Archive of Our Own

It started when Peter was a scrawny mop of a kid with too many thoughts and not enough biceps. Not that middle school Peter used to spend entire math classes constructing complex alternate timelines where he gets bitten by, like, six radioactive spiders and becomes Ultra Spider-Man with the power of teleportation, laser vision, and a perfectly symmetrical face, but—

He’d picture saving the school from cyborg substitute teachers while wearing a leather trench coat and calling the principal “comrade.” It made sense at the time. Kid logic. 

Just coping mechanisms, y’know, from getting shoved into enough lockers to start thinking of them as studio apartments, since when you’re the guy who knows all the digits of pi but can’t catch a dodgeball without getting a concussion, you get really, really good at building mental escape hatches and little fantasy trapdoors.

He never stopped, as it tends to happen. Not when he didn’t quite get that much taller after he got real powers, not when puberty kind of just... waved at him and moved on, and not when he quit being ‘Penis Parker, bottom of the food chain’ and started being ‘Spider-Man, friendly neighborhood chronic overthinker and all.’

He still zones out now and then, but there’s no harm in daydreaming about standing in front of the Tower, wind whipping through his hair, while Steve Rogers gives him a medal, everyone claps, and Mr. Stark claps extra hard and says, ‘Pete, you’re making the rest of us look bad.’

Which, okay, okay, wow, transparent much, but hey, if the fantasy of Mr. Stark being alive and the Tower still belonging to him, not to mention the rest of it, fits. The point is, it’s harmless, and it never got Peter in trouble. 

Before.

It’s not even a daydream, exactly, that causes it, so it's completely not his fault.

It’s also raining concrete.

Chunks of buildings are crashing down, but what else is new, it’s whatever-day in New York, which means the sky is either falling or about to. Peter’s already sweating under his suit, it’s barely noon, he skipped breakfast, he still has to work after, his back hurts in ways no 21-year-old’s back should, especially given his enhanced healing, and holy shit, is that dumbass seriously livestreaming?

“Hey! Buddy! Move your TikTok thot ass out of the—” Peter yanks hard mid-swing, redirects to kick off a bent streetlamp and slingshots himself toward the civilian. 

He's about Peter's age, probably named Kyle, definitely wearing Yeezys, holding his phone up, and Peter isn’t a hypocrite (he used to love a good selfie), but there’s not a single self-preserving neuron pinging in that smooth influencer brain as a cinderblock the size of a small microwave plummets and makes a dent in the pavement where Kyle's overpriced sneakers were just planted.

Peter lands, gently shoving the guy behind the skeleton of an old newsstand, and can’t resist some community service.

“This is why you don’t stand under crumbling buildings, Kyle,” Peter peeks out from behind the newsstand. “I don't care how good the lighting is. Not even if it gives you cheekbones, you got it?”

Kyle points his phone at him.

“Guys, it’s Spid—”

Peter’s gone before Kyle can finish.

Something loudly creaks on his far left with straight-up Final Destination 3 vibes, the building groans, the metal support beam that’s been half-dangling for the past ten minutes decides now is the time to fully commit to gravity, and Peter has a bone to pick with gravity, so he heads that way.

He also has a bone to pick with Kyle, because, again, what in the name of Darwinian failure was that? There’s a time to stock up on content for your feed and there’s a time to get the fuck out. (Now. Right fucking now is the time to evacuate your clout-chasing ass, Kyle.)

Peter also might’ve had a very unfortunate interaction this morning over the lack of chargers in the coffee shop he moonlights between his other fifty thousand gigs, high-key wishing things were different and he was refusing to take Mr. Stark’s money out of sheer stubborn guilt and late-capitalist pride. 

God, that woman was a proper Karen (not Peter’s Karen, she was an angel and a queen when she was still active and gave him hydration reminders). It’s just that people these days will let robots put tracking chips in their skulls and turn Times Square into a giant USB port as long as they give everyone 5G with good upload speed and a free blemish-reducing AI filter that makes your eyebags disappear, and all you have to do is click to accept cookies or something and—

Peter dives, flips, goes for that beam. Almost clean, but not clean enough, since multitasking mid-life-threatening situations is kind of his personal failure also, so maybe he is a hypocrite after all.

The edge of the beam Peter was planning on catching and depositing safely to the ground in case of another Kyle clips his side and the pain is explosive. 

Peter sucks in a breath and, ugh, fuck, ooouch, it hurts and it’s sharp, ragged and very wrong, something’s just after breaking. Maybe two somethings. Maybe all of them. He’s not a doctor. Yet. If barely-counts-as-college ever stops kicking his ass. Though even then he’s not going to be a medical doct—

Another car flips. Peter dodges a flying tire, lands on a traffic light and winces.

“Ow. Okay. Cool. No big deal. Just a casual stabby, twisty pain every time I breathe. That’s fine. I’m fine.”

The world tilts sideways, and Peter conveniently remembers that lying to yourself is hard when your lungs are full of fire and you haven’t been eating much.

Damn you, Kyle.

It’s, huh, surprisingly not a splat. Bit of a soft landing, somehow. Soft-ish. Softer than a car windshield, anyway. 

Peter feels himself drop before the gentle fade to black, though the fade to black doesn’t happen, because of course not, nothing ever fades for Peter, it just smacks. There’s no ethereal whisper, gentle guidance toward the light, or Mr. Stark giving him a well-deserved head pat and saying, “You did good, kid.” None of that.

There’s a lot of pain and the faint taste of copper, and the very real possibility he might’ve peed a little. Or not. Yes, let's go with that.

It still hurts, and Peter feels a jolt, more pain and motion. Movement. Some kind of… lift-off? There’s no ground under him, but, around him, there’s something solid. And warm. And very large. He doesn’t register what it is at first, only that it’s not concrete and it doesn’t smell like burning rubber or Kyle’s Yeezys, which had serious Axe body spray energy. It smells… kind of amazing, actually.

Peter’s head lolls back, and he’s not feeling in control of anything right now. Not his body, and not this sudden hyper-awareness of muscle density and masculine cologne, and, least of all, not his increasingly diminishing checklist of what constitutes an alright day (not shattering ribs, please). But those ribs are screaming, his lungs are hating on him, his right leg feels a lot sus, and he really hopes it hasn’t clocked out completely, because he’s on his fucking lunch break and rent is due in two days. (Ago.)

But damn, and holy asscrackers, this guy that seems to be carrying him has arms for days. Fantasy-level manhandle-me-out-of-danger. Nice.

Peter had a daydream about this once or twice before. In bed, after pulling a double shift and another all-nighter, his fingers hurting from swinging or typing in his customer support job number four and patching up the suit he’s been just about not duct-taping together since Stark Tech went poof. 

He’s had the thought. Wouldn’t it be swell if someone else caught him for once? Not because he needs saving, he doesn’t. He’s doing okay. He’s a functioning, independent superhero who does not require rescuing, except for right now. But still. The idea of someone grabbing him, hauling him out, just out, being all, “Shh, I got you, sweetheart,” while Peter just… unclenches a bit? Yeah. It’s not not been in his mental spank bank. He’s only human. He’s also tired. God, he is so, so tired.

And this guy, whoever he is, with arms, just carries him. Doesn’t pant. As if Peter doesn’t weigh a some amount of pounds, maybe a bit more with the muscle, plus the suit on, all his trauma included, and guilt so heavy it could sink a Destroyer. 

So yeah. The Bodyguard fantasy. Loooovely, as Peter’s obviously leaking out his life-force on the pavement.

Granted, Peter tries to protest. He flails one half-dead arm and mutters something.

“I’m good, M-Mr. Stark, stop your worryin’.”

But the world keeps moving. Up. There’s a hum, what feels like height, some of that pesky gravity doing strange things, and Peter’s briefly convinced he’s on an escalator to heaven before his body is deposited somewhere blissfully comfy and horizontal and, thank god, not moving anymore.

“Stay put. You nearly got killed.” Oh. The voice is also very nice. Deep and rumbly. 

Peter wants to cuddle next to this voice, live next to it, build a fort in the general vicinity, maybe open a bakery. He’s having a very good time imagining the smell of a freshly baked croissant shared with someone in the morning when life unkindly reminds him that fantasies are for suckers. 

His mask gets unceremoniously pulled off his sweaty head, he panics, possibly less than he should, and has to try to get his eyes open. He does. Sort of. Fails once. Tries again. The light’s gritty, the air is very air-conditioned, which means it’s dry as hell, but not that bad, and there’s moisture on his eyelashes (please be blood, not tears). 

The blur in front of him sharpens.

It’s human-shaped, that blur. Then face-shaped. Then—oh—hot-face-shaped, with a five-o’clock shadow, long-ish hair, and seriously blue eyes. And, fuck. That jaw. 

Peter… knows that jaw? He also knows the metal arm, although it’s not the one he caught in Germany. It was different when that happened—the first time Peter had worked with Mr. Stark, and also had his first ‘Do I like dick? I might like dick’ revelation. Jesus, it was so long ago, and what a truly fucked-up day to reconnect with a blast from his pubescent sexual confusion.

Peter attempts to get up, gets very softly pushed back down with a frown, opens his stupid mouth, and, still a lot out of it, lets this slip past his filter:

“In my defense, I was imagining a robot uprising.”

The face hovering over him… changes. The scowl it had on twitches. It lifts, hesitates and morphs into something else.

It really is a shitty day, and Peter, who is perpetually exhausted, touch-starved, kindness-starved, everything-starved, fingers crossed not bleeding internally in somewhere that is not the Tower—oh please God, not the Tower—and wearing underwear with a hole in them the size of budget cuts (laundry is hard when you are so beat you can’t control your strength, and the machines in his basement take coins), has the sheer unmitigated gall to want to start crying.

All because Bucky Barnes, the Winter Soldier, who came to Mr. Stark’s funeral and has been on the New Avengers since that whole Void situation that Peter didn’t particularly enjoy (don’t get him started, he had already disappeared once; he did not need to go through that again)... smiles down on him with a bewildered and confused, “Huh?”

What can Peter say, he’s got no standards. 

He’s about to give out to himself and tell his beating-faster heart not to latch on to the first guy who was nice enough not to leave him on a sidewalk mid—oh, shit! 

Peter jerks upright, mumbles, “Civilians, gotta—”, and the pain explodes all over again.

Having to wake up when you are not ready to face the day is despicable. That’s just science. But waking up more or less rested, shirtless, sore, and in the last place Peter wants to be is also bullshit.

Peter grunts himself awake, one crusty eyelid at a time. He doesn’t actually feel that awful anymore, someone wrapped his ribs, but his mouth tastes of root beer. Odd. He shifts and regrets it, because (1) pain, okay, and (2) the realization that he’s wearing unfamiliar, slightly-too-cozy sweatpants that are not his and that the sad hole in his underwear must have been discovered. It’s humiliating and a massive invasion of privacy.

Before he can say anything clever or aggressively not-clever, someone beats him to the punch.

“Those are Yelena’s.”

Peter turns his cotton-stuffed head toward the voice. It belongs to the guy sitting in a chair by the bed, manspreading and all, and with a book in his metal hand, now getting closed and tossed onto the coffee table. It slides a bit and quietly knocks into a gun.

Bucky Barnes. New Avenger Bucky Barnes. Mr. Barnes. Mr. New Avenger. Fuck if Peter knows. 

Bucky Barnes with arms. Lots of them. Metal and otherwise. Thick, bicep-porn arms. Two arms, normal amount. Whatever. 

Peter’s got bigger problems than arm counting, such as the fact that this Bucky Barnes asshole apparently didn’t wait two seconds before performing secret identity theft via undressing.

Bucky (Peter’s calling this handsy douche Bucky because fuck "Mr." anything right now) says it as if it’s no big deal, by the way. The whole undressing him thing, no matter that these pants that have been put on Peter against his unconscious will have the audacity to be nicely broken in and inexplicably soft, used to be pink a couple of dozen or so washes ago, and are about to cause Peter a full-on gender panic.

“Okay,” Peter pushes himself up on the pillows, and it’s a large bed. Tower bed. He’s definitely in the Tower. There’s no vaguely Mr. Starkian sleekness to the furniture of any kind, but Peter can put two and two together.

He didn’t think he’d ever be in this place again. Didn’t plan for it. Stayed away for a reason.

“You’re not in trouble,” Bucky says, gets up, and walks over. Still, sadly, a bit too handsome for Peter’s current state, and hands him a glass of water from the bedside table.

“I know I’m not in trouble,” Peter shrugs, takes a sip, and coughs into the back of his wrist. He hands the glass back and uses the opportunity to do a strategic room scan for his shit while Bucky’s turned around to put the glass back. 

There are more books. Not a lot, but some. Weapons. Knives. Guns in weird places. There is an AK-47 sticking out of a potted plant, so bizarre, and a medieval-looking blade that’s probably been in someone's chest next to it. But also a cat tower. No cat. Just a fuzzy play palace in the corner. The place is kind of a mess, not disgusting, but lived-in.

