Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Dishes came flying at him almost faster than he could keep up.  At least without revealing his powers, that is.  Gabe burst through the swinging door with yet another tub full of dirty plates, glasses and silverware.  The thin young man with a wiry strength hefted it onto the crowded bench.  Peter sighed.  He glanced at the clock.  Only 5 minutes till close, thank God.  Gabe exited the kitchen, and Peter quickly surveyed the room.  He was relieved to find that the head cook, Romeo, was the only one remaining, and he was busy in the walk-in restocking the shelves for tomorrow’s breakfast shift.    

Putting his head down, Peter sprang into overdrive.  Water splashed and soaked his shirt as he powered through the remaining dishes in record time, stopping to scoop an untouched hotdog and some fries into a to-go bag, then shoving it under the counter for later.  He had to be out of here on time tonight.  No time to stop and eat.  The meeting was at one AM, and he needed to be there first.

Just as he finished stacking the last clean plates onto the shelves, Romeo reappeared from the walk-in and shoved a small wad of bills into Peter’s palm.  The guy might be a grumpy, chain-smoking old man with questionable hygiene, but he always paid on time, didn’t mind Peter taking leftovers home (when there were any that were edible, which wasn’t often), but most importantly, he never asked questions. 

“Thanks, Romeo.  See you tomorrow.”  Peter said as he grabbed his to-go bag, shoved it into his backpack, and pushed open the heavy exit door, stepping into the dark alleyway that ran behind the diner.  

He checked his phone; thirty minutes to get in position.  The frigid night air whipped through his hair as his bicycle sped through the darkened streets.  

He’d come across this case by accident, really.  Gabe had been off sick, so Peter had bussed that night.  As he had been clearing a wad of wet, sticky napkins off a table, his finely attuned hearing picked up on a snippet of hushed conversation from two sketchy-looking guys in the far corner.  One was broad, bald-headed and imposing, with a face that looked like it had endured a rather unsuccessful boxing career, maybe in his late thirties.  The other was tall and lanky, his eyes were beady and rat-like, and he looked to be in his mid-twenties.  

Sketchy-looking guys weren’t exactly few and far between in this neighbourhood, but there was something about these two that had the hairs on the back of Peter’s neck stand on end, and his senses dial in.

“...so you’re saying they just, what, disappear?”  

“That’s what I’m saying.  Most of them disappear in one shot.  Worst case scenario it might take two.”  The man’s mouth turned up at the corners in a slimy smile.

Peter had pulled the bottle of surface spray off the belt of his apron, spraying the table, and then wiping his damp rag over the surface in slow circles, as he feigned a laser focus on the task.

“And there’s nothing left?  I don’t wanna be cleaning up messes or leaving DNA behind.”  The apparent customer had asked, leaning over the table, his eyes darting around the room.

Peter had kept his head down and started slowly stacking plates into his tray from the next table over.

“That’s what I’m saying.  It’s clean, quick and easy.  So, your boss want in on this or not, Mike?  Cause I got a lot of interest.”  The bald man asked impatiently.

“Yeah.  He’s interested.  He wants to check out the merchandise in person, though.”  Mike responded.

“The abandoned Nylex factory over on Richmond.  One AM, Thursday.”  

With that, the seller had pushed back his chair and slunk from the diner, the bell over the door jingling merrily as he left, like it too was glad to see him go.  Mike had left less than a minute later.  No tip.  Asshole.

Now, as he pedalled the final block toward the factory, his face practically frozen by the cool wind, he searched for a good spot to change and hide his bike.  He settled for the dumpsters behind the neighbouring factory.  A few short minutes later, he was sitting cross-legged on the roof of the building, mask pulled up to reveal his mouth, as he wolfed down the hotdog and fries from work.  His homemade suit was a little scratchy along the seams, and he shifted uncomfortably.  The new suit that he was in the process of making was hung over a chair back at his apartment, almost finished, but not quite.  He’d taken more care with the seams this time around.  

His swinging feet thunked against the side of the building rhythmically as he waited, hearing tuned in to notice any approaching cars.  Checking his watch, he sighed.  Still five more minutes.  Time left alone with his thoughts was like a torturous run through a gamut of razor-beaked homicidal birds these days.      

As he surveyed his surroundings, the bare roof, the pot-holed parking lot between abandoned buildings, and the stench of old dumpster wafting up to him, he felt his shoulders sag.  This wasn’t how he’d pictured his life as an adult.  Working cash jobs to get by because he no longer existed on paper, renting a pay-by-the-month apartment in a skeezy part of town, and trying to find a balance between working and vigilante justice.  None of that measured up to the loneliness, though.  He’d work a million shitty jobs, live in the most run-down tenement, if he just had May, MJ or Ned back.  Or Stark.  Or Happy.  Hell, even Flash.  The mouthful of hotdog he was swallowing suddenly became lodged in his throat as a hard lump formed there.  He coughed and spat the food out, his appetite having disappeared.  Consoling himself with the knowledge that everyone who was left was safer without him was wearing thin, as the solitude became unbearable.  

Peter pushed the thoughts away, needing to focus tonight, not wallow in self-pity.  Crumpling up the paper bag, he tossed it toward an open dumpster in the parking lot and watched as it sailed cleanly through the air and landed with a light thunk in the empty bin.

At that moment, he heard the approaching crunch of tires over cracked asphalt and quickly shuffled into position, flat on his belly, peering over the edge of the roof.  A black SUV with darkly tinted windows pulled into view, and after a moment, a shiny bald head emerged from the passenger side of the vehicle; the man from the diner the other night.  In the brief illumination from the car’s interior light, he could just make out the silhouettes of a driver and another person, maybe two, in the back seat.  

The gigantic man who had exited the vehicle performed a quick search of the area, sweeping it with a powerful torch.  Peter ducked and held his breath as the light flashed over the edge of the roof, releasing the air from his lungs as it continued panning across the building and disappeared with a click.  Risking another glance, he saw the man stuff the torch back into his jacket and stand at attention beside the car.  Zeroing in on the man’s hands, he spotted an odd-looking weapon.  Shaped like a gun, but with a cylindrical chamber atop it that was glowing with a swirling orange and red light inside. 

Tires crunching over gravel alerted him to the buyer’s arrival a full thirty seconds before the black Hummer came into view, pulling up about twenty yards in front of the SUV.  The guy from the restaurant, Mike, appeared first, exiting from the passenger side and rushing to open the rear door.  A man with perfectly coiffed black hair, a neatly trimmed beard, and a tailored black suit stepped out, adjusting his cuffs as he casually strolled to the front of the vehicle.  

Lifting his chin to the seller’s man in acknowledgment, he leaned back on the hood and propped one heel up on the grill.  Springing into action, the man, whom Peter assumed was a bodyguard, opened the SUV’s rear door for his boss.  

