Chapter Text
The first thing that comes to Bucky is his hearing; the rain falls heavy crashing against what sounds like metal. Its loud, irritating, the harsh clatter making his head hurt.
The next thing he felt was the cold. It was the kind that nipped at the skin, it sank into his lungs, the discomfort only elevated by this dry throat. The soldier’s eyes snapped open to darkness filtered through fractured skylights, beams of grey light cutting across the dust that hung heavy in the air.
The metallic tang of rust and oil hit his nose before sound reached him, a distant drip of water somewhere, the faint creak of sheet metal shifting under the weight of the wind.
He can feel small, sharp rocks under his palms as he pushed himself up to a seated position, the pressure of each rock pressing against his skin. He sat quietly for a moment, gathering his thoughts, and reaches up to his forehead. His fingers brush over a gash above his eyebrow, and is met with a small stinging heat, the blood of the wound has gone tacky.
Instinctively he lowers his hand, dropping it to his belt to feel for his knife, a weapon is always a good thing to have when you wake up in a random location, hurt and disorientated. His black leather jacket is still intact, give or take a frey on the cuffs and some distressing on the elbows.
His pupils adjusted. Broken machinery loomed around him like silent sentinels, forklifts with corroded arms, conveyor belts frozen mid-motion, crates half-eaten by rot. The air smelled faintly of mold and stale gasoline. He could see his own breath fogging in the thin light.
There is a pile of steel beams that never got fitted to his left, now gathering dust. Rubble litters the floor, a particularly large pile sitting in the corner of this open room, where a large hole is situated above it, which explains the wind, rubble and water. The sheen of multiple wet patches on the floor can be seen, illuminated by the moonlight spilling in from the hole.
He tries to think of where the hell he is, though the pounding of his head and small buzzes at the back of his mind don’t help much.
“Fuck.” he mutters running his flesh hand through his hair before standing up to assess his situation some more. His black leather boots crunch against loose stone as he surveys the building. Each step tested the surface ahead, shards of glass, brittle wood, gravel. The soldier’s eyes flicked across every shadow, every dark corner where a threat might hide. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled. Places like this, abandoned, forgotten, were perfect traps.
There’s a small, long abandoned utility room tucked behind the beams to his left. The large open atrium, where he woke up, looks like it was meant to house something big. Beyond that, a half-finished staff room and an incomplete bathroom.
After seeing a whole lot of nothing he makes his way to the back of the building, the cool air brushing against his now reddened cheeks as he walks. He holds down his earpiece, if he didn't know where he was Stark sure would. That man has been keeping tabs on him ever since he and Steve returned to the tower.
“This is Barnes, anyone copy? Over"
Nothing, no response, not even one from JARVIS. It must’ve broken when whatever happened, happened. He approaches the back wall, eyes scanning over the metal before reaching a door which he presumes is an exit. He makes his way over, flesh fingers grasp the cold metal of the handle.
Bucky’s eyes narrow, his hand dropping the handle as he turns around, a sinking feeling he has missed something hits him as he does. Something is wrong.
He steadies his breath and reaches his right hand down to a pouch attached to his utility belt, flesh fingers grabbing a fresh magazine from within, as his metal hand pulls his handgun out the holster.
He replaces the old mag with the new, not bothering to check whatever was left in the old one, as he pockets the discarded one quietly. Turing the safety off and cocking the gun, he masks his footsteps like the trained assassin he is and begins to patrol the building yet again.
A broken catwalk loomed above, rust streaking down its supports. To the left, a line of offices overlooked the main floor, their glass long gone, blinds hanging in shredded strips. He made for them, hugging the wall. As he passed a rusted drum, his reflection caught briefly in a pool of water at its base, a roughened face, his skin dirty under streaks of grime and blood as the moon light beamed down upon him.