He doesn't see his suit.

Peter hadn’t spent much time thinking about Bucky Barnes apart from that one oh-wow-he’s–kinda-pretty moment in Germany where he’d paused for half a second with duh. Dudes. And maybe Peter had caught him on a TV once or twice, and maybe there’d been a poster somewhere when Barnes ran for Congress, which was bonkers, because how the hell is anyone who used to professionally kill people, even if they were brainwashed, running for office now and winning? Then again, not impossible. Peter’s seen less suitable men run and win and get into other offices.

“You hungry? Bob’s cookin’.”

Peter’s lips part, but he clamps them shut, trying not to wonder what Bucky sees when he looks at him. 

Peter’s not lean anymore. He used to be lean. Now he's in that too-wiry territory where your body eats itself, some calories in, too many calories out, cheap pasta in seventeen forms, and he still feels like a paper doll.

“I’m fine,” he says, continuing to look around. “Did you rip my suit? Please don’t tell me you ripped it, it’s a pain to—”

“I didn’t rip it,” Bucky replies, with the emphasis on ‘I’, comes up to the dresser, looks for something in it, and then chucks a black t-shirt Peter’s way. “You should eat somethin’. I’ve seen you fight a few times, you can take more abuse than that beam could dish out.”

Peter cautiously touches the t-shirt with his fingertips first, then grabs it and yanks it over his head as fast as possible, talking while his face is still covered by most of it.

“Thanks for the assist and all, but I should go.”

“You don’t have to,” Bucky doesn’t sound like he minds one way or the other. “When I said cookin’, I meant frozen pizza and a lot of it. Even Bob can’t fuck it up. Nobody’s holdin’ you here. But… stick around. We don’t bite.”

“I’ve got work,” Peter shakes his head, already getting off the bed.

He doesn’t bolt. It’s more of a silent panic exit in borrowed sweatpants. Peter’s out the door, holding a plastic bag with his suit in it before anyone can offer him another glass of water or a slice of thawed pizza.

It’s evening, and it’s cold outside.

Peter walks a few blocks, shivering in a t-shirt he will also have to return, kind of wishes a hoodie or something had been insisted on, and keeps checking to be sure he’s not being followed. He doesn’t think he is, and… good. Very good. He doesn’t know how he’d react if he was followed, and he’s got shit to do. Save his job, for instance. The one he’s already been late to three times this week. Four if you count that time with the lizard clones.

He ducks into an alley and checks his suit. It’s intact, more or less. He’ll be able to smooth the rips, stitch the worst parts, and whisper lies into the fabric later. You’re okay, buddy. You’re doing great, sweetie.

A shitty day, yes. Top-tier dogshit that triggered nostalgic heartburn.

It takes Peter over a week to grow a pair. Shriveled, metaphorical, made-of-jello balls. Not a swinging, confidence-having, “let’s do this” set, but he’s not a thief. He may be broke, lonely, and haunted, there is that, but he’s not gonna keep a pair of sweatpants that don’t belong to him. Or the t-shirt. Even if he’s worn it six nights in a row like the pathetic, nostalgic loser that he is. He’s returning all of it. Properly washed, folded, and inside the same crinkly plastic bag his suit was shoved into as if it’s trash.

The plan is simple: climb the Tower, drop the bag off on the main balcony, reverse-burglar style, and then bail.

Except when he gets there, they are sprawled across couches. So many of them. Someone’s throwing popcorn, someone’s pointing at the large screen with a movie on, Miss Romanoff’s sister has her feet on the other girl's lap, and that Walker guy is eating Doritos out of the bag while Bucky nods at something the older man says. The lights are warm, and it’s all so—

Peter doesn’t know how long he watches them. Long enough that it stops being curiosity and starts being pain.

There’s a cat curled up just by the balcony door. A white one. It opens one of its eyes, narrows it at Peter a while later as if it can see him, and then closes it again.

Peter takes one last blurry and bitter look only after that, and sets the bag down gently, with a thank-you note attached. 

Then he steps back.

One step. Two. And jumps down before he gets any ideas.

Peter doesn’t go back to that balcony.

Not even after he walks past a convenience store with a stack of empty frozen pizza boxes in the window and stops in front of it. He doesn’t go back because he knows what happens when you let yourself want something too much. It wriggles into your chest like one of those weird facehugger parasites from Alien, only instead of laying eggs, it begins redecorating your insides with throw pillows that say “Live, Laugh, Bond.” It makes itself comfy. Starts whispering how easy it’d be.

Peter can see it. 

He’d climb up to the balcony again, the same way, same spot, same stupid breeze in his face. Maybe linger a second longer this time, hearing that “Stick around”. Maybe someone would spot him. Maybe they’d leave the door open next time. Just cracked. Invitation for the fellow crime-fighting guy. No biggie.

And maybe that's how it'd kick off. 

Once. Then again. Then Bob “accidentally” makes an extra plate. Then it’s every Thursday. Then all the days. Then movie night. Then Peter’s on the couch with a cat asleep on his full belly, wearing soft used-to-be-pink sweatpants, someone’s hand absently scratching the back of his neck, and Yelena Belova is judging his movie pick while Bucky throws popcorn into his mouth and does that smile thing again.

Peter’d let himself believe it, he’s weak for that.

He’d start talking more. Laughing more. Sleeping better. Someone would notice when he limps. Someone would make him food and not comment on how fast he inhales it, knowing how much he needs so as not to wither into only skin and bones. 

He'd fold himself into their couch cushions and fill the gaps. Until he's not a walking ghost of a dead billionaire’s side project and an orphan without a single person who genuinely cares about him. Until the Tower stops being hallowed ground and starts feeling like a place he could keep a toothbrush. 

He doesn’t need much. A drawer. A corner. A warm body to collapse next to. Maybe a Bucky-shaped one. Just hypothetically. Because damn, the arms. Though Peter would even trade that part in for the family thing. Any day. He can handle no sex, he’s got lotion and a neighbor’s internet connection. 

It’s the rest of it.

Peter’s a stray right now. Mangy, underfed, vaguely feral. He’s got that “please don’t touch me unless you’re gonna scratch behind the ears” aura about him, he's not blind. Families sometimes take in strays, don’t they? Someone throws a blanket over the skinny, skittish thing, gives it food, and suddenly it’s crying during reruns of Simpsons and not pretending it doesn’t want to be held.

The fantasy ends when Peter gets them all killed or they just get killed. Heroes do stupid shit like die all the time. The fantasy also ends when it works out. Peter doesn’t deserve it.

A very nice little fantasy trapdoor. But yeah. Peter doesn’t go back.

He just thinks about it. A lot. 

It’s whatever day of the week over a month later that shitty luck has lovingly penciled in as “wreck Peter’s entire body and spirit”, and Peter’s swinging on fumes, post-shift, and it’s not his fight. It's handled. But it’s John.

Peter had, at some point during his mental illness of too much daydreaming, graciously allowed himself to think of them all on a first-name basis. And he does this not because John’s friend material or anything, Peter doubts it, but he was there. In that room. On that couch. When Peter was there but wasn’t.

And, listen, John would’ve been alright without Peter’s help. He looks sturdy, knows how to fall, and certainly floats. But Peter sees the angle, the way his head’s gonna hit the edge of the ferry dock if he lands wrong, and he’s already moving before he can logic himself out of it. Some reasonable part of his brain does the math to convince him otherwise: velocity, trajectory, and all lights are green on "not fatal." But the rest of Peter just screams mine, which is so fucking off base here, and flings his underslept, daft carcass into it.

Two seconds later, John’s not wet, but Peter sure as fuck is. He hits the water badly, gets dragged by the current harder than expected, and ends up coughing up half the Hudson.

Later, Peter doesn’t run straight away. He’s just that level of unwell and missing them where watching people he doesn’t know from afar scratches the same itch as being loved. He lets a paramedic who looks approximately twelve wrap a dollar-store blanket around him. He should be leaving, for real, but it’s an excuse to linger. 

Bucky comes over. 

Arms for days, jaw for sins, and that calm face that occasionally makes guest appearances in Peter’s depression naps and stars in 73% of Peter’s sweaty, borderline-hallucinatory insomnia since the polite offer to stay for frozen pizza. 

Bucky walks as if he’s just passing through, swings to him at the last second, hands in pockets of his jacket, and Peter’s teeth instantly try to rattle out of his head with so many things he wants to tell him.

“He would’ve been fine,” Bucky looks down on him.

“I know,” Peter bites down on a shiver that still sneaks out as a twitch. He does know. He fucking knows, okay? Doesn’t mean he could’ve let it happen and doesn’t mean he’s not attached just because they aren't aware he’s attached.

Then there’s a gust of wind straight from Satan’s asscrack, and Peter's whole skeleton tries to snap shut like a bear trap. 

Bucky adjusts, makes one nothing of a step, but it blocks the wind, puts his body in its path, and makes a Peter-sized pocket of less draft under his shadow.

Peter can’t bring himself to say anything, but Bucky looks as if he might.

Peter almost expects an invitation he could decline with full fake confidence. (“Hey, come by sometime,” and then Peter could smile and say, “Nah, I’m good.”) But no invitation comes. 

John calls for Bucky, and Bucky glances that way. Nods at Peter.

“Take care of yourself out there,” he says instead of a goodbye.

“Always do,” Peter nods too, and then Bucky walks off.

Peter doesn’t stalk them; he’s still not getting ideas.

It’s just that New York constantly throws itself into peril, so if Peter happens to be in the vicinity when a minor bridge explosion or a medium alien probe goes down, and if the team shows up—well. Coincidence. Cosmic alignment. Fate. 

But not stalking, he's not crazy. He only stopped avoiding them on purpose and is not seeking them out.

It’s little by little. That’s how it goes. 

Yelena climbs on his back and yells “Mush!” in his ear when an electronic store sale gets doused with some kind of agro agent. She smells of bubblegum and zero fear. 

When they land, she hops off, gives him a casual “Thanks for the ride, Bug,” sticks a gas mask on, and runs off to punch someone in the face.

Peter’s slightly terrified of her, and too impressed, she’s baseline. 

Peter helps her dad clear debris and gets rewarded with the most awkward high-five of his life, which is followed by a grip on his shoulder and a booming “You are very small but effective, like potato gun!” (Peter has no idea how to take that, but suspects he’s just been knighted by a Slavic linebacker.)

Ava tosses him a stolen Coke a few weeks later after they helped break up a riot. 

Peter watches her jack it from a cart, making direct eye contact with the vendor. He cracks it open anyway because hydration is hydration, but then doubles back and slips a crumpled five into the guy’s tip jar.

He tends to gravitate to Bucky more when they cross paths. 

Sometimes he and Bucky exchange words. Not many. Mostly it’s just “Nice job,” or “Duck” (from Peter). Once it’s “You good?” and Peter says “Yeah,” because what the hell else is he gonna say? Truth? No.

“I graduated college yesterday,” Peter tells him one day. Online college, but legit, and they emailed Peter a PNG of his diploma. He has to wait on a physical copy now, and there was no ceremony or anything, but it’s not nothing.

“You should celebrate,” Bucky suggests, ripping the door off a car to use it as a shield.

“I will,” Peter promises, dodges a few bullets, and on the way home buys himself a cake with way too much frosting, ending up eating it alone while watching Shrek 2.

Another few months in (same city, different fire), Peter sidles up next to him, blood drying on his sleeve, his elbow busted, and shares again, “Got a new job. You know, in addition to—”

Bucky doesn’t dismiss some random Neighbourhood helper, but pats him once on the back, says “Don’t work too hard,” and still doesn’t ask what his name is.

The pharmacy job wasn’t part of the grand plan. But hey, Peter’s biochem degree is still a biochem degree, even if it came courtesy of NightCram Online U with a side of “You have one unread message from your debt collector.” And this pharmacy tech gig is not bad. Pays better than slinging fast food, and there aren’t customers throwing soup and not a single toddler has tried to bite him in weeks. It’s clean, there’s a fridge full of insulin, and his boss is a 5'2" lesbian in her fifties with a lanyard that says "Don’t fuck with me, I count pills for a living."

It’s not that it’s hard, just a shitload of responsibility. Peter isn’t out here performing surgeries or saving Manhattan (today), but he is verifying dosages that could turn some grandma’s blood into applesauce if he types a zero in the wrong place. So. Pressure. But manageable pressure.

His schedule’s closing shifts when he starts. Evening hours. People trickle in looking for wart cream and unprescribed clarity. 

Peter zones out a lot while sorting blister packs and scanning barcodes, his hands working while his brain taps out and goes on vacation to Fantasyland, population: Mr. Badass Bucky Barnes. 

For example, Bucky walking in to buy a hot water bottle. For his shoulder maybe. Or something vaguely old-man sexy. Epsom salts? Though he doesn’t look old (just war-hardened, metal-armed, and inexplicably moisturized) but everyone enjoys a nice bath unless they’re a psychopath or a man from Ohio.