As he inched slightly closer to the edge to get a better look at his target, Peter ignored the hard bolt that snagged his suit and poked into his ribs.

If he thought that the man’s bodyguard was gigantic, then the boss was in another ballpark altogether.  A hulking bald head sat directly atop a set of shoulders that looked as though they were made from a steel I-beam.  The man’s chest was almost as broad as the front of the SUV that he was now standing in front of.

“Mr Rossi.”  The giant stated.  It wasn’t a question.  Peter got the feeling this man was seldom incorrect about anything.

“That’s me,” The other man said with a smirk, “I didn’t catch your name, Mister…?” 

The giant smiled, but to Peter it looked more like a shark’s grin.  Predatory.  Dangerous.

“That won’t be necessary.  This is a transaction, no need to share life stories.”  Gigantor (as Peter had decided to name him), said quietly.  His voice somehow managed to be soft and sharp all at once.

“Whatever you say, champ.”  Rossi huffed, and Peter was astonished by his gall.  He either had balls of steel, or a completely smooth brain.  Which one it was, remained to be seen.

Gigantor’s lips pressed together firmly, and he rolled his head, setting off a chain of cracks and pops.

“So, we gonna look at this merchandise of yours?  Seeing as this is a transaction.”  

This guy was gonna get himself killed, Peter shook his head.

Gigantor stared the man down for a long moment, unnaturally still, before he finally nodded, “Of course,” he stated and turned to walk to the rear of the SUV.  His bodyguard, two steps ahead, had already opened the rear hatch door.

Peter watched as the two men stood looking into the neatly stacked crates in the trunk, illuminated by the car’s interior light.  The bodyguard stood to one side, surveying the surroundings.

“So, this do what my guy said it would?”  Rossi asked as he handled one of the strange pistols, waving it dangerously as he spoke.

Gigantor took Rossi’s arm and pushed it effortlessly down to hold it in place atop the crates.  With a tight smile, eyes shining in that predatory way, his words were quiet and smooth.

“Can’t risk a misfire now, can we?  However, I can offer a demonstration.”

“Sure, yeah.  A demonstration.”  Rossi said through gritted teeth, rubbing his wrist as soon as Gigantor released it.

The bodyguard opened the rear door once more, but this time he pulled out a person with a black hood over their head, wrists cuffed tightly behind their back.  Based on the muffled sounds coming from the man, he had been gagged.  

Shit.  Peter sprang to his feet, about to launch himself from the roof to intervene.  

A shot rang out from the side of the Humvee.  

Snapping around to look, Peter saw Mike, ducking back behind the vehicle for cover as the driver of the SUV tumbled out of the door and onto the ground, blood pooling quickly around him as he gurgled, then went still.  Two more armed men appeared from the Humvee and took cover, as they shot toward Gigantor and his bodyguard.

A strange whip-crack sound accompanied a flash of red light.  The light struck the car, leaving a reddish-brown clay-like substance that slowly bled from the site.

At the back of the SUV, Gigantor was grappling with Rossi over one of the pistols.  Gigantor quickly got the upper hand and aimed the pistol, narrowly missing as Rossi rolled under the car and scrambled out the other side and into a crouched run back toward his Humvee.

Mike and his friends were still popping out from behind the hood, taking shots at the bodyguard, who was firing back, each flash of red light leaving a hole that more gunk slid from. 

Another red blast.

It hit Rossi square in the middle of his back.  

He was gone.  

Had Peter blinked?  Had he missed something?

“Boss?”  Mike screeched, his face stunned as he lowered his weapon a fraction.  

At that moment, Gigantor rounded the side of the SUV and fired at him.  

Another whip-crack.

Another flash of red.

And then Mike was just…gone.

The two other men from Rossi's gang were scrambling now to get back into the Humvee and escape, but Gigantor approached with a speed and agility that seemed at odds with his hulking frame.  Two more shots were fired, and both men ceased to exist.

“Holy cow!”  Peter breathed as he stood atop the roof, hands fisted on top of his head.

To his horror, Gigantor stopped mid-stride, turning sharply to look directly up at Peter.

“Oh shit!”  Peter squeaked, dropping instantly into a crouch and sprinting for the opposite side of the roof.

An engine came to life behind him, car doors slammed, and tires crunched over gravel.

He couldn’t outrun them.  No matter how fast he was, he wasn’t going to outrun two madmen in an SUV with weapons that could make people disappear.  Then, he spotted it, a tower for the electrical cables that ran through the area.  Aiming, he released a web and said a silent prayer.  It stuck. High enough up for him to swing his way halfway to the next one.  He shot his web again, continuing this way down the road as the sound of the SUV followed him.  

The engine grew louder.

Closer.

Not risking a look back, he swung himself to a nearby rooftop, an apartment building, only five floors, but it would do.  

Sprinting across the rooftop, he changed course, heading off the industrial access road and back toward the city, where he’d be able to gain some height and lose them.

Launching from the building, he shot his web to a taller building across the street, cursing as a red flash whooshed past his ear.

Flipping mid-air, he swung again, then again, changing course when he could.

But the black blur of the SUV followed him, gaining ground, red light blasting past him, getting closer to a strike each time.

Adrenaline coursed through his veins, his chest heaving, as he searched in vain for another course, a way out.

Swinging around a corner, he came in a little low this time, just missing a guy on a motorbike.

“Sorry!”  He called back as the man looked up, then swerved just in time to avoid being run off the road by the wildly drifting SUV.

Another red blast.  He could feel the gust of displaced air this time as it passed perilously close to his arm, and a shower of a sand-like substance rained down on him from the window above that had been hit.

Gunfire rang out.

Peter swung to the top of another building and sprinted across, taking a fraction of a second to assess what was happening below.  

The guy on the motorbike was holding a rifle, and he aimed at the SUV again.  

Peter shot his web and swung himself from the roof, hurtling across the street to the next building.  He almost expected to be shot at again.  But it seemed that Gigantor and his demented bodyguard were now preoccupied with the newcomer on the motorbike.  

Shit.  The man didn’t know what he was up against.  Peter needed to get him out of the line of fire before he got himself evaporated.

Keeping the man in sight, he hurried to catch up to him, swinging above the road from one side to the other to keep his momentum going. 

Holding a rifle aloft, the man shot again, taking out a tire and sending the SUV careening across the road.  The driver corrected at the last moment and kept them from crashing into the bodega on the corner.

Motorbike guy was gaining ground on them when Peter saw Gigantor lean out of the passenger window and fire back at the bike.

The motorbike swerved one way, then the other.  Peter couldn’t help but be impressed.  The guy was good.  But not good enough to stop whatever that weapon was doing to people.

