think it's just a sprain though, so no wor –."

"That's not a sprain, Peter," Steve snapped. "Sprains don't leave your foot dangling at nearly a ninety-degree angle. You're foot is broken."

Peter huffed, holding back the glare that he wanted so badly to give. Uh, yeah, he figured that out, thanks. No need for need for the temper.

Steve stared at Peter's foot for a moment longer, clearly not happy, before he shook his head. "Okay, change of plans. We're going back to the compound."

"What?!" Peter nearly shouted. "No! You can't do that, you promised you'd take me back to New York! You gave me your word!"

"That was before I found out your ankle was broken. It was bad enough I agreed to take you with a recent stab-wound. So no way kid, we're going back."

Anger flared through Peter and his fingers nearly sunk into the bark of the tree, as he tried not to yell. He stared at Steve for a long moment, thinking of what to do.

There was no way he was going back to the compound, and the only way he was going to change Steve's mind was if his foot wasn't broken. Or at the very least, not looking like someone had tried to snap it in half.

Well then, there was really only one option.

Moving a few feet away, Peter sat down on the ground.

Steve frowned. "Peter, what are you – wait, no Peter – Peter, don't you dare –."

But before Steve could finish, Peter grabbed hold of his ankle, took a deep breath, and pulled.

The crack that echoed in the trees was a loud one, and the scream that followed from Peter's mouth was just as unpleasant. Peter immediately fell forward, curling into himself as he fought against the pain and nausea that was rising in his throat, and the white dots that were now dancing in his vision.

God, what was he think – he should have waited to at least stick a piece of wood between his teeth, or –

Steve's hands were suddenly on him, pushing him back and removing the restriction that Peter had unknowingly placed against his lungs, allowing him to breathe a breath he hadn't known he'd been holding.

"For God's sake, kid," Steve swore, along with a number of other expletives that Peter had never heard him utter before. "What the hell were you thinking? You can't – you can't just re-set your ankle by yourself, out in the middle of the damned woods! How could you – I can't – well you're definitely going back now, you –."

"No," Peter gritted out between clenched teeth. "No, I'm not going back. I won't let you take me back. My ankle's good now, it can heal, it won't –."

"Broken ankles aren't like a dislocated shoulder! You can't just re-set it and keep going like nothing happened. You need to get a cast, or at least a splint, or –."

Peter pushed Steve back, and proceeded to get back up to his feet – or rather, his foot, keeping the now newly-setted one a few inches off the ground. He hopped for a moment, steadying himself, before looking back up at Steve, who was now all-but glaring at him in angry incredulity.

They stared at each other for a few moments, before Peter turned round and started walking – or really, hopping – away. He could already feel the ankle beginning to heal, as though a dam had been burst and water was finally allowed to flow through. He was sure that within the hour he'd be able to put pressure on it, and within a few hours he'd even be able to walk on it. It was just a matter of time.

He heard Steve growl in frustration behind him.

"I should be dragging you back to the compound, kicking and screaming whether you like it or not. You're what – fifteen? Where the heck are your parents?"

"I'm seventeen," Peter replied, not turning round as he continued to walk away. "And my parents are dead. And I'm not going back to the compound. I'll go to a hospital once I'm back in New York, but there's now way in hell I'm going back to the compound. So you can either let me leave, or – ."

"Why won't you go back to the compound?!" Steve shouted. "Why on earth do you insist on going to any other hospital other than theirs? What the hell are you so damned afraid of? Because we're the Avengers, because of Stark, because –."

"Because they ruined my life!" Peter snapped. He turned halfway round, wincing as his foot caught on the forest floor. He met Steve's eyes and glared. "Because they – because all of them have fucked up my life, and I don't want anything more to ever do with them."

"What did we do?" Steve asked, walking towards him. "What did we do to you? Did someone you know get caught in the crossfire during one of the invasions? Did someone you know get hurt when one of us were fighting someone? Did we –."

"No," Peter spat. "No, you didn't fuck me over because someone got hurt, you fucked me over because you all left –."

Peter caught himself just before he finished speaking, quickly swallowing the rest of the words. He bit his lip and stared at Steve for a long moment; Steve stared back, his frustrated eyes now marred with confusion. Finally Peter growled and turned back round. He placed a tentative weight on his foot, and was pleased to find that it no longer hurt as excruciatingly as before. He began to leave.