It’s a dumb fantasy, but it’s free, and rent’s not, so. 

Peter leans against the counter, still trying to figure out if he can get buzzed from Lysol fumes, spacing out to the dulcet tones of Smooth Jazz Vol. 3 playing overhead while daydreaming that Bucky’s wearing those dark jeans Peter saw him in once, and damp-from-the-rain hair. He squints at the shelf, frowns at the back of a Benadryl box, and then—yes, let's go—his eyes land on Peter.

Fantasy Bucky always does a double-take. Oh wow, is that you? You look—good. Which, thank you, Peter does. Not amazing, not glowing, but better. Fewer jobs, less hours, he can afford cheese now. He’s stopped skipping breakfast. 

Fantasy Bucky flirts, too. Says, “Nice lab coat. Can you still wear it when savin’ a guy from a collapsin’ buildin’?” And Peter would smirk. Shrug. Pretends to check the price on a bottle of ibuprofen he’s holding while his whole face lights up and he, of course, blushes.

He bags Bucky’s purchase, hands it over, fingers brush, it’s electric; Bucky’s gay in this fantasy too, and single and wants to mingle, and mingle he does, by winking. Peter says, “See you around,” and then Bucky actually comes back before Peter has to double-check what aisle condoms are in. And maybe Bucky asks if he wants to get a coffee. And maybe they get tacos instead. Maybe they talk. Maybe Peter tells him his real name without Bucky having to pry it out of him. Maybe Bucky tells Peter it suits him.

Anyway. That doesn’t happen.

What happens is Peter stands behind the counter, scanning Viagra samples into inventory, and biting back a sigh every time someone demands to speak to a ‘grown-up’ pharmacist because they Googled their symptoms and now think this gross rash is Ebola. 

Daydreams, right? It helps a bit. Distracts Peter. 

He copes.

He has real stuff too. He’s got acquaintances. 

A guy from the deli down the street who calls him “kiddo”, which Peter could do without, and a girl from Starbucks next door who adds an extra pump of vanilla into his coffee free of charge on the days he splurges. 

On his twenty-second birthday, the pharmacy staff gives him a card. It’s one of those cheesy “You’re Amazing!” ones with a winking cartoon pill on the front. There are muffins too. His co-workers spring for virgin mojitos because they know he doesn’t drink. 

When it happens, Peter thinks he’s finally snapped. Gone full Joker, lost his final marble, brain-to-rot pipeline complete, the works. 

He’s standing there behind the pharmacy counter trying to explain, for the third time, that no, sir, you can’t buy OxyContin without a prescription, when two very familiar shapes appear behind the guy's enormous shoulders.

Bucky and Yelena. Here. Nothing is on fire, and they are at Peter’s workplace after Peter manifested them via delusion. He startles.

“We need your help,” Bucky leads with that, just as Yelena, holding a dented Venus pack from the discount bin, asks, “Hey, is this razor with soap any good?”

For a second Peter wonders if maybe they are here for the razors. Coincidence. It’s not impossible that Bucky needs help picking out loofahs, or he’s not a fan of growing out his leg hair and needs a gentle exfoliation moment. Who knows. Life’s weird. Peter’s weirder. Wait. The razor’s probably for her.

Bucky turns to Yelena with the most unimpressed expression Peter’s ever seen on a human face and mutters, “Put that fuckin’ thing down,” before yanking it out of her hand and dropping it on the counter.

Peter reaches for the pack on autopilot and grabs the scanner because he’s a normal person doing a normal retail transaction. Beep. 

Bucky gives him a single look. A look-look. And no, they're not here for the soap-stripped shaving experience that won’t leave razor burns.

“How do you—” Peter frowns, knowing for a fact he did not tell Bucky where he works, eyes darting toward his boss, who’s sitting on a stool by the fridge, obsessively refreshing the eBay app. Her auction for that ugly-ass hand-knitted scarf is about to close, and she still hasn’t gotten a single bid. Peter was going to throw in ten bucks if nobody else did. That thing deserves a home. Even if it's the back of a drawer.

“Bob,” Bucky and Yelena say in weird, culty unison.

“Bob’s in trouble?” Peter doesn’t know Bob that well. Bob doesn’t show up when shit hits the fan. Come to think of it, he hasn’t seen Bob and cannot speak to his general existence. For all Peter knows, aside from some news articles earlier on about him being on the team, Bob is an imaginary friend Bucky and Yelena invented so they wouldn’t have to say “code red” in front of strangers and use it to lie about someone ‘cooking’ frozen pizza.

“No,” Bucky scowls. Rubs his face as if this entire interaction is giving him a headache, and then jerks his chin toward the exit. “So? You comin’?”

They don’t want Peter for Spider-Man and instead bring him into the high-tech lab at the Tower, with Ava in the center of it, stuck inside a containment box made of glass. Except she’s not exactly in it, not all the way, phasing and flickering in and out, feet not connecting to the floor, and there’s this hum, air being sliced in half, her edges blurring as if she’s being badly photoshopped in real time.

She tries to say something. Her voice is all garbled, and she grabs for the chair in the box she’s in, presumably to throw it, but her fingers go right through it.

Peter stops breathing for a second.

There’s John too, looking all tense and standing way too straight, and Alexei’s pacing like a dad waiting for a birth announcement, mumbling something in Russian and then there’s Bob, he’s real and he’s holding a tray with some kinda translucent... lemonade? Sparkle water? Ectoplasm with a citrus twist? There are lemon slices floating in it, and he waves at Peter all cheery and immediately endearing, almost drops the tray, recovers, and nods as if he meant to do that.

“Yeah, alright,” Peter mutters, squinting hard.

They motion him toward a terminal. 

Yelena gestures at it with “Go nuts,” and Peter sits, keyboard’s smoother than anything he’s touched in years.

“How did you know?” he asks again, eyes locked on the data scrolling too fast. It’s not public knowledge that Peter is a bit techy.

“Bob,” they all say at once, Bob excluded.

A quiet ripple of laughter passes through the room despite the mood. 

Peter glances up. Bob gives a tiny, bashful shrug. And another wave. And almost drops the tray again. 

Peter pulls up schematics. He doesn’t know what he’s looking at, knee-deep in code spaghetti and quantum-level fuckery. It’s complicated, something about stabilizers and metaphysical butt plugs (no, he misread that one). But it’s also... familiar, he’s just rusty. So out of practice. They have to have better people for this, with salaries, regular sleep schedules and dental plans. 

People start to circle behind him. Watching. Breathing a bit too loud. Itchy pressure builds between his shoulder blades, and there’s a lot of expectation. You fuck this up, you don’t get to come back. It’s Ava, Peter won’t fuck this up.

“Give him some fuckin’ space,” Bucky snaps, and they all shuffle back a step. Reluctantly.

“I don’t mind,” Peter says quietly. He rests his fingertips on the edge of the terminal and swallows. “I think... I think this is where Mr. Stark’s lab used to be. I need tools? To fix it? Where is her—”

Bucky hands him a crate with too many things in it, none labeled. 

He fixes it. Because he’s Peter, and this is what he does, right? Crawls out of obscurity, fixes things unless he breaks them, and then slinks out the back door before anyone remembers to clap.

He doesn’t know how. Half the tech was beyond what he should be able to fix, but he just… worked. Muscle memory kicked in hard, that weird switch flipped, and suddenly he knew what he was doing. It was intense. A little bit nice, actually, if you’re into panic-coded science montages. Ava stabilized. Her body clicked back into the right frequency, the hum died down and the light steadied.

After… Peter is on their couch. Their actual couch. In their actual living room. Not the fantasy version, which in his head is a mix of cozy lighting, fuzzy socks, laughter, and Bucky’s arm around him, while someone roasts marshmallows over a tactical flamethrower.

No. This one’s stiffer. Not uncomfortable. Just… not as warm as it looked from the outside.

They’re relieved, he is too, but there’s this thing in the room, a draft made of awkwardness, and Peter’s skin doesn’t know if it should relax or crawl off his skeleton. So he just sits there, hands around a mug of something hot and lemon-scented.

Then Bob speaks.

“Sorry,” he says, sounding genuine, fiddling with the edge of his t-shirt. “Wasn’t on purpose. It just happens sometimes, and you were out of it when Bucky brought you in. Dreaming.”

Okay. So they knew.

Who he was. What he did. 

“I should go,” Peter puts the mug down on the coffee table and stands, no one stopping him by telling him to “Wait” or “Stay” or “Hey, maybe dinner first? Then go?”

No pity Dorito is offered for the road, either.

“Hey, Bug, wait up!” Yelena screams after him.

She jogs to catch up, hoodie flapping, boots way too loud for someone with assassin training, and skids to a stop next to him.

“I was you,” Yelena says quickly and with no preamble. “I was you, okay? We were all you at some point. We get it. But you gotta—”

A woman passing by gasps as if she’s just spotted a Kardashian shoplifting a kitten, and Peter doesn’t get to find out what he’s gotta do to make it stop.

“Oh my God—Yelena? Are you Yelena Belova?!”

Yelena’s face tightens. For a second, it looks like she might throw the woman into traffic, but her PR training seems to win out, and she sighs.

“Sure,” she mutters. Then louder, with that thick accent: “Fuck it. A quick one.”

Peter dips while she’s taking that selfie.

Alexei shows up at Peter’s apartment. He appears at the door with a full plastic bag from the corner liquor store and asks, “Is good luck to drink Tuesday, yes?”

It’s Saturday.

Peter doesn’t correct him. He’s too busy trying to figure out how he managed to slip past the building’s “security system,” which consists of a half-broken buzzer, one dead camera, and a pigeon with severe burnout.

Alexei talks. Endlessly. About “Natashka” this and “sweet tiny angry fists” that and a bear wrestling story that might be a metaphor but also, disturbingly, might not. 

He drinks half the bottle of Smirnoff, leaves Peter the other half as a consolation prize, and then fucks off without explaining.

John rolls up in a hoodie and baseball cap, and also doesn’t explain why he’s waiting by Peter’s building, but shakes his hand, keeps walking next to him as Peter heads for the bus, and for no reason starts showing him photos of his kid on a phone with a broken screen.

“This one’s from last Halloween. A panda.”

“That's a possum.”

“Is it? Fuck, it is a possum,” John seems amazed, and just as Peter’s about to ask what it is that he needs to do, John slaps his shoulder and leaves.

Ava never shows up at the apartment. 

Instead, she materializes right at the end of Peter’s shift when he’s been vertical for six hours and his spine is making Rice Krispies sounds. Pops up in aisle four, holding a box of tampons, and demands, “Can I get some assistance, please?”

Within ten minutes, there is a line of increasingly pissed-off customers behind her as she keeps going.

“Explain to me,” she taps her finger on the box, “why there are forty-seven kinds of these. What is the difference between a sport tampon and a regular one? Is it training for something? Are there competitive leagues?”

She’s kind of funny, and Peter gets it, sort of. 

He sees what they’re trying to do here. Showing up. Hovering. Being loud. Caring. But the line grows, and he doesn’t know how they got where they are. And why he can’t.

Bucky’s the last one to show. Fashionably late.

It’s uncomfortable. Now it is.

Bucky walks around his apartment, picks up a photo frame that's lying face-down (Aunt May, frozen mid-laugh), touches a fraying throw blanket draped across Peter’s chair, shakes his head when Peter offers him water, and doesn’t drop the wisdom Peter’s waiting on.

“Complete shot in the dark here, but are you into guys at all?” Peter asks when it looks like Bucky regrets coming over. Blurts, actually. It falls out of him faster than a brick through a window. 

He didn’t think he’d ever have the stones for this, but here we are, and Bucky… doesn’t laugh or leave.

He steps closer to him. Big and tall, and he looks down at Peter, then looks away for a second, then back again. Licks his lips, waits it out too long, but eventually answers, “Yeah.”

There’s bodies. Caught breath. All the good, stupid, horny things in the making. Clothes still on, but the tension’s fully naked. Bucky’s all heat and man, his heavy boots step into it, bends over to presumably kiss Peter, slow, thoughtful almost, giving him a chance to pull back, maybe he even means it, and…Peter turns his head.

He doesn’t know why. Just does. Reflex. Something buckles in his chest and a shoelace that’s been knotted up in his ribs, too tangled to pull loose mid-makeout, snaps inside it. 

It doesn’t stop there, though Bucky frowns, and Peter puts his hands on Bucky’s shoulders to keep him from going.

“Here,” he exposes his neck to him, and when Bucky leans down to drag his mouth over it, it’s… good. God, it’s so good, especially when Bucky’s large palms squeeze his ass, lifting Peter to his tiptoes, and he mutters, “That’s a very tight suit, doll.”

Their hips grind as Peter sticks his nose into Bucky’s chest, and he just ruts forward, ruts up, so warm, and for a moment there he might go through with it, but then imagines it, all of it.