Another shot from the rifle took out the other rear tire, and the SUV screeched down the street, fishtailing, sparks flying from its bare rims as the driver pushed on.

Gigantor emerged again and began firing wildly.

Peter had to get this guy out of here before he got himself, or someone else, killed.

Taking a deep breath, mid swing, he aimed his web and fired.

The back tire of the motorbike seized as the web snared in it.

Another web shot out and hit the man right in the middle of his back, and Peter yanked backward harshly.  Instead of flying headfirst over the handlebars, the man was pulled off the bike and into the air, where he dangled a few feet above the sidewalk from the web still attached to Peter’s wrist.

The SUV continued its screeching way down the street as it sped out of sight around a corner.

Damnit.  This guy had cost him the only lead he had on this.  Righteous anger bubbled up in him.  He could try to go after them, still.  But he doubted he’d be able to catch up at this point.

“Let me down, asshole.”  The man called from below, sounding tired.

Sighing, Peter released the web, and the man fell with a thunk to the concrete.  He recovered surprisingly fast. Springing back up to his feet and looking up at Peter.

“Ugh, it is you.”  The man removed his helmet to reveal his scowling face.

The Winter Soldier?  Holy shit.  Peter was too angry to revel in the shock.

“What the hell were you doing?  This is my case!  I had it under control.”  He admonished, not disguising the anger in his voice.

Barnes snorted an unimpressed laugh out of his nose and shook his head with a smirk.

“Sure you did, kid.  Had him on the ropes, right?”

“Yeah, I did.”  Peter cringed at how obvious the lie was.  But the irritation was still bubbling under his skin.

“Okay,”  Barnes replied, rolling his eyes. “You’re up way past your bedtime, kid.  Time to call it a night and go home.” 

“I’m not a kid.  And, screw you…”  Peter’s heart pounded at the insult, his lessons in manners from Aunt May kicking in and taking over as he added, “Sir.”

Barnes chuckled lightly, and it made Peter bristle even more.

“Look,”  He said, hands on hips, as he looked up at Peter once more.  “I’m sorry, okay?  Let me make it up to you by giving you a ride home.  You won’t be catching up to those guys tonight.”

No thanks to you, Peter thought bitterly.  

He watched as Barnes retrieved his bike from where it lay in the street, using his vibranium hand to tug sharply at the web stuck in the wheel.  Peter was shocked that it came away without too much effort.  Was it the vibranium mixed with super-soldier strength that made short work of it, or was it the fact he’d been having to steal his ingredients and couldn’t always get the best quality ones for making his webs?  He filed that away to examine later.  

Peter sighed.  As much as he wanted Barnes to just go away and stay out of his business, it was a pretty long way back to the warehouse and his bike.  He couldn’t risk leaving it there.  And despite Barnes’ annoying comments, he was actually beyond exhaustion.  His shoulders slumped, and he slowly let out the web that was still connecting him to the building, easing himself down toward the ground until he was close enough to safely drop to his feet.

“Fine.”  he said tersely, ignoring the way Barnes raised one eyebrow at him.  “But this doesn't mean we’re even for you messing up my case.”  

Barnes smirked at him and pushed a helmet down over his head without a word.  Peter flicked up the visor, scowling heavily.

“Safety first,” Barnes chirped as he mounted the bike, started it up, and waited patiently for Peter to get on behind him.  

Peter groaned.  This sucked.   

“I had to leave my bike at the old Nylex factory.  You can take me there.”  He said begrudgingly. 

“You have a bike?”  Barnes swivelled to look at him, brows raised.

A pink flush crept across Peter’s cheeks.

“It’s a…bicycle.”  He mumbled, feeling the heat in his face. 

Barnes chuckled as the bike launched forward.  Peter had to quickly grasp onto his shoulders as they took off back the way they had come.

****

When they pulled into the car park of the factory, the Humvee was still sitting abandoned in the middle of the lot.  Barnes killed the bike’s engine and assessed the area, a light frown drawing his features down.

“What happened here?”

Peter sighed and dismounted without answering.  This guy had already interfered enough with his case; he didn’t need all the details.  But as he raised his arms to remove the helmet, he felt a sharp poke in his ribs and flinched.

“Ow!  What the hell, man?”  

He yanked the helmet off and shoved it at Barnes.  That’s when he noticed it.  The blood on the tip of the other man’s finger.  

Their eyes locked.  

Barnes reached out again, but Peter slapped his hand away.

“Are you…Is that Lycra?”  Are you seriously telling me that you’re doing this shit while wearing Lycra?”

He almost sounded angry.  Peter placed a self-conscious hand over the blood-soaked tear in his suit, and the wave of anger that had remained at his periphery rose up his throat and spilled out in angry words.

“Yeah, well, I don’t exactly have access to Stark tech anymore.  So I do what I have to.”  He spat out, then turned and stalked away.

“Hey, kid!”  Bucky called after him.  Peter didn’t look back.  He heard the man mumbling to himself, then the sound of footsteps coming after him.  He spun on the next step to face him.

“Just leave me alone, will you?  This is my case, my suit, and I don’t need or want your help, okay?”  The words sounded far braver than he felt as the super soldier towered over him.

Barnes bit his lip and ran a hand through his hair.  Then he shook his head, sighing loudly.

“You’re gonna get yourself hurt, or killed.  Just…stick to the smaller neighbourhood stuff.  My team will take this one.”

Peter was surprised that Barnes knew what he’d been doing.  Although he supposed that he still made small headlines here and there, stopping petty crimes.  But the shock was overtaken by the irritation once again.

“No way!  I found this, I’m handling it.  Stay out of my way.”

With that, Peter turned on his heel once more and strode back to the dumpster where he’d left his bike.

“If I run into you on this case again, I’ll take you out of play, kid.  It’s for your own safety.”  Barnes called after him.  Peter ignored it.  A moment later, the bike roared to life again, followed by the sound of gravel spraying out from the back wheel as Barnes took off.

****

Even with his softest footfalls, the stairs creaked under him in synchronicity with the swishing of his hoodie and sweats against the spider suit hiding underneath.  Muscles aching, and bruises throbbing, he trudged up to the third floor.  The building was quiet at this hour; everyone was either asleep or deep into their graveyard shift.  Peter jiggled the key in the lock; son of a bitch always stuck.  A wave of exhausted frustration stirred in his chest, and the jiggle of the handle turned into a sharp shake.  The handle gave way and came off in his grip.

The thunk of his forehead falling forward against the door was loud in the stillness of the hallway.  Peter sighed and rubbed his tired eyes.  He wasn’t shocked, although he was a little embarrassed, to find his knuckles came away damp with unshed tears.  He was twenty for Christ’s sake, too old to be crying over a missed bedtime.  Forcing his shoulders back and a deep breath into his lungs, he pushed the door handle back into its socket and tried again.