The first office door groaned when he nudged it open with his shoulder. Inside, overturned desks and faded paperwork littered the floor, a calendar from a decade ago, yellowed photographs pinned to a corkboard. He swept the room methodically: corners first, under desks, ceiling checks. Nothing alive. Nothing useful. So what was he feeling?
Only silence followed as he stepped out of the offices.
He paused. Something about this place felt wrong, as though the universe is telling him he shouldn't be here.
A faint scuff echoed from somewhere above. His head snapped up. He froze, breath held, eyes narrowing toward the catwalk. What was that?
His grip on the pistol tightened as his eyes bore into the shadows above, and moved toward the nearest staircase, boots whispering against the dust. Every instinct told him the same thing...
He wasn’t alone in this warehouse.
There is no point in waiting around to see what made said noise so he starts to make his way upwards to the top of the staircase, barely making a sound as he steps onto the metal path of the catwalk.
He is coming for who or whatever is up there and if it’s a threat, it wouldn’t be pretty
He had killed many men before, not just as the asset, but during the war. He was a sniper and a damn good one at that, got to brag about saving Captain Americas ass on more than one occasion to multiple women at the bar.
He was good with a weapon and was a good weapon, he has nothing to fear. He wasn't afraid. He has survived HYRDA, being hunted down by the government and falling off a train to his death.
“Who's there?” His voice low and cold, he isn’t going to give whoever it is a chance. His enhanced hearing picks up on the faint heartbeat of whoever is here. He pushes forward, boots clacking against the metal of the floor below.
Suddenly here hears a loud crash, before a flash of red falls behind him, followed by a loud thud. Bucky whips round instantly, Buckys gun is locking in position to the head of whoever was now on the floor. That red flash turned out to be this dirty red hoodie the man is wearing.
“Shit!” The man groans and sits up slowly, the red hood falling down to reveal short, brown, messy hair. Though he quickly changes his sluggish movements when he remembers the man with the gun standing above him.
Bucky steps forward and grabs the man, by the collar roughly, eyeing the mans face- no it was a kids face, instantly his grip softens slightly. He knows this idiot. How could he not know that stupid face, its Starks golden boy. The spider boy or whatever he went by. The kids' wide eyes catch his attention and Bucky's face falls to a soft but pissed off look.
“Fuck kid,” He grumbles as he slackens his grip on the hoodie, the boy falling back onto the metal with a thud, “You scared me.”
Bucky lowers his gun, slotting it into the leather holster attached to his belt, he takes a deep breath before speaking. “Look Paul-”, The kid buts in, “Its Peter.”
Bucky's eyes narrow, annoyed by the interruption. “Right Peter.” He continues, “You got any clue why I woke up on the floor of this building? And where the hell we are?” He looks down at Peter, before the boy starts to stand up, getting a better look at the kid.
His red hoodie grimy, dirt covering the cuffs, and now back since he fell. His webshooters pocking out from under the sleeve, his black jeans scuffed, one pocket seems to be holding a phone. Plain black trainers press against the floor as stands up, brushing the dust off himself before his brown eyes meet Bucky’s. The dirt on his face is evidence enough he’d been exploring like Bucky.
Peter clears his throat before talking, “Well I woke up about two days ago, you were out cold, and I didn't know where the hell we were- I tried to contact JARVIS and Mr Stark but-” He rambles on explaining that he had woken up the same way Bucky had, waking up confused, Peter had searched the building inside and out. He had left to find water, food and other necessities as he didn't know how long Bucky would be out for.
He followed a main road leading to a large city he had never heard of called Gotham, Peter hadn’t explored it that deeply, just grabbing what he needed before swinging back, then apologised for scaring a now awoken Bucky.
Bucky just listens, trying to piece together the kids story, his brows furrow as Peter mentions Gotham because he sure as hell hasn’t heard about it either, Buckys eyes dart down to the vast, moonlit room below.
“Anyone else here or just us?” He asks, not turning to look back at Peter until he has finished scanning the floor, his eyes taking in every shadow. “Just us Mr Barnes.” Peter confirms, “Bucky is fine kid.” the soldier replies gruffly, metal hand brushing over the handrail of the catwalk.