Imagines that Bucky does him on his bed, face-down, like that photo. He’s got a large dick, Peter can feel it through his pants already, he probably knows what to do with it. Objectively. Logically. Good. He’d fuck Peter at the right pace after quickly fingering him open, and it would feel the way it should, physically, it would. He’d come after Bucky groans; he’d like the way Bucky’s front presses to his back and how Bucky’s thighs bracket his legs. It would be hot. But also… shit. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.

Peter can already see himself lying there after, sweaty and spent and hollowed out in a way that doesn’t feel great. He’ll flinch when Bucky tries to pull him in to hold him after, he knows he will. He—

“You don’t want to do this,” Bucky pulls back and straightens up.

He doesn’t look that disappointed.

“Sorry, I can’t,” Peter admits, and feels even worse after Bucky kisses him on top of his head, runs a hand down his back, and leaves, but not before saying, “You should talk to Bob.”

They stop visiting. 

There’s an explosion the size of a city block. No one dies, thankfully, thanks to Peter doing the thing again, risking organ damage to save morons who don’t understand the words “mandatory evacuation,” and then the new Captain America gives him a salute. 

It’s a palm-to-brow, camera-friendly, military-grade acknowledgment of service as Peter’s left ribs rattle again, and he has to physically stop himself from barking out a laugh when Mr. Wilson says, “We could use someone like you.”

Yeah? You got dental? 

It’s a no from Peter regardless.

The next week, Peter’s boss at the pharmacy gives him a pay raise.

“You’re good at what you do,” she says after his first review, and a bump on his check means he can afford branded cereal again. Frosted Flakes, not Sweet Corn Squares. Exciting. He buys two boxes.

Peter doesn’t go back to the Thunderbolts. They’re officially that now. Suits. Badges. There’s a red-and-black logo that looks like the kind of thing a startup crypto scam would slap on its website before disappearing with your retirement fund. There’s also still a copyright lawsuit on the news every other week, which is hysterical if Peter really thinks about it. Anyway, it’s not his drama.

He sees them sometimes, hard not to when you’re in the same line of business. Yelena tries to wave him down once, and calls out “Bug!” with a tone that’s one-third teasing, two-thirds “you dumbass, get your ass in here”, but Peter shakes his head and swings away. No one else tries again after that.

He thinks about Bucky a fair amount. 

About how it could’ve been more. 

Peter questions it now, wonders if Bucky would've held him after. Really held him. Arms-around-torso, forehead-to-neck, hush-baby-it’s-okay. Or if Peter just made that up, another fantasy to keep warm with when the heat's off. They're not anything, and Peter’s still too surprised it was a “Yeah.” And “Yeah” directed at Peter, nonetheless.

The anniversary comes. Peter doesn’t go to the grave. He does walk past the deli where May used to buy scratch-offs, and then throws up in the alley behind a Jamba Juice and tells himself it’s because of a bad smoothie.

The next month, it’s Mr. Stark.

There’s no grave to not visit nearby, just a monument that tourists take more selfies in front of. Peter stays home, skips dinner initially, but then microwaves a burrito until it explodes in the middle, and he eats it anyway. 

He burns holes in his phone and watches the seconds tick by until it’s technically tomorrow. It’s not insane, he only starts about eight minutes before midnight.

Alexei gets shot in the face. On a livestream interview that Peter sneakily watches with subtitles under a counter at work, volume off. Shot in the face. The feed goes black, chat explodes, someone types “FFFFF” in all caps, and Peter’s heart forgets how to beat.

He books it to the Tower after a stream of panicked lies about a family member getting into an accident. Not in the front door, obviously, and he swings in from the top and lands on their balcony. 

They aren’t home. 

Peter paces, does a stress-zoom in a six-foot circle, sits on the railing, hangs from it upside-down. Right-side-up. Again. Lather, rinse, unhinge.

"He's fine," Peter lies to himself. "He’s a tank, a human refrigerator with fists. He can survive a bullet."

Peter will kill God if he dies.

Then, all at once, they show up. 

There’s a sudden whoosh of bodies and boots and light and air displacement, and Peter startles so hard he almost swings backward off the rail. 

Ava’s the one who spots him, opens the balcony door without saying anything, and walks away to the couch, dropping onto it.

"I got shot in the face!" Alexei beams. There’s a bandage on the side of his head, and he’s holding a juice box. Strawberry kiwi. Gross.

They settle in. Sort of. They’re chatting. Eating. A lot of crisp packets are being tossed around. Casual post-whatever-it-was snacking. 

Nobody smothers Peter, invites him in, tells him to sit down, and nobody asks why he’s still standing just outside the balcony threshold for at least a few minutes. But Peter can see it—in the sideways glances, the careful not-looking. 

Don’t spook the Bug, he can almost hear Yelena whispering.

He doesn’t know why now, cross his heart, but he peels his mask off. Sweaty as hell underneath, his hair sticking to his forehead, and he puts it on the counter of the bar when he walks over to Bob.

Bob, who is already halfway through hacking up an orange. Glasses are ready. Seven glasses.

“Is it forgiveness?” Peter asks him softly, as quiet as humanly possible in a room where half the people could hear him fart from Queens. “Am I supposed to forgive myself?”

“Wasn’t your fault,” Bob slides over a second knife and another orange. “And was. Could you?”

Peter tried. Oh, he tried. He wanted to. Really, really tried to sit with it, rationalize it, reframe it, write the letter, burn the letter, and journal the guilt away. But there’s no journaling it away. He’s had years to find some other reason, but, no, it was him who brought the danger home.

Peter can’t. He doesn’t say it, but he doesn’t seem to have to.

“Then don’t.”

What—

That’s it? That’s the advice? Are you kidding him?

“It comes and goes,” Bob shrugs, looking dead serious while chewing the corner of an orange slice, as Peter looks up from the knife he hasn’t touched and then at them, comeback-free. Sarcasm is his third language, after English and ‘Oh God I’m So Sorry’, but—

Yelena’s laughing, and her head’s thrown back, boots muddy and unapologetically on the table. She’s wearing a hoodie with more cat hair than fabric. Alexei takes up three cushions and—huh—has already opened a beer without anyone noticing, Peter included, and he’s at the bar. 

Armageddon. 

They are arguing about Armageddon as John, with his sleeves rolled up, seems to be Googling the list of plot holes. There is a graham cracker in his mouth while Ava’s curling into herself next to Yelena, and Bucky’s in the chair closest to the window, backlit and with elbows on his knees, metal hand flexing. When Peter focuses on him, Bucky quickly turns to Alexei.

“What, just—” Peter gestures at them.

“They’ll let you pick the movie.” Bob elbows him in the side, takes Peter’s orange, and starts slicing it too.

Peter doesn’t just wake up one morning, roll over, and find a bowl of candy third-wheeling it between him and a—ugh, no—shirtless Alexei while Yelena spoons him like he’s the world’s most convenient little spoon. (That’s week six, they don’t talk about it, it wasn’t a bed. Shit happens when your… people own lawless couch cushions.)

But Peter keeps showing up. For reasons. Various reasons.

First, it’s one night. Pizza. The end. The very burned end, you can fuck up a frozen pizza. 

Then it’s two, but the second one is because someone, cough, Yelena, ‘forgot’ her phone on his person and he had to return it. 

Then three. Four. Seven. 

Then Peter’s got a guest room with a drawer. Not that he asked for one. It just… appeared. He opens that drawer and there’s a pair of new pink sweatpants with a stitched sticker on the inside that says “property of Bug.” Horrifying. He doesn’t wear them outside the room, but, fuck, he needs about twenty more. Optimal comfort level.

They dote on him. It’s weird and sweet. Yelena pinches his cheeks. Like, physically pinches them, hard, while cooing. 

She says things like, “Look at this soft American boy,” and Peter threatens her with arson every time but keeps showing up for it. 

John starts calling him kid, and Peter doesn’t object to it because John doesn’t say it mean and isn’t aware of the history there. He just says it because he misses saying it, and Peter’s a sucker for that shit.

Peter makes backups for Ava. Slips a redundancy system into her kit and pretends it’s always been there. Hacker Santa. She doesn’t say thank you, but the next time she sees him, she calls him a nerd. Peter takes it (she’s the one to talk to, honestly) and runs. Figuratively.

Alexei cries once. Because of a commercial about dogs wearing boots? Peter doesn’t know, he’s half-asleep, but he gives him a hug anyway. Chest-to-barrel-chest, solid-squeeze, rib-cracking man-hug. 

A few days later, Bob says “It goes” instead of “good” when Peter asks how he’s doing, and it’s so fucking sad and un-Bob that Peter hugs him too. Because, well. He’s around. All the time now. So. 

For a group that killed so many people, they hug a lot. Aggressively. They tell him why about a week after Bob locks himself in the bathroom and doesn’t come out until Bucky rips the door off its hinges.

They’re not happy. 

But they pretend to be, obnoxiously loudly. They crack jokes like heads and watch the same shitty Fast & Furious sequel six times in a row just because it’s too fun not to. 

They make it safe to pretend to be alright without feeling too guilty about it. Fake-it-til-you-die works, somehow, so Peter slots right in. Smiles when they smile. Laughs when they do. Sometimes he beats them to it, and they laugh with him.

It’s better. God, it’s so much better.

Better than the silence of his apartment and better than sitting alone in his stiff pharmacy chair eyeing a can of dented Monster and trying to manifest serotonin through osmosis, having been forgotten by the concept of joy and coping through daydreaming.

They don’t fix him, but they patch him up with stupid nicknames and leftovers and touches. 

"Hey, Pete, eat this or I’ll stab you."

He can’t believe his luck.

Bucky’s not in charge. But is. It’s confusing. No one officially says “Sergeant Barnes” or salutes or anything that would require a clipboard or pants with drawstrings, but when Bucky says “go,” people fucking go.

Peter assumes Yelena is technically the boss, but then she does the thing Bucky tells her to do without rolling her eyes. 

John acts like he’s not taking orders, and this is all just a cool suggestion from a buddy, but he still moves his feet the second Bucky tells him to.

(Bob salutes once, but it’s unclear if it’s a bit or if Bob was just holding a banana wrong.)

Somewhere along the line, Bucky starts doing something unhinged: he starts listening to Peter.

Not right away, not with a dramatic "What do you think, Spider-Man?" in the middle of a meeting. But slowly. 

It’s just a pause initially, and Peter’s not even going with them, he’s not a part of the team. But Bucky’s head turns to him, and Peter says, “Actually, if you reroute the magnetic field to destabilize the hull from the inside, it’ll pancake itself, so you can skip the guards,” and suddenly that’s the plan. 

No one argues or tells him to shut the fuck up. Bucky nods.

It’s... flattering. 

And a lot horny, unfortunately.

Bucky’s thing—the Bucky thing—is complicated.

When Peter falls asleep on the Tower couch and wakes up with a blanket on his chest and his head in Bucky’s lap, he doesn’t say a word, too afraid to move.

It’s more touches after that couch moment. 

Bucky holds his elbow when talking. 

Brushes by him in a room with miles of empty space. 

One day, they're walking—post-mission Peter did join, post-explosion, post-Peter-getting-punched—and Bucky swings an arm over his shoulders.

Yelena slips out this very embarrassing "Aaaaaaaa," and points a finger. 

There are not a lot of will-they-won’t-they vibes Peter is aware of, but he reckons he’s ready for it to collapse into will-they-soon-and-they’re-surely-already-fucking. 

John whistles when he notices. Bob grins. Alexei mutters something that might be “knew it.” Peter’s face catches fire.

Bucky leans in more. Puts his chin on Peter’s head, and they are still walking, it’s not that comfortable, and Peter—disaster, tax write-off of a human, melted candle at this point—smells Bucky’s cologne, some gunpowder in that moment, and a lot of feelings.

By now Peter wants to kiss him so bad it makes his teeth ache and gives him a vitamin deficiency. Peter can’t even look at his mouth anymore without going full idiot.

He tries to bring it up once.

Everyone’s passed out or in their rooms, but Bucky’s sitting on the balcony, beer in hand, legs spread, and Peter comes out, sits next to him, starts to say, “So, uh,” but then he makes eye contact, and the words evaporate.

He ends up saying, “Cool breeze tonight,” and Bucky hums as if he just spit out something profound.

He dreams about Bucky’s arms around him and wakes up in a panic. He sits three feet away from him on the couch and imagines leaning over and curling up next to him the way Ava curls up to Yelena, though Peter doubts they are fucking.

Bucky knows. How could he not? Peter stares too long, laughs too loud at Bucky’s jokes. 

Maybe. 

Maybe-but-who-knows-actually, yeah. 

Right? 

Maybe Bucky wants to. Whatever that was. What they didn’t-quite-do in his apartment, that night when Peter turned his head and mumbled “Sorry” to the single hottest, potentially most meaningful moment he’s ever cockblocked himself out of.