With a click, the door sprang open to reveal the dark and empty apartment.  The silence within was oppressive.  Sometimes, when he lay awake at night, the quiet pressed in on him like a heavy shroud, making it hard to breathe.  Other times, the sounds of the couple next door came to him through the thin walls, carrying on light conversation, or laughing together - her laughs were soft and melodic, his were loud and hearty.  Sometimes, Peter pretended he was in their apartment with them, responding silently to their questions, laughing with them at their jokes, imagining that he wasn’t quite so alone.

The bare bulb in the middle of the room buzzed and cast a wan glow in a tight circle, little more useful than a candle, as he flicked it on.  He dumped his backpack next to the door and kicked off his shoes.  He stunk from working a double and then chasing bad guys across half the city.  Really, he should shower, but his aching feet carried him instead to the drafty bedroom, and he collapsed on top of the covers, face down.

The blissful oblivion of sleep called to him like a siren song, but a more pressing and urgent thought kept it at bay.  

The Winter Soldier.  

No, he wasn't that anymore.  Wasn’t he like, a congressman or something now?  Was he still a congressman, though, now that he’d joined up with that New Avengers group?  He supposed it didn’t really matter.  Because of all the luck, he’d to run into Cap’s best friend in the middle of a case.  At least he didn’t seem to bear a grudge for the whole airport incident.  Irritation at the interference still rankled at the corner of his mind, but he had to admit to himself that it had been kinda…nice, to have someone he knew from before at his back.  Even if that person didn’t know his real identity.

Peter groaned and shuffled himself under the covers.  A chill crept in through the gaps around the window in the early morning hours, and even with two layers, he was cold.  Damn slumlord never fixed a damn thing in this place.  If he had the money to buy the supplies, he’d do it himself, but every spare penny was going towards buying him new identification documents, seeing as one of the apparent side effects of Strange’s spell was that he had disappeared from all official records.  He hadn’t known at the time that making the world forget him didn’t mean just in people’s memories, but it meant erasing his identity entirely.

As his body temperature began to rise again, his thoughts turned back to Barnes.  He had another thing coming if he thought he could kick Peter off his own case.  He’d found it.  He was handling it…

Right?

It was times like this he missed Mr. Stark the most. Tony always knew what to do.  In some twisted way, Peter was grateful that he was no longer alive, because at least in death he hadn’t been subjected to the spell that made the rest of the world forget him.  Even though he was gone, he had never forgotten Peter.  Grief hit like a knife to his gut, twisting as he tried to breathe through the sharp, cold sting of it.        

Pulling the covers up over his face to trap in the warm air and heat up his frozen face, he exhaled heavily.  This would all have to wait until tomorrow; he had another double shift starting in less than six hours, and even with his super-powers, he needed sleep.  Plus, when he was sleeping, he could forget how alone he was.

Chapter Text

Late afternoon sun streamed in through the sheer curtains over his living room window, reflecting golden light off the glass top of the coffee table and soft cream rug.  Bucky stood at the kitchen counter and sipped at a strong black coffee.  He looked out into the ivy-covered walled courtyard of the Brooklyn brownstone he’d purchased a few months ago, when his military backpay had cleared, letting the warmth and tranquility of the space soak into him.  The tower was fine and all, he didn’t mind the rest of the Thunderbolts, New Avengers, team.  They were growing on him.  But sometimes he needed space, and quiet.  Peace was hard to come by with the dynamic of so many strong personalities, all dealing with various levels of trauma, forced into close proximity.   

Taking another sip of coffee, he scrolled through the news, pausing as a headline jumped out at him.

“Spider-Man involved in risky late-night chase.  Super hero, or super destructive?”

Skimming through the article, he didn’t find any mention of his involvement, just an account of how much it would cost to repair the damage caused by last night’s activities.

This spider kid was creating quite the conundrum.  He was apparently a free agent; he had no known accomplices that Bucky could find record of.  In fact, all of his searching hadn’t turned up anything other than a few short articles mentioning Spider-Man taking care of some petty crimes around Lower Manhattan, sometimes Queens.  There were no records of his real name, or face, to be found.  

But one thing was certain - he was young and inexperienced.  It was clear he’d had little to no formal training.  And whether he was trying to do good or not, that made him a potential danger to the public and a fiscal liability for the city.  Neither of which would end well for him.  

Bucky took another gulp of his cooling coffee and sighed heavily, debating with himself as to whether any of this was his responsibility.  He wasn’t exactly the morality police.  He didn't know what he could possibly offer this kid.  Hell, he didn’t even know what he could offer this world anymore.  There wasn’t a box that he could neatly fit himself into - he wasn’t an assassin, or a hero, or a sole agent, nor a team player, he was barely a human, and wasn’t even sure if he could classify himself as anyone’s friend.  Hair hung down into his eyes and brushed his cheeks as he planted one hand on the counter and let his head drop.  There was only one person he trusted for advice on this.      

The coffee cup clinked against the marble countertop as he placed it down and wiped his sweaty palm off on his jeans.  

Scrolling through his contacts, his thumb hovered over the name, suspended in the air as he blew out a harsh breath and braced himself for the potential rejection he was about to face.  A rejection that would devastate him more than he cared to admit.

Sam answered on the third ring.

“What do you need?”  Sam answered tersely.

Bucky’s heart clenched at the steel in Sam’s voice.

“Uh, hey, Sam,” he stammered out.  Christ, he hadn’t been this nervous to make a phone call since he was a teenager asking a girl out on a date.

“Everything okay, Buck?”  The hard edge to Sam’s voice had softened infinitesimally.

Ropes of tension that had been creeping across Bucky’s shoulders loosened just a little at the change in tone.

“What do you know about that Spider-Man guy?”  He thought it best to get straight to the point, lest Sam change his mind about talking to him.  “He was at the airport in Germany with Stark.  And at the final battle with Thanos.  Other than that, he’s mostly been doing small-time neighbourhood stuff.”  Bucky started to pace, his feet whispering over the plush rug as he trekked back and forth across his living room.  A restless energy stirring up and propelling him into motion.

A deep breath rattled down the phone from Sam’s end.  “I don’t know any more than you do, man.  Is he working with anyone these days?”

“I haven’t seen evidence of anyone working with him, pretty sure he’s a solo agent.  But he’s just…  I dunno, man.  Something’s not sitting right about this…”  He swallowed, unsure if he really wanted to know Sam’s answer to the next question, but he forced the words out.  

“Do you remember what he looks like, under the mask?”  Bucky chewed his thumbnail and listened as the connection crackled with Sam’s contemplative breathing on the other end of the line.