They don't know where exactly they are, they have no way of getting help. The smartest thing to do is find a good place to hide out, lay low for a while and try to figure out what happened and how the hell they ended up in a place that doesn’t exist
——————————————————————————
Rain drizzled down onto the lamp lit streets, the street lights dim as they try to suppress the shadows inching closer with every flicker. Peters hood, now damp, clings to his hair as he tried to pull it forward and give his face some cover. The brim of Buckys cap, which he had stolen from a gas station on their way here, now soaked as water runs off the sides, his shoulder length hair clumps together in wet strands.
They moved through the city in silence, boots splashing through shallow puddles. The streets were mostly empty beneath the high, cold moon. Save for the occasional passer by who kept their head down and pace brisk. Peter stayed close to Bucky as they wound their way through the vast, gothic sprawl.
Bucky’s eyes were constantly scanning, searching for shelter and maybe a plan. As they passed a massive, dark sandstone building marked Gotham Library, he caught sight of three men talking in a nearby alley. They looked well-off, better off than he and Peter, at least. And right now, supplies were non-existent.
If they were going to lie low, they’d need food and water. And for that, they’d need cash. So, Bucky makes a sharp turn down said alley way, Peter a little confused, trails along after him. It wouldn't be wise to split up.
“Um Bucky?” He asks trying to get the soldier attention as they pace down the alley, the tall, dark buildings above blocking most moon light that was trying to escape down into the alley. Bucky doesn’t reply and just keeps his gaze forward as the paces down the street.
Bucky didn’t answer. His pace was steady, his eyes locked on the group ahead. Three men, two leaning against a wall, one standing in the middle of the path. The larger man held a cigarette lazily between his fingers, his bowler hat hiding what little hair he had left. Beside him stood a tall, lean figure in an obnoxiously white suit that seemed to glow against the dark brick. The third man, shorter and dressed in black, laughed as he exhaled a cloud of smoke, his back to the alleyway.
Buckys pace remains steady as scans over the man in the black suit, he has a conveniently wallet shaped lump in his back pocket, perfect. Peter pulls his hood up a little bit more, his eyes narrow as he looks at Bucky, he has a feeling something is about to happen and would rather keep his face out of it.
If CCTV caught him he could kiss university goodbye.
As they passed the men, Bucky stumbled forward deliberately, bumping into the one in the centre. His metal hand moved like lightning, snatching the wallet and slipping it into his pocket, while his other hand reached out to steady himself.
“I’m sorry, sir,” he muttered, his voice soft and apologetic. He rubbed the back of his neck, looking properly embarrassed.
He is met with a disgusted look from all three men. Its clear he is something lesser to them, the man brings a hand up to wipe his shoulder where Bucky had steadied himself, as if Bucky was a stain.
Bucky gives the man a smile before turning to walk off, Peter moves to match his pace as he feels the eyes of the three men boring into their backs, “Gotham police really needs to clean up the streets.” The stalky man murmurs, pulling a hum of agreement from the larger man. The man in the black suit scoff at the comment before turning back to face his companions.
After exiting the alley and walking round a corner Bucky pulls the wallet from his pocket, he slips his metal thumb into the middle off the leather pushing it apart to see just how much money he had gotten.
As he starts to count the bills his thoughts are interrupted by the kids words, “Did you really have to rob someone?” He asks the small hint of disapproval evident in his voice.
Bucky scowls and turns his head to look down at the boy walking next to him, “You rather me rob one rich asshole or rob the local corner store every day? Starving really was my go-to option believe me.” Bucky grumbles, sarcasm is something Peter is going to have to get used to.
Bucky sighed, flipping through the bills again. “Four hundred in cash,” he muttered, “and an expensive-looking credit card. Lucky us.”