Bucky hovers, there’s no denying that. Bucky’s hands land heavy on his back, or lower. Not ass-grab lower, just… lower. The small of Peter’s back. Softcore shoulder pats.

Other times Peter thinks… maybe not. Fantasy brain strikes again. 

He could’ve made it up. That whole moment. The near-kiss. Those hands on his hips, the feel of Bucky getting rapidly hard in his jeans and his mouth on Peter’s neck. The “Yeah” Bucky said. Far-fetched. (He’s Bucky Barnes. He’s been alive longer than anyone else Peter knows. He’s seen things. He’s done things. And Peter is… a sentient energy drink who didn’t grow up right by comparison. It’s experience, it’s—)

Bucky’s older. He’s more together about everything than Peter will ever be. Bucky’s what Peter wants to be when he grows up, assuming Peter ever grows up right and doesn’t just die in awful pink sweatpants from too many feelings.

It seems impossible, almost. Bucky and Peter.

There is a high probability he’s seeing Peter as his younger brother, just like the rest of them. (Bob is always hip-checking Peter when they walk. John is constantly throwing elbows, but he’s allergic to personal space on principle and calls it a communist hoax. Yelena sits on Peter’s lap to steal popcorn, calls him “Scrawny,” and refuses to move for thirty minutes while singing off-key to Mamma Mia. Torture, by the way.)

This is just how they are. Tactile. Alarmingly affectionate. Very inappropriate by Midtown High standards, but so comforting.

It’s just—sometimes Bucky touches him differently? 

Peter swears it’s different. 

His fingers graze Peter’s ribs when checking a bandage. They linger, as if he’s thinking about those ribs in other contexts. 

Bucky often tucks a loose curl behind Peter’s ear while still frowning at the coffee machine that’s too slow at producing gallons of coffee they all consume. It feels charged. Right? Not just team camaraderie? Or it’s nothing but wishful thinking, because, let’s face it, Peter’d moan if someone adjusted his hoodie string with clear, unconfusing intent and some eye contact.

They’re just always in each other’s space. It's so hard to tell. 

(John lounges with his legs over everyone like he’s the resident Roman emperor of movie night. Yelena treats physical affection like a contact sport. She’s gotten into a habit of waiting for Peter to pass her bedroom door on the nights he stays over, then jumping on his back because she’s too sleepy to walk to the kitchen. Which: you’ve got your own legs, you basket case. But also, by the time they get there, they’re both laughing, and he adores that occasional slap on his ass and her yelling “Giddy-up.”)

It’s normal for them. Demented, but normal. Not sexual, but familiar. So familiar. Tower’s love language.

So maybe (maybe, maybe, maybe) that’s all Bucky is doing. Being familiar. Being tactile. Being a team player who isn’t afraid of closeness because he’s worked through some of his issues and general grumpiness (though there’s still a lot of that) via group therapy in the shape of this. And Peter’s just pathetic enough to interpret “Hey, Pete,” and him smiling at Peter when he sees him, as romantic subtext.

God, Peter wants it so much. He wants to tuck himself under Bucky’s chin, wants that again, that was everything, and have someone not make fun of them, no matter how good-naturedly, but be grossed out by how cute they are. He wants to fall asleep on the couch knowing it will be Bucky specifically pulling a blanket over him, who doesn’t just walk away afterward but settles down to watch him sleep.

It’s difficult. To not interpret every shoulder touch like a fucking marriage proposal. Peter's built for delusion. He’s running a full fantasy MLM out of his frontal lobe, but most of the time, Peter just thinks… he had his shot.

And he blew it.

Bucky’s just—nice, but not chasing him (not that there was chasing). 

Peter can't exactly go, “Hey, sorry I flinched when you tried to kiss me. I was just too scared that I didn’t want you for you at all, and I wanted your family instead, and thought I didn’t deserve either. Not that I’m, like, 100% sold on deserving it now, but I do want you for you? Now I know for sure I do want you for you? Please.”

A frozen pipe ends up being an excuse to move out and… move the fuck in. Officially. Domestically. Seventy-four days after they let Peter pick a movie.

Peter’s eating week-old rigatoni (don’t judge him, it’s fine, he microwaved it twice, and did a sniff test) when his Spidey Sense warns him about that special brand of doom that only happens when someone upstairs decides to test your will to live through household maintenance. 

There is a violent crack, followed by something that can only be described as Poseidon's piss-pressure firehose making love to the ceiling. He yanks his headphones off—you have to when the ceiling screams—and, sure enough.

Peter does the normal thing. He tells the landlord, leaves five voicemails. Then a sixth, where he impulsively warns him, “Your building is pre-collapsing, bro,” and hangs up. Fucking useless.

By the next morning, there’s already mold forming on the hallway wall. Upstairs guy with a burst pipe (holy fuck, his name is Kyle) has moved out, likely to higher ground, and building management sends a single “We’ll look into it” email three days after that.

When the issue still isn’t fixed by rent day, Peter packs a bag. 

It takes less than fifteen minutes. He owns six t-shirts, a photo frame, his suit, himself, a ramen-stained hoodie, and a vibrating toothbrush with half the bristles missing, though there’s a better one at the Tower. That’s where he heads. Because it’s closer to work (true), has structurally sound ceilings (critical), and, oh yeah, is stupid tall and might as well be a swing set for grown-ass superheroes, so, like, fun to jump off. Excellent rooftop physics. Great views. Decent airflow.

No deal of any kind, big or otherwise, is made when he shows up with his things, except John smirks with, “Finally” and turns to Alexei to say “Pay up” as if they had a bet going. 

That’s about it. 

That evening, Bob issues him a fuzzy blanket and a mug with something warm.

No one says “welcome.” But also, no one tells Peter to leave, so he feels welcome anyway.

Bucky, for his part, gets up not long after Peter sits beside him, and he walks across the room to make a phone call, which Peter doesn’t overanalyze while pretending to sip his maybe-Gatorade.

“Val,” Yelena shrugs, flopping into Bucky’s abandoned spot and stealing half the blanket and most of the warmth. “Don’t worry about it.”

Peter doesn’t. He’s just… renting. For now. Without paying rent. 

“I’m not paying rent,” he feels the need to clarify. “But I’ll keep giving you rides to the kitchen.”

“Damn right you are,” she grumbles, and burrows into his side.

It’s not that different. Crash space turned hey-who-took-my-shower-gel. 

Peter works. He patrols. 

He stress-cleans the stovetop at 2 a.m. because someone exploded spaghetti on it again and refused to admit it. 

He doesn’t join missions unless specifically invited, but that doesn’t stop him from doing a neurotic little swing-by just to count heads and yeet a trash can at someone’s face. He’s already out there.

Peter learns things, too. More of them. All of them. Who hides injuries and who is not being a complete fucking moron about it. For the record, they’re all morons about it. 

John lies with the confidence of a straight man who thinks “it’s just a scratch” is a legally binding diagnosis, Alexei swears bullet holes build character, and Ava vanishes into walls the second the fight’s over if she’s in a bad way, and always needs to be tracked down. Bob’s the only one who doesn’t hide being hurt, but that’s because (1) he can’t be injured and (2) he never goes with them unless someone needs, like, a tactical hug or an uplifting fruit platter.

Peter settles. Quickly. An unassuming moss on a rock, black mold on the inside of their Tower. 

Not bad. 

He gets Yelena proper Venus razors, the good shit with the jelly strip, not from the discount bin, for her Name Day. He looked it up, but he’s late by a whole season. It’s the end of autumn, and Target is already slutting out Christmas decorations, but whatever. She narrows her eyes at the razor as if she’s never been given anything practical under twenty bucks in her life, then punches him in the leg for implying she needs a shave. Peter walks with a dramatic fake limp for the rest of the day, gets an odd side-eye from Ava for presumably not getting something equally ridiculous, and decides it’s kind of nice to have almost-sisters.

His coffee cup lives by the sink. His hoodie disappears and comes back washed and folded. The photo of May is not face-down anymore. It’s propped on the mantle behind the TV, squished next to blurry couch selfies, a group shot where Bob’s mid-sneeze, and some other photos among which she fits right in.

Sometimes Peter helps with recon. Sometimes he cooks. (Not well. But the effort is there in the form of edible pancakes and under-salted soup, though he's been known to make a proper meal.) Sometimes he says goodnight and means it for himself too. Not code for “retreating to dissociate for six hours and doomscroll in a blanket cocoon.” Just goodnight.

He also thinks he might be head-over-heels in love now. Who could’ve seen this coming? Certainly not Peter, except for every multiversal version of Peter in every timeline who would for sure fall for Bucky given half a chance. Duh. He’s just... solid. And steady. And surprisingly good at laundry. Of course Peter’s in love. 

He doesn’t mind it.

Peter’s gotten so good at pretending he’s not falling apart that he’s not falling apart as much anymore. Insane how that works. Fake it ‘til you make it turns out to be less of a joke and more of a trauma-based lifestyle philosophy. The cracks are still there, but they hold. The ache is still there, too, sure, but it doesn’t own him. What’s a little pining to top it off?

Bucky still touches his back when he walks by. Quick. A familiar palm, a brush of fingers. 

It’s not real. It can’t be real. The other side. The Bucky side.

Peter tells himself that all the time. Reality, reality, can't forget reality. There’s no way—no fucking way.

Look. Look. Peter said it before and will say it again. Bucky is a war-forged, ex-assassin, century-old beefcake with abs and boundaries and the quiet patience of a man who’s killed too many people to bother raising his voice anymore. Peter is… Peter. The opposite of all of that. Baby-faced. Loud. Emotionally leaky, and once cried over a laundry detergent.

Bucky moves like discipline in human form. Peter trips over his own shoelaces like a Looney Tunes reject. Bucky listens. Really listens. With those sharp eyes that seem to strip people bare, and Peter's stuck in his own fantasy trap door, feeling too young. Toddler-young. Chasm or, if you must, a full fucking generational canyon. 

And Bucky’s so unreadable. When Bucky smiles, he does it with just the edge of his mouth, being stingy about it. But then he looks at Peter sometimes, soft around the eyes, probing, and it feels like something. Something slow and terrible and scary and good. And then Peter’s brain predictably explodes into oatmeal, because maybe it’s nothing. Maybe it’s pity. Maybe it’s just Peter projecting because he’s codependent and Bucky is Bucky and—

So no. Obviously. Fuck off, heart. Peter’s doing better. Don’t ruin it. Maybe.

Winter passes. Spring passes. 

Peter would die for them ten times over and nearly does once or twice. 

When the summer comes, it’s scorching. New York turns into Satan’s humid taint, and Peter wants to take his skin off and air out the insides. Christ, it’s warm.

And hot. So hot. But that’s because Bucky’s been locked in a deathmatch with the toaster for, like, ten minutes now. Twenty? Peter’s not sure. Time is fake, and his IQ is melting. He’s lost all concept of both watching it, and Bucky’s wearing a shirt that has no right clinging like that, and it’s—

It’s appliance porn with bonus pecs.

The toaster might be winning, and judging by the look on Yelena’s face, who is scrubbing peanut butter from the jar with a knife, she might be thinking that too. 

Peter is perched on the end of the counter, legs swinging. He’s shirtless. Regrettably. (He spilled ice cold water earlier, and it was a whole thing.) He stretches, and the toaster sparks.

Bucky curses. Creatively.

“Should we call time of death?” Peter whispers, wiping sweat off his upper lip that’s definitely not Bucky-related.

“Let him finish.” She shakes her head and licks the knife. Her forehead’s shiny, they’ll all be cooked alive by evening, and the AC is ON. “Men like closure.”

They watch some more, until Bucky stabs the toaster with a screwdriver (it goes all the way through), tosses it in the bin under the counter, and then storms off.

“Is he, ugh… okay?” Peter hops off. “I am gonna check to see if—”

“Leave him,” she catches him by the back of the shorts, the blade too close to his skin. He promptly stops, and she scoops more peanut butter, swipes it across her tongue, pauses, then eyes him with the unblinking calm of a shark circling a seal. “Blue balls.”

“Excuse me?”

“Blue. Balls,” she repeats, enunciating each word. “You are giving him blue balls. So don’t follow unless you’re willing to put out, Bug. He’s fixing dead appliances to avoid thinking about your stupid, coward mouth.” She jumps off the counter too and drops the knife in the sink. It clangs.

“Wh—”

“Cut him loose or climb on top.” Yelena pats him on the head. “Or go shopping, we are out of food.”

The fridge is empty except for condiments, protein powder, one limp scallion doing a Dickensian orphan performance in the crisper, so that’s justification enough to get out for a bit. He’s not running away. It’s an errand. 

Peter takes the reusable Thunderbolts logo tote someone left hanging on the back of a kitchen chair (branding, kill him, but it holds a ton) and leaves on foot through the side access because the street entrance has press and a lady who keeps trying to sell collagen gummies. 