“I don’t know if I ever saw him without the mask…”  came Sam’s uncertain reply.

The strange prodding that Bucky had felt at the back of his mind since running into the kid last night swelled within him, more forceful this time.

“I could have sworn I saw him without his mask, after the battle with Thanos.  But…”  he hesitated, not sure if he wanted to acknowledge the gap in his memory, and what that might mean.  He forced the words to come out.  “But I can’t seem to remember his face.”

It took a moment for Sam to respond.

“You have any other gaps in your memories lately?”  The genuine concern in Sam’s voice tugged at his brittle heart.

“No.  My memory has been stable for years now.”  It was said as much to reassure himself as Sam.

There was a pause on the other end before Sam spoke again, his words careful.

“You’ve got good instincts, Buck.  So I say you trust them, follow your gut.  If something’s feeling off, then maybe it is.  But from what I remember, he seemed like a decent kid.  Tony wouldn’t have worked with him if he wasn’t.  Just…proceed with caution, I guess.”  

Bucky considered this for a moment, feet still now as resolve settled into his core.

“My gut is telling me that I should try to help him, before he gets himself or someone else hurt.”  His thumbnail was bitten down to the quick now, as he slowed his pacing and flopped down onto the plush sofa, stirring dustmotes into the air.  “But I just can’t shake this feeling.”

“Well, if you decide that you can’t take him on, give him my number.  We’re building a good team here.”

Bucky nodded to the empty room, hearing the gentle barb hidden beneath Sam’s words. 

“I know,” he said softly, “Thanks, Sam.”   

“Any time,”  Sam responded, and it sounded like he meant it.  

Bucky swallowed thickly, hanging up and tossing his phone onto the sofa beside him as he rubbed his temples, trying to ease away some of the tension that had been building since last night.  

He was grateful Sam had answered, even if he hadn’t had any intel, but it had still felt a little like walking on eggshells.  Their connection had reverted from an almost familial friendship back to their strained early days of unsaid words and complicated feelings.  

He hated it.

****

As he lay in bed that night, he just couldn’t shake it.  The feeling of bugs crawling up his spine, burrowing into his brain, creating holes in the grey matter.  

A surge of frustration flushed heat through his chest and up his neck, muscles twitching, his hands flexing against the bedsheets as he tried to search for the face he was missing.

Pulling out one memory after another - the airport in Germany, the final battle against Thanos, Stark’s funeral - surely the kid had been there?  He examined each one for any sightings of, or interactions with him.  Every recollection was crystal clear, playing in high definition across his mind’s eye.  He played through each memory again.  Everything was normal.  Until…

Stark’s death.  The kid kneeling in front of him.  He’d been crying.  Bucky knew this because he hadn’t been wearing his mask.  He knew it for a fact.  But the memory was…altered somehow.  The more he searched for the kid’s face, the further away it slipped, like a reflection in water, it rippled, blurred, and distorted, then swam away from him.

He shook his head, trying to clear it.  Frustration surged again, and he carded his hands through his hair, giving it a firm tug to relieve the pressure in his brain.

It was normal to forget small details.  

The reassurance didn’t land and a sliver of fear slithered through his gut.  Taking a steadying breath, he pushed himself up to sit against the headboard of his bed and flicked on the bedside lamp.  A warm glow was cast over the room, illuminating the soft neutral tones and rumpled bedding.  Sometimes the light helped when he was spiralling.  

It didn’t help tonight.  

Trying again, he turned to the funeral.  Combing over every fine detail he could pull forth.  The lake, Sam beside him, Steve nearby.  He closed his eyes and scanned over the crowd.  Most of the faces were familiar.  But just behind Steve, there was a woman he didn’t know.  Brunette, attractive, maybe in her forties.  And next to her there was a teenager in a suit.  Was that the kid?

An angry growl ripped from him as he tried to focus on the face’s features, but they swirled and blurred and slipped away from him.

Tight bands began to cinch around his chest, constricting his airways as his heart pounded against them.  

It was okay.  It was normal.  Everyone forgot small details.

The bands tightened, and he heaved for breath, his heart trying to escape the cage of his compressed ribs.

There was something wrong with these memories.  

Ice-cold water began to fill his lungs, the sensation familiar and terrifying.

Sam’s advice came to him, a gentle reminder.  He’d talked him through more than one panic attack.

Breathe in through the nose, out through the mouth.  

He was drowning, instinct telling him to close his mouth and hold his breath.  

Name five things you can see.

Sheets, television, window, lamp, clock.

The room began to sway.  He forced himself to breathe in.

Name four things you can hear.

As he worked his way through the steps, the ice water filling his lungs began to recede, and oxygen began to flow once more to his brain.

He could remember every other tiny detail of those encounters.  This was the first time in years that a memory had evaded him.  

So why was it just this one kid’s face that seemed to be missing?  Maybe the teen and the woman at the funeral were just some random people who knew Stark.  It didn’t have to mean anything.  But then, why couldn’t he picture the missing face?

Whilst the panic was quelled, the frustration remained, an electric current coursing through his veins and stirring him to action.

The sheets rustled as he threw them back and swung his feet to the floor.  Grabbing his t-shirt and jeans off the back of the armchair in his bedroom, he pulled them on, then stuffed his feet into his boots without lacing them and headed to the door. 

If he wasn’t going to sleep tonight, then he might as well do something productive.

Fifteen minutes later, his car glided almost silently through the streets of Lower Manhattan.  That’s where most of the recent news articles placed him, so he figured it would be the best place to start.  The kid obviously wasn’t afraid of heights, and what better vantage point to detect anything untoward happening in the city than at the top of a skyscraper.  He pulled into a parking spot near Freedom Tower and walked confidently to the main doors.  When he’d had access to Shuri’s lab in Wakanda, he just may have created a few handy, though slightly unethical tools.  He fished the universal access card from his pocket and held it to the scanner.  The distinct clicking of a door unlocking accompanied the flash of green light.  

The roof was bare, cold, and windy, but the view across the rooftops of the city was unobstructed.  

Bucky pulled out his scope and leaned it on the Eastern ledge as he settled in to wait.  There were no guarantees that the kid would even be out tonight.    

Thirty-seven minutes later, he caught a slight movement, a flash of red and blue as something swung up onto a rooftop about four hundred feet away.  Tracking it with the scope, he was able to zero in on his target.  He watched as the kid came to the edge of the rooftop and leaned over, looking down, cocking his head as if listening.  Then his posture slumped and he hoisted himself up onto the edge.  Bucky held his breath, praying silently for an uneventful night.  He couldn’t chase the kid through the city while he was swinging from building to building in the dark.  But the Spider-Man simply sat himself on the edge and swung his feet as he pulled something out of a bag beside him, rolled up the bottom of his mask, and started to eat.