He could hear Steve's own growl behind him.

"Fine," Steve said, coming up behind him. "This is the most ridiculous thing I've ever done – and believe me, I've done a lot of ridiculous things – but I'll take you back to New York. But as soon as we get into the city we are finding the nearest hospital, you understand?"

Peter couldn't help the relief that swelled in his chest, despite his anger and frustration. "Of course," he replied. "I'll even let you carry me inside like a distressed damsel and everything."

Peter could practically hear Steve roll his eyes.

He walked, or rather hopped, for another thirty seconds before Steve came up behind him.

"All right," Steve said. "The car will be there all day, but I don't think they'll let it stay there all week." He wrapped an arm around Peter's shoulder and pulled Peter's arm around his. "Let's get going soldier."

"So," Steve asked. "What's your story? What were you doing before you ended up in the med-ward of the Avengers Compound?"

They'd been walking for nearly an hour, Steve helping Peter along as they walked over fallen trees, brush, and brambles. They'd stopped shortly after they'd begun to put a makeshift-splint on Peter's leg, before carrying on. It had been an awkward silence, at first, but it had soon fallen into a calm quiet, as both men focused only on staying upright and walking forward.

Apparently the silence had been too long, though, and Steve saw small-talk as the only appropriate form of conversation to begin.

Joy.

"My story's not interesting," Peter replied, though he knew that playing down his past wasn't going to keep Steve from asking about it. So he continued, "My parents died when I was a kid. I was taken in by my uncle and aunt. My uncle died, my aunt got a new boyfriend, and I decided three's a company and just a little too crowded for a small apartment, so I left."

"Okay," Steve said. "I believe the part about your parents and uncle dying, and your aunt meeting someone new, but why did you really leave? Was her boyfriend abusing you?"

Ah, Steve, ever the blunt one. But Peter supposed that when you were often facing scenarios of life and death, whether for you or someone else, you didn't have much time to beat around the bush.

"No," Peter responded. He may hate the man, but he wasn't going to try and put a black mark on his record. "He didn't. And neither did she."

"Then why did you leave? If everything was supposedly fine at home, why choose to live on the streets? Did your aunt have trouble making money? Was there not enough food after her boyfriend came into the picture?"

Peter fell silent for a few moments, nothing but the songs of the last birds of autumn singing in the air. The morning sun shone down through brightly coloured, frosted leaves, as though it were trying to give its last bit of warmth before winter finally came.

At last, Peter spoke, never taking his eyes off the ground in front of him. "I hurt people," he said. "I don't mean to, and I don't want to, but… but people still get hurt. Anyone who's near me long enough will end up getting hurt, or even killed." Peter glanced up, meeting Steve's eyes. "Including you." He looked back down. "And it's my fault. It will always by my fault. And there's nothing I can do to change it. There's nothing anyone can do to change it."

He stumbled over a larger branch, landing unintentionally on his bad foot. To both his surprise and relief, his foot took the weight and he barely faltered, quickly catching himself against Steve and continuing on as though nothing had happened. His foot was healing faster than he'd thought.

There was a long silence after that, and for a while Peter thought that Steve was going to drop the topic and conversation all together. What he said next, however, took Peter by surprise.

"I have a friend who used to think like you do. He used to believe that just being near me would bring me trouble, would end up with me getting hurt or killed."

James Barnes, Peter thought. He's talking about Bucky.

Steve continued, "he figured he' would be the one to hurt me. So rather, instead of telling me what was happening or coming to me for help, he ran away. He stayed away for as long as he possibly could, until I was finally able to track him down and forced him to talk. Until I was able to prove to him that we were stronger when we were a team, and that if we wanted to stop what was chasing him, we'd have to stick together."

Peter's mouth pressed into a thin line and his eyes stayed looking straight ahead.

Steve didn't know what he was talking about. He didn't understand that if Peter stayed near him for too long, that he would get hurt, that he would get killed. He didn't understand that in order to keep him and everyone else safe, that he had to stay away from them. He didn't understand that Peter had been running away from them – from the Avengers, from his friends and family, from Seftis – for nearly two years now, and he couldn't stop. He wouldn't stop running.

Maybe he didn't even know how.

They finally arrived at the end of the forest an hour and a half later, climbing up out of the ditch and onto the gravel road. Sure enough, an empty car sat a short distance away, and they made their way over to it.