As his luck goes, Peter stops a robbery on the way (accidental, can’t help it) behind the West 54th bodega, and gets stabbed with a rebar a little trying to protect the tote (good canvas, limited edition). But it’s a tiny stab, and he still makes it to the good cilantro and the shop dog that hates everyone except Peter’s left ankle.

Inside, he buys eggs, butter, discount chicken thighs, frozen broccoli, three boxes of mac, ramen bricks for emergencies, Costco-size ibuprofen blister pack (team med restock), tampons sport + super + mystery absorbency (Ava), Venus cartridges (Yelena, bite him), cat litter (Bucky finally named their cat, it’s Alpine), off-brand vitamins (he’s tired), and too many lemons because they are all obsessed with them and consume them like they contain repentance. He also gets two packets of instant yeast because bread therapy is a must.

“Cash or card?” the cashier asks. He gives Peter a paper bag for what didn’t fit in the tote.

“Cash.”

Halfway back he realizes his shoulder is… itchy. That rebar hit wasn’t nothing.

He adjusts the tote to the other side and keeps moving. It’ll close by the time he gets home, and then he’ll ice it when nobody’s looking.

Peter cooks. Kitchen playlist on shuffle: Post Malone into Carly Rae into the Pacific Rim soundtrack when Alexei hijacks the queue. He strips the chicken, marinates in pantry garlic sludge + lemon + something brown he doesn’t smell too hard, sheet-pans broccoli, makes stovetop mac upgraded with three shame slices of processed cheese and a stolen fistful of Bucky’s shredded parmesan (come fight him). Cast-iron sear on chicken. Deglaze with boxed white wine left from “Val stopped by” diplomacy night. 

This is life. Normal-ish. No one is bleeding anymore. 

Yelena breezes through, steals broccoli with quick fingers, bites, “Is under-salted, coward,” pinches his cheek, and leaves. 

Cool cool cool.

Cut him loose or climb on top.

Right.

He can’t stop imagining as he flips chicken, checks internal temps (safety first), and does not wander down the hall to knock on Bucky’s door. 

Because… what then? 

Bucky yanks him in by the waistband and devours him like fresh bread, and Peter becomes the first gay husband to a thirty-something, biologically, man from the forties? Reality says no. Peter will not be the guy who interprets fond shoulder pats as an engraved invitation to ride.

John shows up late for dinner, shirt damp from sweat, says traffic, but he’s been sneaking off to stalk his own family for a while now. They all know. He eyes the mac, scoops an illegal mountain, decides mid-mouthful to start an argument about whether the noodles qualify as “al dente” or “combat mush,” and somehow that becomes a round of huh. 

It’s one comment about Pride, and John isn’t hateful, but he’s ignorant and this train derails into “Would you kiss him?” from Ava pointed at Peter because Peter ran his mouth.

“Sure, I’ll kiss anyone,” and before Peter can nope out, John hooks a finger in Peter’s collar, stage-dips him like it’s prom, and plants one. It’s not open-mouthed, tastes like hot sauce and parmesan dust, and it doesn't make him any less ignorant about why Pride is important. Just... performance for the homies, of sorts. They are not perfect. People.

The room erupts. Yelena cackles. Ava slow-claps. Alexei yells “Get a room” and “Try tongue next time” in close proximity. Bob sprays seltzer.

Bucky leans back in his chair, metal fingers drumming his thigh, gives Peter the smallest side-smirk and huffs a laugh. No murder, jealous glare or slow predator prowl to reclaim territory. Just amused. Friendly-fire banter grade. Peter’s stomach does that drop thing you get on roller coasters built by underfunded carnivals. See? Data received. Heartbreaking.

Peter wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, flips John off for being an idiot, and then goes right back to plating more chicken. If anybody notices how red he is, they blame the stove. Works for him.

He sneaks an ice pack under the counter when no one’s looking; shoulder still trash.

Later, dishes mostly done, lights low, team sprawled in heat-coma piles, Peter sits on the floor with his back to the couch and Bucky’s knee brushing his arm every few minutes. Accidental, maybe. The knee stays when Peter shifts. Doesn’t press harder. Doesn’t pull away. Ambient permission. Non-zero signal. Enough to keep hope on life support but not enough to justify any spontaneous Bucky-climbing. 

Peter turns his head, wants to put his fever-hot forehead to his metal hand, and watches the flicker off the TV reflect in Bucky’s knuckles.

It starts gnawing around midnight. Peter’s whole side pulses, trying to get his attention, it’s still itchy, it’s hot, too sharp when he breathes, and vaguely squishy in a way that feels medically concerning. 

He’s curled like the world’s least sexy shrimp in the bed that creaks every time he exhales too hard and when he peels the bandage off with two fingers, he finds the angry red mess hiding under the gauze he slapped on earlier. It looks worse now. Mad. Inflamed. Maybe infected. Maybe tetanus. Maybe tetanus’s meaner cousin, Stab Fuckery Syndrome.

He considers. Debates. Weighs the pros and cons of gutting it himself vs. letting natural selection win. Would it be unhinged to just... do it? Slice it open and squeeze the evil out? He has the tools—well, a tool. 

Peter gets up, shuffles to the bathroom and carefully pokes the edge of the bandage with the scalpel. Winces. Pulls it back, and sighs a quiet, “No,” admitting defeat, shame and eternal weakness.

Peter throws on the same t-shirt he’s worn three nights in a row, pillow creases still stamped on his cheek, and drags his tail through the hall, his right hand clenching around the scalpel. The other hand holds the hem of his shirt up to keep it away from skin. 

No one else is awake. Bucky is probably awake. Bucky is a big boy. Bucky has a metal arm and steady hands and won’t yell.

He knocks. Three taps. Hesitant. The door swings open. 

Bucky was sleeping, he squints, has bed hair and he’s standing there in low lighting, and yeah—Peter registers the boxer briefs. The thick thighs. The subtle outline of “Oh, damn.” But Peter's in too much pain to ogle. 

“I can’t bring myself to fork out whatever’s stuck in there,” he lifts the scalpel and points it where it hurts.

Bucky vanishes back into his room without a word, and Peter has exactly eleven seconds to not assume he’s being told to beat it, and then Bucky's back, dressed. Sweats. T-shirt. And armed with that calm efficiency that makes Peter want to climb him and spend the rest of his life in the safety of those arms.

“C'mon,” Bucky tells him, already walking toward the kitchen.

There's a fixture above the sink casting a pale glow over the counter. Peter’s shirt off for the second time within twenty-four hours while his ass is occupying the same spot, but this time his own arms are braced behind him. The metal tray is out, it smells of alcohol wipes, and Bucky’s focused in front of him, eye-level with the wound.

“Happy thoughts,” Bucky’s hand brushes Peter’s ribs, his fingers are warm, gentle, too fucking nice, and Peter grits his teeth at the pressure, prodding and metal against inflamed skin. He also sees a light when Bucky properly digs in, has to bite on his other shoulder to stop from screaming, and briefly considers walking into that light.

So yeah. Why not? He thinks happy thoughts. 

He squeezes his eyes shut and makes himself think of good shit. Not world peace, not cookies, but personalized happy. 

He thinks about being wanted. Wanted in a real, lasting way. He thinks about a hand at the small of his back, Bucky’s voice murmuring, “I’ve got you” into his hair and his lips kissing Peter’s temple and his chin protecting Peter from birds flying overhead. (Bucky shielding him from the wind, Bucky handing him water after a mission, Bucky letting him sleep in in the morning and sticking around, too. Just… Bucky sticking around, not Peter.) All of it. The whole fantasy package.

And it’s this. 

This is why Peter can’t let himself believe it might be something. 

Because no one in their right fucking mind thinks “yeah, love me tender while slicing rebar out of my meat”. 

That’s not real life. Their life is not real life, and it can’t be this easy.

Another set of anniversaries; time is a relentless, attention-seeking, petty bitch like that, and brings shitty memories instead of cake. Two of them, back to back, and still so fresh in comparison that Ben’s passed by without an issue. Not because it doesn’t hurt, but because grief’s got a queue now and Ben’s been in the waiting room longer.

The worst one’s quiet. May. Peter doesn’t go to the grave and doesn’t cry. He’s cried enough to irrigate fucking Kansas, and is in “Do Not Perceive Me” mode for all of it. Curtains closed. Phone off. Netflix autoplaying some trashy dating show.

On the day Mr. Stark saved the universe, Peter works. He pretends it’s a Wednesday like any other and ignores every mention of it on the news. Which is hard, since apparently the entire planet is still collectively jerking off to Tony Stark’s martyrdom, as if there weren’t more suitable super heroes to snap their fingers instead. Peter could’ve done it and survived. Bucky could’ve done it. Captain Rogers could’ve done it. Carol Danvers should’ve been faster.

In the evening he sits by Yelena and says, “Not well,” when she asks him if he knew her sister.

He’s still doing better. But, like Bob said, it comes and goes.

It’s over a year after Peter moves in, and everything’s doing neither—not coming, not going—just existing in a state of mellow normal when Peter overhears that Bob has caught Bucky’s arm.

Peter doesn’t mean to eavesdrop. He’s not lurking in a corner wearing all black like some bootleg Daredevil. He’s just there. In the room. Existing, catching the end of whatever that was, and then deciding to set the record straight.

"In fairness," he quietly says to Ava who is next to him, smiling in the general direction where Bucky, Bob and John are playing cards at the bar counter. "I did it first."

Bucky’s head whips around and he looks at Peter with a bewildered expression that reminds him of the time Bucky carried him to this very living room after Peter got clipped by a rogue beam. 

"What?" Peter shrugs, speaking louder. “I did. Unless someone else did it before me. In which case, I both concede the crown and suggest you get more selective at who you toss that punch at.”

Bucky's mouth twitches in half a smirk that’s barely there, but his eyes are laughing. Amazing. Peter logs it directly into his mental spank bank of smirks, right next to ‘Bucky lifting a couch with one hand while Yelena looks for her dead phone’ and ‘Bucky in a white tank top.’ 

The conversation floats elsewhere, the moment’s over, and it’s fine. It is. A normal day. A good day, even. One of those not-too-hot, not-too-cold autumn afternoons where you don’t need a jacket but also don’t want to shed the skin from the heat.

Peter turns back to Ava, one knee up, holding a can of Sprite, and goes back to his own conversation. It’s not that good—Sprite. Too sweet. Too fizzy. Too... lemon-adjacent.

“I don’t even like it that much,” he tells her, continuing, and taking another sip. “But one time, when I was like, eleven? I ditched school. No reason, or maybe there was a reason, don’t remember anymore. Anyway, I ran into my uncle. Total dumbass move. He didn’t even yell. Just looked at me like, ‘You really think you’re slick?’ And then he bought me a Sprite instead of giving me a lecture. We walked somewhere. Maybe Prospect Park? Not sure. But I drank it, and every time I drink it now, it’s like... time travel, boom, here comes the melancholy with bubbles. Weird.”

“It’s not that weird,” she is a bit sleepy, her head on the cushion propped against the couch back. It’s late enough, and Peter appreciates it. Appreciates her. So normal it almost feels fake, and not the other way around. The couch is slightly stained, his sock is about to declare toe freedom any second, he needs new clothes, and the Sprite can is cooling his palm.

So when Bucky knocks on his door after midnight—not too late, technically, but Peter’s got work in the morning and his pink sweatpants are trying to escape his hips—he doesn’t think anything of it at first.

Peter smiles at him. Scratches his nose. Pulls the waistband back up because he’s a chaste lad who has not spent the past however long thirsting over him.

“What’s up?” he asks, yawning.

Bucky doesn't reply straight away and looks… off.

Wound too tight, which doesn’t not happen, but wrong-as-fuck to be happening right now, at Peter’s doorstep, with zero warning, and frowning-in-Henley, jaw-set, storm-brewing-behind-the-eyes.

(That Henley is unfair, by the way. Soft cotton, tight across the chest, sleeves pushed up as if Bucky doesn’t know what his forearms do to people.)

Bucky's face is tense. His shoulders are tense. Ass tense too, but Peter can’t see it from here, obviously. But everything’s tense, that’s the point, and Peter’s smile falters. He takes two quick steps back inside, and, yeah, okay, maybe his heart’s pounding like it’s trying to drop a bassline in a club full of panic.

A few more breaths, a lot of worry, and Peter backs away a little more, spins fast, and starts shoving a pile of crap off his dresser. Tangled wires fall to the floor as he tries to get to the clean t-shirt he knows is somewhere in this graveyard of laundry and other shit he never bothers tidying up. Probably under the—yep, there it is.

“What’s going—” he starts.

The door slams with a jump-scare, and Bucky’s hands are on Peter’s waist.

On his naked waist. On his skin. Real hands. Real metal. Real panic now.

Peter gets twisted around, manhandled, whiplashed, and then Bucky’s mouth is on his, and that’s it. That’s the real moment.