This was going to be a long night.

The kid left once, when an alarm started blaring from a street-level business.  Bucky cursed, thinking he’d lost him for the night, but he swung back up onto the roof only a handful of minutes later.  False alarm.  

Several hours later, darkness began to pull back from the horizon, casting a grey light over the city.  Those still, quiet moments just before the sun breached the horizon.  Bucky’s fingers were cold, and his back was stiff.  

Surely the kid had to head home soon.

As if his thoughts had been sent telepathically across the distance, the young man stood up, brushed off his hands, and stooped to start packing objects back into his bag.  Springing into action, Bucky holstered his scope and ran for the stairs.

The sleek black car stalked silently through the streets, following from a distance as the Spider-Man swooped and swung leisurely between buildings, finally taking to the street in a rundown area full of old tenements.  The area reminded Bucky of the Brooklyn he used to know; gentrification hadn’t yet reached it.

Bucky pulled over and followed from a distance on foot, ducking into an alleyway when the kid turned to walk up the stoop of a grimy-looking pay-by-the-month-in-cash apartment building.  When the front door had closed, he found his way to the rear of the building through a series of connected service alleyways and started up the fire escape.  It was a shot in the dark that he’d find the right apartment, but he guessed that the kid couldn’t afford a street-facing one.

Luck was on his side as he approached the third floor and heard someone moving around inside.  Sidling up to the window, he risked a peek in and had his suspicion confirmed when he saw a blue and red suit hanging over the back of a chair.  The sound of rushing water and banging pipes came from the interior, and Bucky took his chance.  Slowly, carefully, he jimmied a knife in under the rotting wood of the window frame and wedged it open enough to slip his vibranium fingers in, gently hoisting the window up. Then, he silently climbed through.

A pair of feet swung down from the ceiling and kicked him square in the face.

“Fuck!”  He exclaimed as he stumbled back into the wall, and a burst of hot crimson blood sprang from his nose.

“Congressman Barnes?”  

“Not a congressman anymore,”  Bucky replied as he pinched his nostrils together to stem the flow.  Peter took several steps toward him, stopping when Bucky held up his hand.  

“Oh, sorry, Sergeant Barnes.”  He corrected.

“Not a Sergeant either.”  Bucky rolled his eyes and motioned for the kid to hand him a towel from the kitchen.  He darted across the small room and tossed a stained dish towel to him.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Barnes.”  He stood in the kitchenette area, still in his suit and mask, and shuffled from one foot to the other.

Bucky softened.  He’d had it coming.  The kid had super senses; of course he’d known he was being followed. 

“Just call me Bucky, kid.  Mr. Barnes makes me feel old.”

“Aren’t you like, a hundred or something?”

Bucky fixed him with a scowl, staring a hole through him.  Then he huffed out a sigh and moved to the singular dining chair to sit down, first shifting a box of assorted computer parts to the floor.  The kid leaned against the kitchen counter, eyeing him warily.  The blood had stopped flowing from his nose already, so he scrunched up the towel and tossed it toward an overflowing trash can.  

Bucky shook his head as he surveyed the dingy apartment - a pile of laundry took up most of the ratty old sofa, the small dining table was piled high with pizza boxes, and the bare lightbulb in the middle of the room was about as effective as a matchstick in the dark.

“Jesus, kid.”  He tried to conceal the pity in his voice.  

“I would have cleaned up if I’d known you were coming over.” There was a snarky edge to the words, and Bucky looked at him with one eyebrow raised.  The young man fidgeted with the hem of his sleeve, “Sir, uh, Mr. Bucky…Sir.”

Bucky huffed a sardonic laugh and shook his head.

“Just Bucky.”  He offered what he hoped was a warm smile, but based on the way the kid kept shifting his weight and wringing his fingers, it probably hadn’t landed as intended.

“You got a name?”  He asked, unsure why he didn’t already know it.  Had he known it?

“Everyone has a name.” The young man replied flatly, and an edge of nerves thinly veiled beneath.

Bucky rolled his eyes and drummed his fingers against the table.

“Look, kid.  I’m here because I think you’re onto something with this case.  I know you’re powerful, but I think maybe you’re more powerful than you know what to do with.  It’s clear that you’ve got skill, but it’s also clear that you’re untrained.  And I don’t wanna see you, or anyone else, get hurt.”

“I can look after myself, Mr Barnes.”  The words were stern, but wavering.

Bucky looked around at the chaos of the small apartment, then back to him with a piqued eyebrow.

“Okay, so I might be untrained, but I’m not gonna hurt anyone.”  He relented.

“Are you willing to take that risk?”  Bucky had a feeling that playing to his ostensibly good nature might sway the kid to see his point of view better than admonishing him.

Silence pressed down over the room as the seconds stretched into a minute, then the boy's shoulders slumped, and he released a breath.

“I just wanna help, kid,”  Bucky said gently, seeing the crumbling facade of bravado and leaning into it.

“Peter.” There was an edge of defeat in his voice, mixed with something that sounded like relief.

Bucky smiled, genuine this time.  

Peter hesitated, his jaw flexing beneath the mask.  With a trembling hand, he reached up and slowly pulled it off, revealing his face.

Bucky studied him intently; brown hair, brown eyes, a face that still held the plumpness of youth.  Something in the back of his mind was telling him he recognised the face, but that strange swirling feeling drowned it out.  Anxiety began to roil in his core again.  Peter shifted uncomfortably under his scrutiny.

Changing the subject before the feeling could take hold, Bucky asked, “You got any food in here, Peter?”  

He surveyed the grimy kitchen for any signs of groceries, but came up short.  

“Sure, yeah,” Peter said, startled a bit by the change of subject.  He opened the refrigerator and pulled out yet another pizza box. 

“Food that’s not leftover pizza?”  Bucky clarified.

“Oh, uhhhh…I have a jar of pickles annnnnnnd,” He surveyed the contents of the refrigerator, “some expired grape jelly.”  

A flush bloomed across Peter’s cheeks as he stuffed the box back in the fridge and closed the door, pressing his back to it. 

“When was the last time you ate a vegetable?”  Bucky looked at him, concern etched at the corners of his eyes.

“I ate some fries last night.”  Peter offered with a tenuous smile.

Bucky closed his eyes and inhaled deeply before releasing it slowly through his healing nose.

“That…doesn’t count.”    

Peter blinked at him from across the kitchenette like this was new information.

Bucky pushed his chair back and stood up, arching his spine to stretch out the stiffness and rolling his shoulders.  He slapped a fifty-dollar bill on the rickety table.

“Buy yourself some vegetables.  I mean it.  You’ll get scurvy.”

