Training night has become something Peter actually looks forward to.
Not in the adrenaline-junkie way of wanting to fight things, but in the comfortable-routine way of knowing what to expect, having structure, belonging somewhere that makes sense.
The Young Avengers training facility is mostly empty tonight—just the core team running through standard drills under Taskmaster's increasingly bored supervision. Cap's off dealing with S.H.I.E.L.D. bureaucracy. Fury's watching from somewhere through cameras Peter can never quite locate. But the team? The team is present, functional, starting to feel like an actual unit instead of random people thrown together by circumstance.
Peter moves through the sparring exercises on instinct now. Muscle memory handling the basics while his conscious mind tracks everyone else's positions, adjusts his movements to complement theirs, calls out warnings when someone's about to walk into someone else's strike range.
Leadership has settled on him like a coat that finally fits right after weeks of wearing it too big.
He's relaxed in a way he rarely used to be—not letting his guard down, just... not carrying tension in his shoulders constantly. Not second-guessing every call. Not performing confidence he doesn't feel.
Just being.
Wiccan executes a controlled reality-warp that makes gravity temporarily optional in a five-foot radius. Peter web-zips through it, using the momentum to redirect into a wall-run that shouldn't be possible under normal physics.
"Nice!" he calls out. "Way more stable than last week."
Wiccan grins, hands glowing with barely-contained magic. "Told you I've been practicing the grounding exercises."
Patriot and Constrictor are sparring nearby—not seriously, just movement drills, practicing coordination without powers. Eli's fighting style is straightforward, economical, built on the foundation of being physically superior to most opponents. Frank's is more technical, using his coils defensively, waiting for openings.
They're well-matched.
Everything feels... normal.
Which is why Peter doesn't immediately notice when normal starts tilting sideways.
During the water break between drills, Constrictor gravitates toward Peter.
It's not unusual—Frank does this a lot, asking questions, seeking feedback, treating Peter like a mentor worth learning from. It's flattering, honestly. Makes Peter feel like maybe he's actually good at this leadership thing.
"Hey, boss." Constrictor unscrews his water bottle, takes a long drink. "Can I pick your brain about something?"
"Sure." Peter towels sweat from his face, checks his wrists reflexively. "What's up?"
"Just thinking about patrol patterns. You've been doing this way longer than most of us." Constrictor leans against the wall, posture casual, open. "How do you decide which neighborhoods to hit first? Like, do you rotate, or is it instinct, or...?"
It's a reasonable question. The kind any new hero might ask.
Peter considers it. "Bit of both, honestly. I tend to start in areas with higher crime rates—Hell's Kitchen, parts of the Bronx. But spider-sense helps too. Sometimes I just... feel like I should check somewhere specific."
"That's wild." Constrictor shakes his head, grinning. "Wish I had that. Must make prioritizing easier."
"Sometimes. Sometimes it just means I know something bad is happening and I can't get there fast enough."
"Fair point." Constrictor takes another drink. "What about when you're actually on patrol? How do you decide when to intervene? Like, if you see something sketchy but not actively violent?"
Peter shrugs. "Depends on the situation. Domestic disturbances I usually call in but don't engage directly unless someone's actively getting hurt—that's more police territory. Drug deals I'll break up if they're obvious, but I'm not going to bust into buildings on suspicion. Assaults, robberies, anything where someone's in immediate danger—that's when I drop in."
"Makes sense. Rules of engagement, basically."
"Yeah, something like that."
Taskmaster calls them back to formation. The conversation ends naturally, and Peter doesn't think much of it.
----
Over the next hour, during water breaks and cooldown periods, Constrictor keeps asking questions.
Still friendly. Still casual.
But more specific.
"How often do you double back to areas you've already patrolled? Like, if you covered Queens early in the night, do you swing through again before calling it, or is that inefficient?"
Peter considers while stretching his hamstrings. "Depends how long patrol runs. If it's a quiet night and I've got time, yeah, I'll do a second pass through high-priority areas. But usually I'm bouncing between different neighborhoods all night anyway, so it naturally loops."