His knees are gone, his brain is charred rubble, and all motor functions have been permanently cancelled. Peter slacks against Bucky like someone pulled the plug and dropped him into a world where nothing exists but mouth, heat, hands, mouth, hands again—fuck. He lets the t-shirt fall to the floor too as his arms uselessly dangle by his sides. Thanks for nothing, limbs.

He’s kissing him. Bucky Barnes is kissing him, and it’s lips and heat and—

Peter’s dizzy with it while Bucky sucks in so much air out of Peter’s lungs as if he’s been holding it in for months. His right hand slides up Peter’s side, cups Peter’s face and his thumb presses at Peter’s chin. Light but firm. Open up, sweetheart.

Peter opens. Instantly. He moans—what is he, an idiot, it’s kissing, they are kissing—and feels his knees collapse the rest of the way, useless twigs under too much feeling. He clutches Bucky’s shirt, grabs fistfuls of Henley just about ready to rip it off with his teeth, and moans louder and into Bucky because it’s his fucking fault.

Of course it’s like this. Of course kissing Bucky is a world-ending, knee-collapsing experience. Of course it’s—

Bucky stops, pulls back, but, thank God, doesn’t let go.

Peter opens his eyes, blinking up at him, and aside from Bucky’s slightly shiny lips and the fact that he’s still holding him, there’s no sign anything even happened. He looks... serious. Really serious.

“Sorry,” Bucky says, frowning. “Sorry. I should’ve asked first.”

“Huh?” Peter croaks. He can feel Bucky’s heartbeat where he’s fisting his top, and it’s going crazy.

“All I think about is kissin’ you,” Bucky mutters, glancing away as if it’s not the best thing to say.

Why is he still frowning? Why is he like this? Why—

“Then why are you frowning?” Peter smiles so wide his cheekbones are hurting.

Bucky doesn’t say anything for a bit, but this hesitation doesn’t make him less big and warm and so disgustingly, fuck-me-on-the-floor perfection while Peter’s still recovering from The Kiss, clinging to the last five brain cells that survived that collision like scrappy rats on a flaming life raft. And when Bucky leans in low, close, close, his breath curls against the shell of Peter’s ear.

“I’m so fuckin’ gone for you,” Bucky says, hushed, delivering that straight into Peter’s cochlea, “but I think.. I think you’re gonna run.”

Peter’s soul detaches from his body, floats a few inches upward, and leaves his meat puppet standing there. He’s not—

Bucky wraps him up. Pulls Peter into his chest and sets his chin on top of Peter’s head, and Peter’s eyes water.

“Please tell me you’re not gonna run,” Bucky quietly says above him. “Please tell me you’re not plannin’ on leavin’, and we can… try, date or whatever. If you want. Anythin’.”

Peter wasn’t planning on running. But he was not-not planning on at least thinking about running, so he can’t tell him that.

Feel good, then ruin it. Get happy, then destroy the very chance at happiness. Get kissed by this man and immediately start calculating how far you could get if you ducked out the fire escape with nothing but your hoodie and poor impulse control, Bucky's right.

Because it’s so good. Right here. Right now. It’s so good. Which means Peter’s guilt-soaked skin is already itching from getting too close to something soft and safe, and his sad bastard brain fires off, “No thank you, that looks like trust and hope, and we are violently allergic to both.” Side effects of what Peter wants so much may include: dry mouth, vertigo, and an overwhelming urge to bolt.

There’s so much to lose now, and it's both a good and an awful idea for Bucky to be this direct.

But that’s what Peter does, right? He ruins shit. He breaks things. He’s the human embodiment of a dropped ceramic mug with “potential” written on the side and a chip where the handle used to be.

Bucky’s arms don’t loosen while he waits for Peter to respond. They tighten, as if he knows Peter’s halfway out the window inside his skull and is trying to body-block the escape. There's a pulse against his temple. The hush between their heartbeats.

“Don’t let me, then?” That’s all Peter’s got. “I can’t—don’t let me? Physically restrain me if needed?”

“Okay,” Bucky says quickly, and a part of him seems to relax. “Okay, I won’t.”

“Good.” Peter hugs him back. Hugs him back and holds, tighter than Bucky, but he’ll loosen up once this stops being terrifying.

“Great,” Bucky confirms, and Peter can almost hear him smile. He smiles too, idiot-wide and into Bucky’s collarbone. “So, you wanna… go out?”

“Like, on a mission? Or, like, on a date? ‘Cause I’m in for either, but we already live together. In case you haven't noticed, and I am easy,” Peter rattles out, and makes a bold move of suggestively moving his hands down the slope of Bucky’s back. It’s a nice back, and Bucky’s amused, disbelieving huff could cure seasonal depression.

Daydreams are helpful. Functional. Regulated by the FDA in Peter’s personal coping system. The side effects of those include: temporary boosts in serotonin, mild hallucinations of hope, and elaborate slow-mo makeout scenarios that make the hellscape of real life suck marginally less. When life is shit—which it usually is—and Peter’s mental inbox is full of unopened mail and evil spam, daydreams help.

Peter is the undisputed king of daydreams. Emperor. Dictator. Supreme deity of Imaginary Coping Realms. He’s got an entire multiverse in his head, and unlike some people, he actually knows how that works. He knows there’s a universe where Mr. Stark never died, where he finished MIT, and one where May is still alive, and Peter doesn’t have to keep pretending his found family is enough when it’ll never stop hurting like hell because he was the reason he had to find a new one.

And yeah, if he’s being honest? Painfully honest? Peter’d trade this—even this, right now, with actual human wet dream Bucky—for that alternate life in a fucking heartbeat. Maybe.

Okay, definitely. But—

That’s a whole other fantasy, and Bucky’s here.

Here, and for all of his daydreaming, having imagined it a thousand times over, Peter never pictured Bucky licking his lips quite like that. Never imagined Bucky creating that tiny, charged, pants-melting multiverse of space between them to look at him, deciding. Never imagined that pause, either. That anticipation that hums. Never saw himself reaching just like this, trembling from how scared he is and how brave, fingertips ghosting under Bucky’s Henley, dragging it up, slowly, so slowly, until Peter’s on tiptoes, practically praying to whatever gay gods invented abdominal muscle definition.

It’s a rush. It’s—

Jesus-fucking-Christ, it’s happening.

Bucky helps, thank god, eyes cautious, and then pulls fabric over his head. Henley joins Peter’s t-shirt on the floor, and Peter’s hands—oh yeah, they know exactly what they're doing now—go straight for the belt over Bucky’s dark jeans. It clicks, Peter shockingly doesn’t fumble too much with it, and Bucky tilts his head.

“You might regret this,” he says to Peter, but Bucky’s already palming his ass through the sweatpants and then adds, “I hope you don’t. I’m so—”

Peter pushes him. And pushes him. Wide palms, solid pecs, that skin, steps being made, interrupting whatever Bucky was saying, and god, he’s so hot he needs to be on that mattress now. Bucky lands with a heavy whuff, those abs flexing, tongue peeking out to lick between his lips again, and Peter shakes his head.

“Do you do that on purpose?” he asks, standing over the bed, his sweatpants hiding nothing. “The tongue thing?”

“C'mere,” Bucky smirks.

Peter starts leaning in and gets yanked forward.

He topples, lands right on top, and it’s lit like a furnace. He’s grinning. Bucky kisses him. Peter kisses him back, and Bucky rolls them until Peter’s under him. They are both smiling too much, which makes it a terrible kiss, but it’s one more reason to wriggle while Bucky’s metal hand slides Peter’s sweats down.

A frenzied mess. Peter’s trying to kick out of his own pants while also assisting Bucky out of his jeans. Mouths, teeth, tongue, a sharp gasp, another kiss, more, more, more, and then finally—finally—pants are down. Off. Gone. All of it.

They pause. Lie there, panting, naked, bodies flushed and pressed together, Bucky above him, and then opening his mouth, serious again, about to say it—again—but Peter beats him to it.

“I won’t run,” he promises, fast and shaky and sincere, arms looping behind Bucky’s neck. He kisses him. Just a brush of lips, then another. A tiny, needy, almost-crying (no, no, none of that) kiss. “Not from you. I won’t run. I think… I think—I’ll make you happy, you’ll make me happy, and we’ll be great, and ridiculous, and if you ever see me pinch myself, it’s because I can’t believe it’s real—I’m so. I’m so too, if this is what you meant. And if you didn't mean that, then… then I'm still easy. Oh god, please stop me before I—”

“Don’t call yourself easy, doll,” Bucky tells him, and presses his lips to Peter’s mid-panic spiral. Still smiling. Still not bolting out the window, which is a minor miracle. “That’s my guy you’re talkin’ about.”

“Oh,” Peter breathes out. “In my defense—”

Bucky pushes himself up on one elbow and gives him a very specific eyebrow lift.

“Forget I said that,” Peter squeaks, voice cracking like puberty round two, and then groans—whimpers, maybe, who cares—when Bucky sneaks a hand between them and just grabs his dick. He strokes it off while looking down at him, his knee propped between Peter’s legs. “Okay, that’s—”

“I am,” Bucky bends down, doesn’t stop, and mouths at Peter’s ear, which goes a long way toward making him shiver with it. “So.”

“Oh,” Peter repeats, very intelligently. “Then we should, y’know.”

“We are, in case you haven't noticed,” Bucky kisses Peter’s temple. Kisses the side of his face, his nose, then his lips again. Kisses him for a bit, his hand slowly jerking Peter off, and then the tip of Bucky’s hard dick brushes against Peter’s thigh, clearly feeling left out, and Peter’s powerless. Absolutely powerless. He hooks his foot around Bucky’s ankle, rolls them around, and ends up on top. There. Nobody’s cutting anyone loose here.

“Hmm,” Bucky squints. Not suspicious, but interested. His gaze drags down Peter’s body, and Peter’s biting his lip so hard he really should stop it before it counts as cannibalism.

Peter reins in some of his vibrating, knees pressed to the sides of Bucky’s thighs, and Bucky clicks his tongue, shakes his head where he’s lying down, his hair getting all messed up against the blanket, and moves his metal arm to grope at Peter’s ass just as Peter, in a fit of bravery slash temporary psychosis, puts his own hand on Bucky’s very large cock.

Fuck.

Bucky’s eyes flutter closed for a second, his hand on Peter’s dick pauses before resuming, Peter moans, moans some more, and it’s not even a full minute before Bucky’s rolling him over again, which, frankly, should be the last time or they risk rolling off the bed.

“I fucked myself earlier tonight imagining this exactly,” Peter overshares, Bucky grunts, and… yeah. That about sums it up.

When Bucky shifts slightly over him, all muscles and very pleasant weight and breath heavy, he sounds almost… almost coy, which is not a word that should exist in the same sentence as James Barnes.

“You up for more, sugar?”

“I—yes. God. Yes. Yes. So fucking yes. Did I say yes already?” Peter rushes, arms flailing above his head as he starts digging under the pillow for lube. “Yes.”

He finds it—score, MVP, hero of the game—and tosses him the bottle. It’s a disaster of a throw. Wobbly, nearly nails Bucky in the shoulder, but Bucky catches it and flips it open with one flick of his metal finger.

Bucky’s right hand leaves Peter’s dick in favor of slicking up his fingers and rubbing lube against Peter’s rim. Then into it. One finger, two, stretch, curl, and Peter quietly mewls.

“Fuck, doll,” Bucky groans in that low, reverent tone, doesn’t seem to mind Peter’s noises, and Peter clings. Clings like a koala in a thunderstorm.

It feels so…

Skin to skin. Heat to heat.

It’s gentle. Bucky’s gentle.

Like, yeah, Peter can feel Bucky’s heartbeat jackhammering in his chest. Can feel his thighs twitch every now and then, involuntary and delicious. But Bucky’s holding himself up on his elbow just enough to not crush him—not that he could—head bent low and studying Peter’s face. It’s so intense. Bucky’s so intense.

Peter’s never felt more… covered. No, shielded.

“You know ‘I'm so’ is a code for ‘I love you,’ right?” Peter whispers through a soundless, open-mouthed moan when Bucky starts pushing himself in, the thick head of his cock soft against his ass and his metal palm on Peter’s hip.

Every inch of him is touched. Every inch. Their legs are tangled, and Peter’s feet keep brushing Bucky’s calves because he can’t stop moving. Can’t stop feeling. Bucky’s stomach presses against his with every breath, and Peter’s own breathing tries to match it.

There’s a tremor in his legs. Another one in his wrist. Bucky leaves his hip and finds it. Rubs gentle circles into Peter’s skin with his thumb, nods, seems almost lost in it, and only after Peter begs without saying a word, Bucky rasps out:

“I know, sweetheart.”

Sweetheart.

He knows. Yes, that’s—

Peter could cry. He won’t. He could.