Peter scowled at him.  “I don’t need your charity.”

“But you do need some vitamins.  Consider it a loan if it makes you feel better.”  Bucky offered as he scanned the room once more.  Early morning sun was casting a sickly yellow pall over the room.  It didn’t look any better in the light.  

“This case is beyond your scope, Peter.  I’ll take it over from here, so no one gets hurt.  But if you have intel you could share, or if you need anything, you can call me on this number.”  He hastily scrawled his phone number on a notebook left lying on the table.  He met Peter’s eyes.  

“Don’t come to the Watchtower.  I mean it.”  Bucky pointed a vibranium finger at him, feeling like his Ma had suddenly taken over his body.  But it was imperative that Val never come face-to-face with an impressionable superpowered kid, ever again. 

Peter’s shoulders were tight, and his mouth was set in a thin line as he scowled at the floor.

One hand on the doorknob, Bucky looked back.  Peter hadn’t moved.  He pulled the door open and looked down in shocked confusion at the detached handle now resting in his palm.  He tossed it to Peter, who snatched it out of the air without looking up.  The stairs creaked loudly as he made his way down the three flights to street level, drowning out the thoughts that were pounding behind his eyes, creating pressure like the air before a thunderstorm. 

Chapter Text

Christ.  If he didn’t stop chewing so goddamn loud, he was going to have a vibranium fist in place of his teeth.

“You want some?”  

Walker waved the packet of jerky toward Bucky as he smacked and slurped around the visible wad of chewed meat in his mouth.  The noise filled the cabin of the inconspicuous sedan they were parked in.

A brief shake of his head and a steely glare was Bucky’s only response.

“It’s jerky!”  

John sang as he waved the package in Bucky's face again, as though he hadn’t been able to tell that it was jerky from the smell of it on Walker’s breath.

A heavy sigh escaped him as he turned back to stare out the windshield at the restaurant they were staking out.  He was beginning to think this night was a bust.  The restaurant had closed an hour ago, and there had been no suspicious activity before, or since.  

Walker continued his egregious mastications from the passenger seat.  

The steering wheel groaned quietly under Bucky’s clenched fingers.  He forced them to relax before he shattered it.

“So, why are we here anyway, Bucky?  This didn’t come from Val.”

Turning to meet his eyes once again, Bucky’s only response was an ice-cold glare.

Walker cleared his throat and shifted in his seat.  Finally, he broke eye contact and looked away, mumbling something under his breath about “...said I’d get used to it.”   

“Get used to what?”  Bucky asked.

Walker rolled his eyes and let out a breath.  

“Wilson,” he clarified, “He said I’d get used to the staring thing.  But I won't.  It’s creepy!  You know that, right?  That’s why you do it?”

Bucky didn’t answer, just turned to look out of his window to hide the smile on his face.

Three blissful minutes of silence were broken by John clearing his throat again and snorting loudly as he scrolled through his phone.  Closing his eyes and counting to ten, Bucky made a decision.  He’d give it one more hour, or until he murdered Walker, whichever came first.  He knew he should have asked Ava to come with him on this one.  She was quiet, and focused.

“Got a new picture of my kid, you wanna see?”  John asked, holding the phone up with a proud smile, so that Bucky could see the photo of a grinning toddler holding a melting ice cream cone.

“Cute.”  Bucky acknowledged, “Must take after his mother.”

“Yeah,” John smiled fondly at his phone, his features becoming serious in the blue light cast from its screen.  “At least I hope so,” he murmured as his thumb hovered over the picture.

Shit.  An icy wad of shame dropped into Bucky’s chest and started to spread.  He didn’t have to be such an asshole.  

“You’re not…entirely without some positive qualities.”  He forced the words out.

There was a hesitation, then John burst into laughter that bubbled up from his belly as he wiped at his eyes.

“Wow!  That one really cost ya, huh?”  John said through his laughter.

Bucky raised an eyebrow and shrugged, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. 

“Little bit.”   

An easy silence fell over the car, the only sounds the swish of tires against the road as cars passed them, and the steady thumping of bass from an apartment nearby.  Rolling his shoulders to ease the tension, his eyes began to burn with exhaustion.  He could feel sleep calling to him.  He’d give it another half an hour.  The certainty that this lead had been bad intel was creeping in.

“I gotta hit the head,”  John announced, reaching for the door handle.

“What?  We’re on a stakeout Walker, you can’t just go take a piss.”

“It’ll be fine!  I’ll be like, two minutes.  I’ll just duck down that alleyway over there.”  The car door creaked as it swung open and before he could utter another word, Walker was swinging the door closed behind him and disappearing into the dark.

The thought of starting the car and driving off without him crossed Bucky’s mind.  But he reluctantly pushed it down.

****

Peter fidgeted restlessly and shifted position again. Three hours and counting perched on this roof, and he was beginning to think that maybe this night was a bust.  Itching to get home (if he could call it that), and curl up in his bed to sleep for a century.  Yawning, he racked his brain for where he might have gone wrong with his intel.  He’d tracked Gigantor’s SUV through hacked traffic cameras to this address, and digging through property records and the string of shell companies it was registered to had finally come up with a name - Henrick Wagner.  Only one photo of the man existed online, but that was enough to confirm that Wagner was Gigantor.  After several sleepless nights hunched over his laptop, Peter finally had to admit defeat as he realised that there was no other trace of the man online.  No arrest records, no convictions, no other properties he could find, nothing.  The man was invisible to the law, and that made him a dangerous unknown.  

A car door thumped shut across the street, but before he could investigate, the back door of the restaurant squealed open and two of Gigantor's men emerged.  The sound of laughter and a curl of cigarette smoke drifted up to him.  As he peered over the edge, he saw the two men slide into a sports car that was parked in the alley. 

Springing into action, Peter darted across the roof, jumping easily onto the ledge and then waiting for the car to turn onto the street.  Headlights reflected off the windows of a sedan parked a few doors down, and Peter could have sworn that he saw movement within, but he dismissed it, ready to begin tailing these men back to their evil lair…or warehouse…or wherever it was that they were manufacturing the weapons.

The car turned right, picking up speed as it headed away from him.  Shooting a web to the building opposite, he swung out across the street, and began trailing the car, swinging easily from building to utility pole, to billboard, to building.  

As he landed on the roof of a four-storey building, rolled and then sprang to his feet, he caught headlights out of the corner of his eye.  Hesitating for just a fleeting second, he spotted it. 

The sedan that had been parked near the restaurant.

Inside - a head of dark hair and a glistening black metal hand clasped on the steering wheel.

Son of a…

He cut the thought short, clenching his teeth, as he swung out over the street again, spinning mid-air to sling a web at the sedan’s windscreen.  Peter smiled as the sedan slowed and the metal hand reached out of the window to tug at the obstruction.