Steve opened the passenger door and helped Peter inside. "You still feeling okay?" he asked.

Peter looked up at him beneath slightly raised brows. "You think I'd tell you if I weren't?"

Steve huffed and shook his head. "Geez, you sound like Stark." There was annoyance in his tone, but Peter could see the slight twitch of his lips as he fought off a smile. "Here, let me at least look at the stab-wound."

"No," Peter immediately said, tucking his arms around his middle and leaning away. "No, I'm fine – it… it feels fine. It feels good. I'm good. You don't need to check."

This time Steve did frown as he gave Peter a disapproving look. "Peter I need to make sure it's at least not bleeding through. Now come on, I promise I'm not going to take you to a hospital, but you have to let me at least make sure you're not gonna collapse with a fever in an hour."

Before Peter could even react, Steve's hands had shot forward and lifted his shirt, exposing the bandages that were wrapped around his lower abdomen.

The linen was clean and completely white, not a speck of blood shining through. Steve hummed and glanced up at Peter, before lowering the shirt back down. "All right," he said, standing up. "Let's get going."

As Peter waited for Steve to get into the other side, he took a moment to take in the fact that he was sitting in an actual, real car. He hadn't been in one since Before, he hadn't been in any vehicle of any kind. The idea that he could actually control the temperature – heat if he was too cold, or air conditioning if he was too hot – was oddly thrilling. But perhaps that came after years of living with only the weather for your blanket or your fan.

The things you missed.

Steve got into the driver's side of the car, and turned it on with his phone – some high-tech feature that Tony had probably made – put the vehicle into gear, and started driving down the gravel road.

"First things first," Steve said, and upon seeing Peter's look, amended, "aside from going to the hospital." He turned onto another road, the sun continuing to climb in the sky. "We need to get you some clothes.

This was officially the strangest – no, craziest – no, weirdest – day that Peter had ever had. Well, at least ever since After. And maybe even Before.

A couple of weeks ago he'd simply been living his life on the streets, every day the same as the last – wake up, find food, eat food, find water, drink water, go home, go to bed. Rinse and repeat.

He had washed his hands of his old life, and had fully embraced his new one. The life he had Before was a closed book; a forgotten prequel that really wasn't apart of the main story. Well, perhaps embraced was too strong a word, but he had sure enough accepted it.

And now here he was, sitting in a car in front of a clothing store, being asked by Captain America whether he liked the blue shirt or the red one.

He didn't like either colours, so he chose brown.

He'd insisted that he would try and pay Steve back somehow, but they both knew that it was an empty gesture. So Peter accepted the gift for what it was. Besides, he really didn't want to be in his hospital pants and gown for the rest of his life.

Steve let Peter change in the car before getting back in, and soon they were on their way once more – after picking up Starbucks, that is. Steve had gotten a double-shot espresso, while Peter had settled for a simple hot chocolate – white, of course. He'd always had a sweet tooth.

It was terrifyingly normal.

Which brought him to where he was now – gazing out of the window as fields and hills and trees rolled by, the sun now shining high in a cloud-filled sky.

Peter no longer knew what to think about any of this – so he chose not to think at all.

Well, he tried, anyway. Not thinking lasted for only about forty minutes, before all his questions started circling in his head like an endless whirlpool, sucking him in and spinning him round and round, with no end in sight.

First and foremost, why was Steve helping him? He was just a random kid who had escaped a med-ward – not once, but twice – who had been recently stabbed and had an old gunshot wound. And a broken foot – mustn't forget about the foot. Steve should have called in the cavalry and forced him to go back, kicking and screaming. In fact, Peter had been all but certain that he would.

But he didn't. For some reason, which Peter still could not figure out, Steve had chosen to do as Peter had asked – well, demanded – and had trekked with him through the woods, taking twice the time it would normally take and practically carrying half of Peter's weight as they walked. Why? Why would he do that? Why would he do all that for a kid he barely knew?

Another question that Peter had was a far more fearful one, one that he didn't even really want to think too much about, lest his thinking about it made it come true. But… but why hadn't anything happened yet? He had been with the Avengers for over two days now; he'd been right beside Steve ever since the night before, and they remained in very close proximity now. So how… how had nothing happened yet? Was Seftis watching, was he getting ready, was it only a matter of time, or… or….