"That's smart. Covers more ground without being predictable." Constrictor mirrors Peter's stretch, flexibility impressive for someone without spider-powers. "What makes you abandon a chase? Like, what's your threshold for 'this guy got away, move on to the next thing'?"
That one makes Peter pause fractionally. Not obviously—just a moment of consideration that probably reads as thinking through his answer.
"If I'm chasing someone and a more urgent call comes through, I'll prioritize the bigger threat. Or if they get into a vehicle and I can't safely pursue without risking civilian casualties. Or if they go to ground somewhere I can't follow without backup—like into gang territory where escalating would endanger bystanders."
"So threat assessment on the fly. Makes sense." Constrictor nods thoughtfully. "How long can you stay off-comm before people worry? Like, if you're deep in something and can't check in?"
And that—
That question sits different.
Not obviously wrong. Still plausibly innocent. But oddly specific in a way that makes Peter's spider-sense hum faintly.
Not danger-level. Just... attention.
"Uh." Peter straightens from his stretch, reaches for his water bottle to buy a second of thinking time. "Depends on the situation. If I'm handling something solo and it's taking longer than expected, I try to check in every thirty minutes or so. More often if I'm in an active combat situation. Less often if I'm doing routine patrol and nothing's happening."
"Good protocol." Constrictor accepts the answer easily. Too easily. Like he's cataloging information, not actually curious.
Peter notices that.
Notices and files it away and doesn't act on it because—
Because what? Because asking questions is suspicious now? Because wanting to learn from more experienced heroes means someone's a threat?
He's being paranoid.
During cooldown, Constrictor settles beside Peter on the training mat, both of them doing post-workout stretches.
"Can I ask you something more personal?" Frank's tone shifts—still friendly, but quieter, more serious.
Peter tenses fractionally. "Sure?"
"What's your worst call? Like, the time you made the wrong choice and had to live with it?"
The question lands different than the others.
More invasive. More psychological.
Peter pauses.
Just a fraction of a second.
Long enough to register the discomfort, to notice he doesn't want to answer, to feel his brain scrambling for a response that's honest enough to satisfy but vague enough to protect.
"There've been a few," he says finally, voice carefully neutral. "Times I wasn't fast enough. Times I chose wrong and someone got hurt because of it. I try to learn from them, but... yeah. They stick with you."
It's not a lie. It's just not specific.
Constrictor nods, expression sympathetic. Understanding.
"That's rough, man. But you're still out there doing it anyway. That takes guts."
He accepts the vague answer easily.
Too easily.
Like he wasn't actually looking for details about Peter's failures—just testing to see if Peter would give them.
Peter's spider-sense hums again. Slightly louder this time.
He ignores it.
---
Training wraps up twenty minutes later.
Peter helps stack equipment, exchanges fist-bumps with Patriot and Wiccan, watches Taskmaster make notes on a tablet about everyone's performance.
His mind is still turning over the conversation with Constrictor.
The questions weren't wrong. They were reasonable things a new team member might ask. Frank's been nothing but helpful, cooperative, eager to improve. He integrates well with the team. He follows orders. He doesn't cause problems.
Peter's just on edge.
That's the real issue.
He's been on edge since the Hulk incident—since watching Bruce nearly destroy half the city, since seeing Tony nearly make an impossible choice, since having Thor arrive and casually mention that his brother is apparently orchestrating magical terrorism.
His threat-detection is miscalibrated. Seeing patterns where there aren't any. Reading suspicion into innocent curiosity because he's tired and stressed and carrying more responsibility than a sixteen-year-old should be carrying.
Not everyone asking questions is a threat.
Sometimes people are just curious.
Sometimes teammates are just trying to learn.
Sometimes Peter's paranoia is just paranoia.
He tells himself this while changing back into street clothes, tells himself this while swinging home, tells himself this while eating dinner with May and pretending everything's fine.
He's overthinking.
That's all.