“Look, kid,” he said after a moment, slipping the wallet into the pocket of his combats. “I know it’s not ideal. But we’re in some random city with no backup, no idea where we are, and no gear. I had to do something.”
He wasn’t trying to be harsh, but Peter needed to understand, Gotham wasn’t the kind of place you survived by playing the saint.
He has pulled his leather jacket down enough to cover his utility belt. No sense in flashing a gun and knife around here.
Eventually, they found a 24-hour corner store to grab some supplies, the harsh neon light bleeding down onto the dark sidewalk below. It looked like a cheap, shitty store. The sign was tacky, and they were advertising every possible flavour of everything, but they had no other option as of now.
Bucky places a hand on the glass door and pushes it open, squinting his eyes as the cool, harsh lights bore down on top of him. A bell chimed overhead.
Peter followed, raising a hand to shield his eyes from the unwelcome glare. The reflection of their wet footprints shimmered across the tile floor as they stepped inside.
The hum of the fluorescent lights was deafening compared to the silence outside. The air smelled faintly of cheap coffee and bleach, and the floor tiles were slick with water from their boots. A tired-looking cashier sat behind the counter, nose buried in a magazine, barely glancing up as they entered.
Peter trailed behind Bucky, glancing nervously at the lone security camera in the corner. Its red light blinked lazily.
Bucky moved through the narrow aisles, scanning the shelves with quick precision looking for anything useful: canned food, bottled water, a couple of protein bars, anything useful. He grabbed a small duffel from a hook near the counter and started loading supplies inside.
“Do you think they noticed the missing wallet?” Peter asked quietly, his voice carrying that sharp edge of paranoia, as he glances to the door.
Bucky didn’t answer right away. “If they have, they’ll wish they hadn’t,” he said finally, tone flat.
Peter frowned. “That’s… not comforting.”
“Wasn’t meant to be.”
When Bucky reached the counter, he dropped the duffel down with a dull thud. The cashier blinked, startled by the sound, then forced a tired smile.
“Late night?” the man asked, scanning the items without much interest.
“Something like that,” Bucky muttered, sliding a few of the bills across the counter. The man didn’t question why he was paying in cash for all of this, he’d learned not to a long time ago.
Peter stood by the door, watching the reflection of the neon sign in the glass. He could feel Gotham breathing outside, heavy, endless, and alive in all the wrong ways.
The cashier bagged their things, pushing them across the counter. “Careful out there,” he said absently. “City’s been mean lately.”
“Yeah,” Bucky replied, slinging the duffel over his shoulder. “We noticed.”
They stepped back into the rain, the bell chiming behind them one last time. The street was quieter now. A siren wailed somewhere in the distance, echoing off the buildings like a warning.
Peter shoved his hands deeper into his pockets. “So, what now? Find a motel?”
Bucky shook his head. “Too risky. We don’t know this city, best thing to do is stay somewhere no one is going to look.”
He turned down a side street lined with boarded-up windows and rusted fire escapes. The rain came down harder, and the city lights warped into hazy blurs.
He could tell from the moment they stepped into the city this is a crime infested city, gangs lurk around each corner, he’s seen more than a few people openly carrying a gun and police cars passing almost every street they’ve been on.
So again he thinks it's wise just to lay low and gather all the information they have before making a move, not because he feared these thugs. No, he knew how easy it would be to kill them, a snap of a neck from behind, a perfectly thrown knife between the eyes, his metal hand could crush their skulls.
He tried to rid the violent thoughts he had from his head, reminded him to much of what he once was.
And still deep down is.
He’d noticed a few times, when he was on the run from the government, the missing time. And how when he came to, the blood had already dried enough to stain his clothes, or the missing report in the newspaper of a person who’d pissed him off a few days prior.
Now, at least, he didn’t lose time anymore. He stayed in control, every second his own. But what scared him now wasn’t the blackout, it was the twisted sense of clarity he got when he knew he went to far. The awareness of just how easy it would be to let that old part of him slip free again. Sometimes, when his pulse quickened and his hand curled into a fist, the soldier whispered beneath the surface of his mind
The soldier whispered beneath the surface of his mind, he was watching his every move, and Bucky knew it wasn't going to go away anytime soon.