Peter was doing exactly what he'd vowed he would never do, by being this close. He'd done everything he could to deter Steve, to warn him and make him leave, but of course the older man had done exactly the opposite. Surely Seftis would see that, surely he would take that into account, when….

"Hey, Peter," Steve said, suddenly breaking the hour-long silence. "I've been thinking…."

Oh, great, well that was just wonderful to hear. Those were his favourite words.

Peter felt his muscles tense as he waited for Steve to finish.

Steve glanced at Peter. "I was wondering if you wouldn't mind if we stayed in touch, after you get back to New York. After all you did save my friend's life. I'm assuming you know he's one of the Avengers by now, right?"

Peter kept quiet, staunchly keeping his gaze out the window.

Steve looked back to the road. "Anyways. We're all really grateful for what you did, so we were wanting to do something to repay you. We were thinking we could set you up with some housing, help you find a job, get you off the streets. I doubt they're that comfortable, especially at this time of year."

Minutes passed in silence as Peter continued to not respond. Finally Steve sighed in frustration. "Peter, why won't – just let us help you. Why won't you let us help you?"

Peter fought back a glare. "Because –."

"Because you think you're going to hurt us somehow, yes, I know – you told me. Many, many times."

This time, Peter did glare. "And every single time I said it, it was still true. I don't want you're help, Steve – I don't want any of your guys' help. All I want is to be left alone. That's all I want. To just be left alone."

Surprisingly for Peter, Steve gave him a glare of his own. "Look, Peter – I don't know what on earth you're running from, but if you want to be left alone, then that's what will happen. You think you'll be fine, but you won't. I've known too many people who thought they didn't need anyone else, who thought they could isolate themselves from the rest of the world without consequences, but they were wrong, they –."

"I don't care!" Peter interrupted. "I don't care what anyone else did, or what anyone else thought – you have no idea what –."

The car had just made it over a small hill, where the skyline of New York City came into perfect view. At that moment, however, the car suddenly began to make noise. The engine banged a few times and the exhaust coughed, and suddenly they were slowing to a stop.

Both men sat in silence for a few minutes, not saying a word. Finally Peter asked, "What happened? Did the engine break, or –."

"I'm not sure," Steve replied. He pulled open the door handle and stepped outside, popping the hood as he went. As soon as he lifted it smoke billowed out, and began seeping through the vents inside. Peter immediately scrambled out of the car.

"What the heck –." Peter started. "Did – did the engine overheat?"

"Yeah," Steve said, frowning. "That's what it looks like."

"But – but how? How did the engine overheat in the middle of November?!"

"I don't know." Steve sighed. "I think I'm going to call Pepper for this one. Stark will kill someone if he hears it from me."

But Peter wasn't listening. He could only stare at the smoking vehicle, his heartbeat rising with every breath he took.

Steve noticed his discomfort and frowned in concern. "Peter? What's wrong?"

Peter took a step back, shaking his head. "See?" he said, looking up at Steve. Anger was building quickly in his chest, and he tried to push down the rising panic. "I told you! I told you, I said – I told you that bad stuff happens when I'm around. Don't you see?! I was telling the truth! I was telling the truth, I –."

"Really, Peter?" Steve interrupted. "Come on now, don't you think that's a little much? Are you honestly telling me that you somehow caused the car to break down? Just because you happened to be sitting inside? Really?"

But Peter wasn't listening. All he could see was a somehow-failed attempt at blowing the car up; all he could see was Seftis giving him a warning, telling him to get the hell away from Steve, that if he didn't leave now, worse would follow.

Peter turned round and started stomping away, feeling as though his heart were about to burst from his chest.

"Peter!" Steve called after him. "Peter, where do you think you're going? Peter, this isn't your fault!"

"How can you say none of this is my fault?!" Peter shouted, suddenly spinning round. "How can you just stand there and say this isn't my fault?! You don't know what I've done! You don't know the choices I've made! You don't know anything about me! You don't know me!"

Peter wanted to scream. He wanted to tear his hair out, he already had his fingers gripping it like a madman. He wanted to run as fast as he could, to get away from Steve and danger and Seftis and death and – and –

Steve was suddenly walking towards him, his eyes set in a hard stare and his mouth pressed in a firm line.

"Peter," he said, stopping a few feet away from him. "Peter, I don't care what you've done, or what you think you've done. You may think you're a beacon for danger, that people get hurt just by being around you. But you're not, and they don't. People aren't like that. There are far too many forces at work in this world for that to simply be the case."