---
The moment breaks earlier than Peter consciously registers.
Patriot had interrupted during one of Constrictor's questions—stepped between them physically, expression tight, posture defensive in a way that suggested discomfort.
"We're running formation drills," Eli had said, voice clipped. "Need both of you."
Constrictor had stepped back immediately, smiled, followed Eli to the training mat without protest.
But Peter had seen Patriot's face. Seen the way Eli kept glancing at Frank throughout the rest of training. Seen the protective positioning—staying between Constrictor and Peter more often than tactics required.
Eli noticed something too.
Or maybe Eli's just being paranoid.
Or maybe—
Peter cuts that thought off.
He's not doing this. Not spiraling into suspicion based on questions that might be completely innocent and a teammate who might just be naturally protective.
Everyone's allowed to ask questions.
Everyone's allowed to be curious.
And Peter's allowed to stop seeing threats in every shadow.
---
Later that night, swinging through Queens on routine patrol, Peter's brain catches on something.
A detail. Small. Probably meaningless.
Constrictor never asked how Peter fights.
In all those questions—all the curiosity about patrol patterns, decision-making processes, engagement protocols—Frank never once asked about combat technique. Never asked about web shooting capabilities, or spider-strength limits, or how Peter handles specific types of opponents.
Just when, where, and why.
Operational details. Tactical patterns. Behavioral predictability.
The kind of information you'd want if you were trying to anticipate someone's movements.
Or avoid them.
Peter lands on a rooftop, crouches at the edge, stares at the city spreading below him in all directions.
His spider-sense is quiet now. No immediate danger. No threats in range.
Just the usual background hum of a city full of potential problems waiting to manifest.
He should call Eli. Compare notes. See if Patriot picked up on the same weird vibe.
He doesn't.
Because what would he even say? "Hey, Frank asked me about my patrol schedule, which is suspicious because... reasons I can't articulate"?
That's not evidence. That's paranoia.
And Peter's had enough paranoia for one lifetime.
Probably.
---
Peter finishes patrol three hours later without incident.
Two muggings prevented. One car accident where he helped pull people from wreckage before emergency services arrived. One attempted robbery of a bodega that ended when Peter webbed the guy to his own getaway car.
Normal.
Routine.
The kind of night that used to feel like victory and now just feels like baseline.
He swings home, climbs through his bedroom window, peels off the suit, and collapses into bed without showering because he's too tired to care about sweat and grime.
May's already asleep. The house is quiet. The city hums outside.
Peter stares at the ceiling, brain refusing to settle despite exhaustion.
Constrictor's questions replay in his mind. Not threatening. Just... persistent. Thorough. The kind of data-gathering someone does when they want to build a complete picture.
Of what, though?
Peter doesn't know.
Doesn't want to assume the worst.
Doesn't want to be the guy who sees enemies in his own teammates.
He rolls over, pulls the blanket up, closes his eyes.
Tells himself it was nothing.
Tells himself he's overthinking.
Tells himself that not everyone with questions has ulterior motives, and sometimes people are just curious, and he needs to stop projecting suspicion onto every interaction.
Sleep comes slowly.
And somewhere in the back of his mind—quiet but persistent, like white noise you can't quite tune out—a thought lingers:
*Still... I should've changed the subject.*
*Should've deflected more.*
*Should've given vaguer answers.*
*Should've trusted the spider-sense when it hummed instead of rationalizing it away.*
But he didn't.
And now those answers are out there.
In Constrictor's head.
Filed away.
For whatever purpose Frank has for them.
If he has a purpose.
Which he probably doesn't.
Probably.
Peter falls asleep still telling himself it was nothing.
Still almost believing it.
Still ignoring the small, persistent voice that sounds suspiciously like his spider-sense saying: *You know better than this.*
*You've been here before.*
*You've ignored warnings before.*
*And it never ends well.*
But exhaustion wins over instinct.
And Peter sleeps.
And the questions he answered tonight sit in Constrictor's memory.
Waiting.
For whatever comes next.