His arms are loose around Bucky’s waist, legs getting wrapped around as Bucky works himself in too slowly, nose brushing Bucky’s jaw, heart fucking exposed and beating, feeling whole. God, it’s—

“Oh, fuck.” That’s what Bucky says. Raw and tight, drawn out like it’s being dragged from the base of his spine the second he’s fully in. And yeah, same. Big same. Peter’s toes curl so hard he might actually cramp.

It’s not even about the size or the stretch or the logistics of it. It’s just the feeling of Bucky inside him. The overwhelming, all-consuming this is real and this is mine weight of it. Of him. Of them. And then Bucky starts kissing him.

It’s nearly too sweet. Fucking devastating. Bucky’s mouth is everywhere. Lips dragging over Peter’s. Across his cheek. Down his throat. His tongue on Peter’s pulse.

And the thing is—fantasies. Right? Filthy ones. Glorious ones. They involved handcuffs and wall sex and a lot of inappropriate use of super serum strength, maybe some choking if Bucky’s into it. Bucky’s mouth on his dick, Peter gagging on Bucky’s, positions—holy shit—Peter’s flexible as hell. He has a list. This isn’t that. Yet, if Peter’s got anything to say about it.

But… intimate? A lot suffocating. Bucky keeps touching him like he’s not sure Peter’s really there. One hand smoothing over Peter’s ribs, his thigh, his hair, for fuck’s sake. And Peter moves his hands too. Over Bucky’s back, finding each dip and plane.

The cold of Bucky’s metal shoulder gives Peter goosebumps. Every steady thrust sends heat curling through Peter’s belly like a sunrise. His hands slide up, his thumbs catch beneath Bucky’s arms, and he leans up, mouth brushing over his collarbone, down to the edge of a scar and—

He licks it.

What? He’s allowed. That’s his man now.

Bucky chokes on a moan—“Peter”—and then thrusts in faster, deeper, something snapping. The angle’s so right, and fuck, fuck, fuck, it’s so good. It’s so much. So much of him.

Peter knew Bucky was big, and not just in the dick department. Man has arms bigger than tree trunks. Peter’s not blind, and he’s also not new to being yeeted by super-soldiers. But this is Bucky inside him and on him and around him, and Peter goes from feeling as if it’s his first fucking time—which… he almost wishes—to—

His fingers don’t even meet half-way around Bucky’s biceps. He checks. Mid-thrust. Not sorry. And it’s not as if Peter’s small in any other sense except for body size—he’s strong, jacked, agile, can bench-press a car when properly motivated—but wrapped up under Bucky, he feels soft. Breakable. Pocket-sized, and with a “Fragile” sticker on his ass.

“Holy fuck,” Peter keens. “I feel so—harder, please, please, ah-h—”

That sweet, considerate, tragically polite gentleman from a few seconds ago gets… vamoosed. Is that a word? Bucky grabs Peter’s thigh and yanks it higher, one hand sliding under Peter’s back, arching him up in a fucking bow.

“Jesus,” Peter breathes, but it comes out in a squeak once again. His head lolls back. His spine stretches, his ass angles up just so, and then Bucky starts fucking into him. Gentleness burns off faster than fog in the sun, and Peter’s getting pounded by a man who weighs twice as much as him and fucks like—

“My god, oh, god, Bucky—” Peter’s getting handled. Bent. Rolled, thankfully the other way. Spread, Bucky’s knee kicking his legs apart, and Peter’s rocked into the mattress from behind. And Peter’s strong, that’s been established—he is. But. But. He’s noise-drunk and muscle-weak, useless putty in Bucky’s enormous hands.

There’s sweat. Grip. The wet slide of skin. Bucky’s palms on his ass, pulling back his asscheeks, holding him open while Peter bites on his own forearm to keep from moaning too loud.

“Bucky,” he gasps, the bed creaking beneath them, and shit, shit. “Oh, fuck, more.”

That works.

There’s decidedly the ideal lack of slow build at this point, no careful edging, no “are you close, baby?” niceties. No, Bucky goes a bit feral, the switch flipped to destroy this boy. His thrusts are almost aggressive, and Peter gets a distinct feeling that Bucky’s no longer responsible for his actions.

Peter loves it. He lives for it. Is possibly spiritually reborn because of it.

His face is half-buried in a pillow now, mouth open, drooling just a little (okay, a lot), while Bucky drives into him as if he’s trying to knock a portal open to another multiverse. Every time Peter tries to gasp or beg or make a sound that resembles a coherent thought, it gets punched right back out of him by a well-timed thrust.

Peter’s hard. Painfully. Impressively. Still. Somehow. And Bucky, saint that he is, reaches under Peter’s belly a blissfully agonizing forever later and wraps that big, stupidly offensive hand around Peter’s dick. And then jerks him off in rhythm. In sync. How is that even—

“C’mon, Pete,” Bucky groans into Peter’s neck, voice gravel-rough and gone, gone, squeezing Peter’s hip now. “Wanna feel you come. Can’t wait, please, baby, shit—”

Peter’s trying, okay? He’s trying his best. But it’s so much. The stretch. The pounding. The god-tier stamina that Bucky Barnes apparently has just casually loaded into his dick.

Peter’s trembling now, sweat-slick, and he feels as if he’s made of fuckin’ lightning. He reaches down to brace himself with one hand, puts another over Bucky’s moving wrist that’s jerking him off, fingers jelly, moaning and moaning.

“Bucky—I’m, I’m gonna—fuck—” It comes out so high-pitched. Sharp. His spine curls. Bucky bites the skin on Peter’s back, mutters, “Good, that’s good, go on,” and then Peter’s coming hard, hips stuttering, seizing up with it.

Bucky follows with a snarl and a snap of his hips that feels like an earthquake, burying himself so deep Peter questions the physics of it. He grinds in and out, in and out—the slurpy noise of his come is something wild—but then slows down and down, and… stays there, panting into Peter’s ear, still hard.

Bucky frowns again. Post-round-no-idea, both apologetic and smug, which is a weird-ass combo. Like, pick a lane, Barnes—either feel bad or feel yourself. You can’t do both.

“Sorry,” Bucky mutters, and kisses Peter.

Sorry. While his fingers are violating the Geneva Convention on Peter’s poor, thoroughly disrespected rim. Swirling around it. Dipping in. Brushing it with filthy affection. It’s—honestly—a religious experience. They’re chest-to-chest, and get even closer when Bucky’s finger sinks just the tiniest bit inside, Peter twitching like someone jammed a fork in a Peter-shaped destroyed toaster.

Animal. This guy’s an animal. A big, dickslinging animal with a vibranium arm and no shame.

“I’m—” Bucky starts again, looking truly remorseful, which is rich coming from someone knuckle-deep in the same place he just reorganized like it was his personal walk-in closet. “Been a while,” he mumbles against Peter’s shoulder. Then kisses it. Then nuzzles into it. Breathes him in like he’s trying to get secondhand high off Peter’s post-sex scent. It’s disturbingly romantic, all that kissing, but the fingers are moving with intention.

Peter shivers. Shivers hard. Because Bucky’s cock is turning into a fucking rod again against his thigh, and Peter’s nearly… done. Has never felt so used. Properly. Thoroughly. Put-in-a-blender-and-poured-into-Bucky’s-mouth used. He’s shaking. His abs are sore.

That’s when Peter’s alarm rings.

“W-what?” Peter croaks. “No, no, come on, what the fuck, it’s not morning.”

It takes a heroic amount of effort to reach for his phone and mute it. And he’s still reaching when Bucky’s already shifting behind him, adjusting Peter’s wrecked ass.

“Sick day?” Bucky offers, hopeful as hell. The second the alarm dies, Bucky slides back in with a satisfied groan.

“Is—mphh—is one day even enough for you, you fucking freak?” Peter swats at Bucky’s hand as it goes for his already-sobbing dick. The slap is weak. Pathetic. Emotionally symbolic at best. “I can’t, it’s stocktake—fuck, Bucky, f—”

Sneaking out of Thunderbolt HQ is a tactical operation that requires stealth, energy, and brainpower, which is highly inconvenient, because Peter currently has none of the above and Bucky’s handsy. Handsy, and Peter might be very much in love, but Bucky turned him into a human wishbone and cracked him open like a fortune cookie full of moans, which means Peter’s not walking. He’s… hobbling? A little? Gracefully. It’s kind of put on, for Bucky’s benefit. Okay, fine. Entirely put on. But if it gets Bucky’s thumb brushing his knuckles the way he’s doing it as they head out, Peter will fake a limp straight into his grave.

The peanut gallery is up, and Peter doesn’t think it’s a secret or anything, but he’s not emotionally prepared to be heckled for his walk of shame. He can’t face Yelena’s eyebrow raise. Or Ava’s quiet, knowing look. Or—God forbid—Alexei’s “back in my day” rant about virility.

So they sneak, escaping without being roasted.

Peter limps down the hallway like his asshole’s been redacted, and Bucky’s right there beside him, in a hoodie and that baseball cap pulled low. 

Once outside, Bucky swings an arm around him and pulls him in close. They walk. It’s great. But after all the disgusting, depraved things Bucky did to him last night (Peter’s fantasies might’ve been a bit… vanilla?) the man should be fucking carrying him bridal-style through the streets.

They stop just around the corner from Peter’s pharmacy, and then Bucky kisses him. Right there. In public. It’s soft. It’s—

It’s so easy.

So easy, and Peter can’t even begin to wrap his head around it as he stumbles into the shop, breath gone, face on fire, soul somewhere back on Bucky’s tongue. He shrugs off his jacket, grabs his lab coat from under the counter, and only then dares look at the stocktake scanners already there.

His boss glances up from her phone.

“Oh, honey,” she says with concern. “You look exhausted. Are you not feeling well?”

“I’m…” Peter—ah, screw it. He coughs his lungs out. “Not.”

Boom. Day off acquired.

He’s about to text Bucky to spin his ass around and come back to take care of Peter’s abused everything when Bucky walks in. With a coffee. Probably for Peter. That’s… also sweet.

But Peter panics, makes a face, and quickly waves him off. Bucky pauses mid-stride, seems to need at least a second to understand, and then smartly backs out, smirking.

God, he’s perfect.

Peter’s not sure what he expected. Someone dropping a plate? Something. Anything. At the very least, a raised eyebrow. But… nope.

He plants his ass on Bucky’s lap—boldly, mind you, after mentally running laps about it and trying to figure out the best way to break it to the team—and no one reacts. No. One.

By the time the movie is on, Peter’s curled into Bucky like a fucking cat in heat, and the room’s collective response is somewhere between “pass the chips” and “can you mute the TV during commercials.”

Anticlimactic.

Bucky kisses the top of his head and presses his cheek to Peter’s halfway into Tokyo Drift, and not a single asshole looks up.

“Seriously?” Peter explodes during the credits.

The room explodes right back.

Ah. Much better.

Peter doesn’t go to visit May when the next anniversary comes around. Not with Bucky, not with anyone. He disappears for the day, phone off and comm silent. Bucky doesn’t ask, but he does hand him a water bottle before he leaves and says, “Come back when you’re ready.”

The second year, same thing. Different water bottle—fuck, those summers are getting hotter and hotter—same ache. Bucky kisses him that morning, soft, brief, forehead press, and then goes to whatever mission Val throws at them.

But the third year is different. Not big different. But Peter’s older now. Feels older. Less twitchy. Less ready to run every time he catches himself thinking the words my person. My people. Still a human paper cut with anxiety and a decent ass. But a bit steadier.

And it’s early—stupid early, barely dawn. The Tower’s still quiet and Bucky’s already pulling on his boots, when Peter asks:

“Do you—do you maybe want to go with me?”

Bucky doesn’t answer right away, because he’s Bucky and he’s careful with yeses. But he tucks Peter’s hair behind his ear first, slow and gentle and painfully intimate, and says, “If you want me to.” Which is code for: 'I already cleared my day, sweetheart. Say the word'.

So they go.

Take the bus. Peter’s knees are jittery the whole ride, and Bucky holds his hand. And when they finally get there, it’s… it’s pretty.

The headstone is clean. Simple. Tidy. May Parker. Not too many flowers. Not none, either. A few fresh ones. Maybe from some random neighbor who still remembers her and how she never judged people for having more bad days than good.

Peter looks at the headstone, weirdly still, eyes stuck to the marble, and mostly thinks about how Bucky doesn’t crowd him. Doesn’t say “Take your time” or “She’d be proud” or any of that grief counseling brochure crap. He just hangs back, a dozen or so feet away, and gives Peter space to fall apart or not.

“I’m sorry,” Peter says eventually. “I’m okay. Just… sorry. And I’m okay. I swear. I’m okay.”

He turns to look at him. At Bucky’s hands in his pockets, face soft in that rare, unguarded way that usually only shows up near kittens or every time he looks at Peter. Bucky smiles at him. He's proud of Peter—Peter knows—just has enough sense not to bring it up.

Peter smiles back and turns to May again. Wipes his nose on his sleeve.

“I am okay. I’m not lying.” He sniffs. Shrugs. “I found home, and I'm so—”