Steve looked at Peter straight in the eye when he spoke next. "I'm going to help you, Peter, whether you want it or not. Whoever is chasing you – whoever is after you – we'll fight them. Together. And I'll bring Iron Man, the Hulk, and all the other Avengers with me, if I have to. We'll get you out of this – I promise."

Anger flared through Peter like a whip, spreading through his entire body like fire. His eyes narrowed and he glared at Steve, stepping back and away from him. He shook his head angrily. "There you go again, with your self-sacrificing crap."

He turned, digging his fingers in his hair as he walked away, before quickly spinning back round, a laugh on his lips. "This is – this is such classic Steve Rogers! You're always having to save others, no matter who the hell they are, even when it puts your life at risk! Even when you know you're going to die!"

He spun round, then round again, continuing to pace back and forth angrily. He stuck his finger out, shaking it at Steve. "You know, Tony was completely right about you! He always said your need to help others was going to be your downfall, and sure enough – here we are!"

There was nothing after that for a few moments, save the rush of sounds of cars passing by. Steve was still staring at Peter with a small frown, but this time there was something else in his eyes that Peter couldn't quite place. After a few more moments he opened his mouth to speak. "Peter –."

"Forget it," Peter interrupted, heading towards the car. He wrenched the door open, nearly ripping it off its hinges and got back inside, slamming it shut behind him. He folded his arms and glared out the window, trying to ignore the stinging heat that was quickly building behind his eyes.

Steve didn't understand. He couldn't understand. And Peter didn't want him to, because of course that would only make everything worse.

They were only a half-hour out of the city, at the most. They were so close that Peter could practically taste it; but here they were, stuck in an over-heated car on the side of the highway, like a ticking time-bomb. Surely now it was only a matter of time before Seftis came and killed Steve for good, and then would go back to the Avengers Compound to finish the job. It was just a matter of time.

Peter was vaguely aware that Steve was talking to someone on the phone, but before he could properly listen in, Steve had ended the call and started walking back round the car, opening the driver's door and getting inside.

"I talked with Tony; he said to just wait until the temperature gauge goes back to normal and then carry on to the city. He's going to have one of his guys pick it up from there. He claims I'm lying that it overheated, because according to him his vehicles never break down. Narcissism is a family trait, I see." There was a pause, then, "I guess your foot is feeling better."

Peter frowned, not understanding. Steve pointedly looked over to the right, and Peter followed his gaze. It was then that he realised that his foot – his bad foot, his broken foot – was shoved up against the dashboard, perfectly straight and appearing to not be in the least bit of pain. Peter quickly brought the foot back down to the floor.

"I heal fast," he said quickly. It was the only pithy reply he could offer.

He waited for a response, for Steve to start interrogating him, but there was none. Finally he looked up, his eyes meeting Steve's.

Steve was staring at him; his face void of expression. But there was something in his eyes, a question, or likely many questions, that for some reason he was choosing not to ask.

Peter shifted, suddenly feeling uncomfortable under the Avenger's gaze.

They sat in silence for a long while, until at last Steve started the car – which started with no issues, thank goodness – and pulled back out onto the road, heading straight towards the tall skyscrapers of the city's skyline.

They eventually made it into the city, their car nearly slowing to a halt as they joined the congestion of hundreds of others trying to get into the Big Apple. Nearly an hour later they finally pulled into a car-park, and Steve shut the vehicle off. Peter immediately got out.

Being surrounded by the tall, almost-claustrophobic buildings was such a breath of fresh air that Peter hadn't realised he'd been missing. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes, a sudden peace washing over him at the knowledge that he was finally away from the Avengers and their compound – that he was finally home. And they were finally all safe.

Hearing a door open, Peter looked back to see Steve stepping out and rising to his feet.

Well, almost all safe. But it certainly wasn't going to be long now.

"Well," Peter said, unable to keep the cheer from his voice. "Thanks for everything Mister Rogers – seriously, thank you. But I think I'm gonna head off now. Hopefully we won't ever see each other again!"

Peter turned round and started walking away. Before he could hardly blink, Steve was suddenly walking right beside him.

"I'm walking you home," he said, not leaving even a single inch of room in his voice for discussion.

Peter frowned, slowing to a stop. "Uh, Mister Rogers, in case you haven't noticed, I live on the streets. I don't have a home, and you're definitely not bringing me back to my Aunt May's –."