He snaps himself out of his thoughts, his head whipping back to check is Peter was still trailing behind him.
They found shelter beneath an overhang of an abandoned building. The walls were cracked, the graffiti half-washed away by years of rain. Bucky crouched down, unzipping the duffel to check their haul, while Peter leaned against the wall, arms crossed.
“So what’s the plan, then?” Peter asked, his tone somewhere between curiosity and exhaustion.
“First we eat,” Bucky said, tossing him a protein bar. “Then we figure out how the hell we ended up here, and how to get out.”
Peter tore the wrapper, eyes still flicking toward the empty street. “You think something happened while we were on a mission?”
Bucky looked up at him, blue eyes reflecting the dim streetlight. “Kid, in our line of work, nothing just happens.”
For a moment, neither of them spoke. The rain softened into a steady patter against the cracked concrete, the city’s distant heartbeat filling the silence between them.
“We could probably set up here for the meantime.” Bucky breaks the silence as the turn and looks at the forgotten structure, there is a smashed window on the second story of the building.
Peter could easily just climb up, gripping to the walls with his powers, and Bucky easily could jump being physically enhanced.
Peter followed Bucky’s gaze to the dark window, glass glittering faintly in the streetlight like teeth. “You wanna go up there?” he asked, mouth full of a half chewed bar.
Bucky was already standing, duffel slung over one shoulder. “Yeah. We need a place to lay low. It’s too exposed down here.”
Peter nodded, pushing off the wall. “You take the stairs, or—”
“I’ll manage.” Bucky cuts in.
Peter smirked faintly. “Sure you will.”
Peter was already scaling the cracked wall, fingers and feet finding invisible holds. His jeans were scuffed at the knee, dirt and damp streaking the red of his hoodie into muted shades, but he moved easily, It’s muscle memory at this point. At the window, he peered inside.
“Looks clear,” he whispered down. “Smells gross though.” He clambers through the window and drops down to the concert below.
Bucky didn’t answer. A moment later, there was the faint scuff of boots, then the metallic clink of his prosthetic hand gripping the ledge. He pulled himself through beside Peter, landing silently despite his size.
Inside, the air was stale and cold. Dust swirled in the faint light from the window. Old desks were overturned, papers plastered to the floor by old water damage. A bird’s nest sat crooked in a ceiling corner, long abandoned.
Peter looked around. “Now this is luxury.”
Bucky dropped the duffel and began scanning the corners methodically. “Windows, exits, anything that looks like it could collapse on us. Check for it. Being crushed to death is embarrassing.”
“Got it.”
They worked in silence for a few minutes, Peter climbing along walls and beams, Bucky testing floorboards with careful steps. The rain had picked up again outside, wind howling faintly through the cracks in the roof.
When Peter finally dropped back down, he found Bucky spreading out a worn tarp from the duffel, setting up a makeshift sleeping area.
“Think this’ll hold us through the night.” Bucky muttered.
Peter sat across from him, pulling his knees up. “You think like maybe we are in some multiverse thing? I mean I had heard Mr Stark talk about it to Strange, and I think its possible since last time I checked this Gotham place didn't exist.”
Bucky didn’t look up. “I think until we know where we are, we treat it like enemy territory.”
Peter exhaled, watching his breath ghost in the cold air. “Enemy territory. Great. I had a science project to finish, this is just great.”
That earned the faintest twitch of a smile from Bucky. “You’ll live, kid.”
The building creaked as if in answer, an old, weary sound that made them both look up. The city beyond felt dangerous, unnervingly so.
“Yeah,” Peter murmured, softer now. “Let’s hope we both do.”
After sweeping the floor, Bucky finds and old mattress, luckily with no stains on it apart from some dirt. His flesh hand grabs the edge and hauls it through to the open room where they had first entered.