"You may be on the streets, but from the way you talk it sounds like you have a particular place that you like to hang out, right? An abandoned building or underpass maybe?"

Peter huffed in annoyance, then started walking again. "It's an abandoned dance studio," he said, drawing back up alongside Steve. "At least that's what I think it is. It has a small attic; it's not much, but it keeps me out of the rain and snow. It's not any easy place to get to, so people usually leave me alone. It's not much, but… it works for me."

Peter inwardly berated himself for allowing his tongue to wander. He blamed it on the euphoria of being back home and almost back to his old life. Still, rambling like an excited puppy was perhaps something he should try and not do.

They walked for long while, pausing at lights and joining the throngs of people as they crossed the streets. Eventually Peter led them down alleys and back-ways until they were in a far more quiet part of the city, where tourists didn't go and only locals traveled. They had kept in such amicable silence for so long that Peter nearly started when Steve suddenly spoke.

"Do you know Tony?" he asked.

Peter blinked, then frowned, looking up at Steve in confusion. "What?"

"Do you know Tony?" Steve repeated. "Back on the highway, you said that 'Tony was right' about me. So unless you read some article somewhere quoting him – and that's not impossible, I know – it just… it just sounded like you might know him." He looked at Peter questioningly. "Do you?"

Peter didn't know what caused him to say what he said next. Perhaps it was childish ignorance, perhaps it was a breakdown of barriers or his own lack of safety. Perhaps he just should've kept his mouth shut and in classic teenage-rebellion chose not to.

Or perhaps it was a need to remember. A need to affirm out-loud that what had happened in the past was true, that the life he had once lived had been real – even if he was the only one who could remember it.

"I did, once," Peter finally replied. "But it was a long time ago. He doesn't remember me anymore."

"Why didn't you say something then?" Steve asked in bemusement. "Why didn't you say something when you were at the compound? Or –." Steve faltered. "Or is he the reason you didn't want to stay? Did he do –."

"He didn't do anything," Peter interrupted, continuing to walk."What happened was a long time ago now… it's in the past. And that's where it needs to stay." He took a breath. "Some things are better left forgotten."

Steve said nothing after that, and the two continued to walk down the street. The sun was now lowering, colours of orange and pink starting to fill the sky as evening started giving way to dusk.

"Is it much farther?" Steve asked after a while.

"No," Peter replied. He was nearly bouncing in his steps as they drew closer and closer; he could almost see it from here. "It's on this street, just a few more blocks."

"Well," Steve said, "I have to say Peter, you've certainly given me an interesting day. I wasn't expecting to go on a five-hour road trip across state when I went for my job last night." He smiled. "I have to say, it was good getting to know you. I wish you'd let us stay in touch; at least let me give you a phone number, or something."

"You've got bigger things to worry about," Peter replied. "I'm just a kid living on the streets, and I've been here for a while now. I'll get by. But… but thanks, anyways."

Something suddenly clicked in Peter's mind, and his head snapped to Steve, his brows furrowing in confusion. "Wait, didn't you say that once we got to the city, you were going to take me to the hospital, and –." Peter cut himself off, nearly biting his tongue as he all but yelled at himself for bringing the topic up. He swore, something had unhinged his jaw and now he wouldn't stop talking, and –

"Oh, I didn't forget that," Steve said nonchalantly. "I just figured you didn't need one anymore." He looked pointedly at Peter's feet, which he had been walking perfectly fine on for the last forty minutes. "And I have a feeling that if I were to check your stab-wound, it would be doing pretty good, too."

Peter's eyes widened and he looked down. His foot! He'd forgotten about his foot!

Peter shrunk slightly in on himself, attempting to deflect. "I told you, I heal –."

"Fast," Steve finished. "Yes, I know."

Steve smiled, and Peter fought and failed to keep back one of his own.

A twist of pain began turning in Peter's chest, and he swallowed past the lump that had suddenly appeared in his throat. The last couple days had been horrible, and he had done everything in his power to get away from the compound and back to the city, back to the streets, and he had done that – he had succeeded.