The mattress is dropped next to the duffle back, the thud echoing dully through the hollow space.
“Better than concrete,” Bucky said, brushing off a layer of grime with the edge of his sleeve.
Peter tilted his head. “That’s… a low bar, Bucky.”
Bucky gave a small grunt that might have been a laugh. He adjusted the mattress, so it lay flat. “You take first rest. I’ll keep watch.”
Peter blinked. “What? No way, I’ll be fine I promise, I was going to explore the city anyways—see what this city really is. You sleep first.”
Bucky shook his head, checking the magazine on his pistol before sliding it back into place. “Kid, I’ve done this routine longer than you’ve been alive. You won’t do anyone any favours half-asleep when something breaks in.”
“And no you aren't going out there alone, yeah you could handle yourself in New York but we have no idea who, or what is living here.”
Peter hesitated, his hair now slowly drying, before he mumbled. “Yeah, well, I don’t really sleep much anyway. Spider-sense goes haywire when I try in new places.”
That earned a real look from Bucky, tired, but thoughtful. “Then we’ll compromise. You rest your eyes, I keep an eye on the street.”
Peter opened his mouth to argue, then stopped. The weight in Bucky’s tone wasn’t up for debate. With a sigh, he sat on the mattress’s edge, leaning back on his palms.
For a while, there was only the sound of rain spattering through the holes in the roof. Far off, a siren wailed, a shrill, alien sound that didn’t belong to any city Peter recognized.
He turned his head toward the boarded-up window. “You ever slept in a place like this?”
Bucky didn’t answer immediately. His gaze was fixed on the dim shapes of rooftops outside, the flicker of a distant searchlight slicing through the fog. “Yeah,” he said finally. “A few times when I was on the run.” He doesn’t elaborate any further.
The wind howled again, rattling loose glass in the frame. “Get some rest kid.” Bucky says looking over at Peter as he leans back against the mattress. Bucky walks away from Peter to the other side of the room, staring out the window onto the streets below.
Peter had eventually drifted off, half-curled on the mattress with one arm draped over his chest, the faint rise and fall of his breathing the only proof he was really asleep. The rain had softened to a whisper now, a steady rhythm against the cracked glass and broken tile.
Bucky stood by the window, his silhouette framed in the dim city glow. Gotham stretched out below him like a bruise. The streets gleamed wet and empty, steam curling from manhole covers, distant lights flickering through the haze.
He scanned the streets the way he always did: mapping movement, exits, sightlines. His eyes tracked a pair of shadows passing under a flickering streetlamp, some poor souls hunched against the rain. His hand twitched before he even realized it.
The metal one.
The servo whined softly as the fingers flexed, slow at first, then sharper, like the reflex of a predator scenting something familiar. His jaw tightened. He forced the hand still against the sill, metal scraping wood.
They looked weak. “Weakness isn’t tolerated in HYDRA.”
An old voice, the one that came from somewhere deep, somewhere cold, stirred anyway.
What he thought next wasn’t words, not exactly. More like the pulse of a command buried under muscle and memory. Target and eliminate
Bucky’s breath came shallow. He closed his eyes and pressed his flesh hand to the back of his neck, trying to ground himself. The thoughts had become more frequent; he wasn’t sure how much longer he could keep them at just thoughts.
“You’re not him,” he muttered, reassuring himself.
He forced his gaze to the city, focusing on the smallest things, headlights gliding through puddles, the rhythmic blink of a traffic signal struggling against the storm. Gradually, his hand eased. The metal fingers relaxed.
Behind him, Peter murmured something in his sleep—something about home, or maybe “Mr. Stark,” the name soft and broken.
Bucky looked over his shoulder, the lines in his face gentling for a moment. “Sleep well kid.”
Then he turned back to the window, the light glinting faintly off the steel of his arm creating a reflection in the glass, silent, waiting, like a ghost that had never quite left.