And yet… and yet, in the midst of all that panic and chaos, Peter had somehow… he had somehow not wanted it to end. Being back at the compound, being in the same room as Tony and Clint and now on this crazy ride with Steve – it had made him remember. It had made him remember how much he had enjoyed it all, had enjoyed the friendships and comradery that he had formed with all these people from Before. To have people who truly understood what it meant to give of yourself for the sake of others, to have friends and mentors and people he looked up to who could teach him how to be a better hero, to be a better person. To have people who would have your back, no matter what.

It was a memory that left him feeling both filled and empty at the same time, one that Peter knew would be best to try and forget as soon as he could.

They were stepping onto Peter's block, and Peter knew it was now time to say goodbye.

"Well," he said. "Thanks again Mister Rogers. Seriously – for everything."

"It was no problem, Peter." Steve replied. "I just hope that you don't stay on the streets forever. You're a good kid. You deserve more than that."

Peter grinned. "Don't worry. As soon as I turn eighteen, I'm getting out. I'll get a job and save up, and I'll maybe even get out of the city, and –."

Peter's words came to a stop as his building came into view, and his heart stopped along with them.

The old dance studio – his home – was completely gutted. Smoke still smoldered in various places from the floor, drifting directly through the fallen roof and into the sky. The side of the building facing them was completely gone; the back of the building where his portion of the attic lay was still standing, but barely. Various walls still stood inside, but were black from soot and partly crumbled to the ground. Police tape surrounded the site, but no one else was there. It had obviously burned sometime within the last few days.

"Peter," Steve began, "is this…."

As he continued to stare at the blackened building, Peter could feel his heart slowly start to beat again, each one faster than the last.

No. No, no this couldn't – there was no way… how could – his home, his home was… it was completely… it was gone, it was completely gone, and –

Peter's feet had started running and before he knew what he was doing, he was ducking under the caution tape and running into the ruins.

"Hey, stop!" Steve shouted behind him. "Peter, wait!"

But Peter wasn't listening. He had to see, he had to check, had to find if there was anything left, if everything – if everything had been –

He started jumping onto the crumbling walls, all but sprinting up the fallen bricks and running along the ridges, heading straight for the crumbled hole that led straight to his attic. He all but climbed the last wall until he finally made it inside. When he did his eyes grew wide, and everything came to a halt.

What few items he'd managed to obtain in the last two years lay scattered across the floor, nearly unrecognizable and burnt black. Food, newspapers, books, cups and bowls. His mattress and blanket sat in the corner, a crumpled mess of burnt fabric and mangled springs. Peter could only stare.

Everything was gone.

A thought flashed across Peter's mind and he jerked forward, quickly running across the attic floor.

His tin box of money that he kept hidden underneath the floorboard; was it – was it –

Peter fell to his knees and began searching through the charred remains of bricks and wood, looking for the floor-board, the one only a few feet from his mattress, the one –

The one that was currently open and completely empty.

Peter leaned back on his legs, falling into silence.

The sounds of grunting and falling bricks could be heard, and a few seconds later Steve's head and arms appeared at the hole in the wall, as he pulled himself up and into the attic. He grunted, then stood to his feet. "Peter, Peter what…." He turned round, taking in the sight before him. He looked down, his brows furrowing in empathy. "Peter, I'm so sorry…."

But Peter wasn't listening. All he could do was stare at the charred remains of money that lay crumpled across the floor, the tin they'd been kept in laying upside down in the corner.

Nothing. He had nothing now. Everything he had found, everything he had kept, all the money he had saved to try and one day get out of here – it was all for nothing.

Now, he truly was homeless.

What would he do? What could he do? Other than… other than going to the police, letting himself get put into the system, get put into foster care, until he turned eighteen and was then kicked out and left on the streets again, and then he would never be able –

"Peter."

Steve's voice had an odd tone to it, and Peter looked up, following Steve's gaze to the wall on the other side of the room.

The wall was covered in black soot from top to bottom, clearly having received the flames more than the rest of the room. But that wasn't what had caught their attention, for in the soot were written four, simple words:

We'll meet again, Spider-Man.

Peter felt his shock slowly give way to anger, as his eyes narrowed in a glare.

"Peter, do you know who did this?" Steve asked.

Of course he knew. Only two other people in the whole world knew who he was, and one of them had just clearly tried to kill him – again.

The Green Goblin obviously hadn't given up yet, even after his laboratory had been destroyed. He had already failed once at getting whatever it was he wanted from Peter, but he clearly wasn't throwing in the towel. Not yet.

We'll meet again, Spider-Man.

And somehow, Peter knew they would.