Peter swung again, trying to regain ground on the sports car.  A crashing sound from behind alerted him, and he spun again, catching a glimpse of the sedan correcting course back onto the road, as several dented trash cans tumbled down the sidewalk.  

Oops.

He grimaced as he flung another web across the street and turned back to the pursuit of Gigantor’s men. 

Except they had stopped.  

And one of them was now leaning out of the passenger window, aiming one of those damn disappearing rays at him.  Dodging a flash of red as it sailed past his ear, he quickly shot off another web, this time at the man, hoping to either block his vision or jam the weapon.  But the man ducked back into the car just in time to avoid it.  

A shot rang out from behind, and a quick glance revealed Bucky, taking cover behind his car door as he fired at the sports car’s tires.

Peter swung again.  The sports car’s tires screeched as it took off, but not before the passenger appeared again and shot another round at Peter.  He felt the displacement of air as it ruffled his hair.

And then, he was falling.

The street rushed up to meet him.  Too quickly.

Strong arms encircled him as he hit a solid mass with enough force to knock the wind out of him.

“Ugh.  Get off.”  Bucky sounded pained as he shoved Peter off him and onto the road.

Peter flopped on his back, trying to force oxygen back into his lungs.

Bucky’s face appeared over him.  

“Get up.  Now, or we’re gonna lose them.”

Rough hands grabbed him by the biceps and yanked him up, setting him on his feet, and then pushing him into the open door of the car.  Too disoriented to argue, he buckled his seatbelt just as the car took off, throwing him back into his seat.

“What the hell happened, kid?”  Bucky demanded.

“Shot…my…web…”  Peter panted out, clutching at his ribs.

“Anything broken?”  Bucky asked, brow furrowed slightly as he threw the sedan recklessly around a corner and sent Peter reeling to the side..

“No…don’t think…so.  Just winded.”  He wheezed, grabbing onto the handle above the door for dear life as Bucky suddenly yanked the steering wheel and sent them careening down an alleyway.

“Good.”  The word was barked, then followed up with more harsh words.  “I told you to stay out of it, Peter!  You’re gonna get yourself killed.”  Bucky shook his head and sent a stern glare Peter’s way.

“I was doing just fine without your help!”  Peter bristled, voice still wheezing slightly.

“Oh yeah?  Your head would be getting scraped up off the pavement right now if I hadn’t caught you.”

Peter ground his teeth together, but didn’t say anything else, as just then they drifted around another corner and found themselves back on a main road, right on the tail of the sports car.

The passenger clambered halfway out of the window this time, weapon in hand. 

A gun appeared in Peter’s lap.

“Use it!”  Bucky shouted at him when he just sat there staring at it with his hands up.

Peter turned panicked eyes on him, mouth agape.

The windscreen shattered in a flash of scarlet, but rather than shards of glass, sand rained down on him.

“What are you doing?  Pick up the damn gun, Peter!”  Bucky yelled urgently.

“I can’t…I don’t…”  Peter stammered.

“Shit,”  Bucky exclaimed as he swerved the car to avoid another round of fire.  Peter glanced in his side mirror, just in time to see the red light hit an elderly homeless man square in the chest.   

“No!”  Peter gasped as he twisted in his seat to see the man.  But rather than disappear, the man straightened up and started to feel himself up and down.

What the hell was going on?  Had it malfunctioned?  

They screeched their way around another corner, and Peter lost sight of him.   They’d reached the industrial area. With the streets more open and empty now, Bucky revved the engine and gunned the sedan right for the sports car.  The man with the weapon emerged again.

“What are you doing?”  Peter shouted as Bucky got closer and closer to their target.  

Eyes wide in horror, Peter watched as the man raised the weapon. Aiming it directly at him as wind whipped and howled through the hole in the windscreen.

“Bucky!”

The sedan lurched forward and nudged into the rear of the sports car, sending it fishtailing across the street. 

The sports car raised onto two wheels, still sailing along the road, on the precipice of tipping.  Until finally, the balance tipped, sending the vehicle rolling and tumbling for another hundred feet before coming to a rest against a light pole.

Brakes slammed on with a squeal, and Peter was thrown against his seatbelt.  An arm shot out across his chest from the driver’s seat.

He looked down at the arm holding him in place, then back up at Bucky, blinking absently at him.  Bucky dropped his arm and cleared his throat.

“You good?”

“Uh, yeah, I think so.”  Peter swallowed hard.

“Stay here,”  Bucky ordered as he pulled a rifle from the door and stepped cautiously out of the sedan, watching intently for any signs of movement from the car that was now lying on its roof.

For a moment, Peter obeyed.  Then, the swell of indignation drove him out of his seat, tailing behind Bucky as he approached the crash site.

Peter didn’t hear any noise of movement coming from within the mangled car.  Bucky must have realised too, as he lowered his weapon.

“Are they…alive?”  He asked quietly, not sure if he wanted to know the answer.

Crouching by the smashed-out window, Bucky peered inside, then used his left arm to reach in and feel around for a moment.  He looked up to Peter from his position and nodded.

“We won’t be getting any info out of them tonight, though.  You got a phone?”

“Uh, yeah…”  Peter looked back at the man questioningly.

Bucky looked at him expectantly, then rolled his eyes.  

“Call an ambulance.”  He said with raised eyebrows.

“Oh, yeah, okay.”  Peter tapped on his Starkwatch and dialled 911, relaying their whereabouts, then hung up.  He felt like his brain was slowly shutting down from exhaustion.

Bucky stood now and brushed off his hands on his pants, then walked to the trunk of the upside-down car and used his vibranium hand to force the latch open.  A couple of blankets and an umbrella fell to the pavement.

Peter joined him, crawling under the car to get a better look into the trunk.  It was empty.  He felt around for any latches that might reveal a hidden compartment where weapons could be stashed, but came up empty.

“Nothing.”  He reported back to Bucky.

“Alright, well.  Let's get out of here before the cops arrive.”  Bucky turned back toward the sedan, as if he were expecting Peter to just follow along blindly.

“This is the second time you’ve interfered and screwed up my leads.”  He spat after him.

Bucky spun in place, looking every bit the Winter Soldier.  No wonder the guy was thought of as a boogeyman to intelligence agencies.  But anger was pushing any sense of fear down.

“I told you to stay out of my way.”  Peter scowled.

Bucky continued his impassive glaring.  

“And I told you,” his voice was smooth and quiet, like the whisper of silk against steel, “That you were off this case, before you got yourself, or anyone else, hurt.”

Peter exploded with indignation, words spilling out, angry and hot. 

“I’m gonna get someone hurt?  Me?”  Peter spun, flinging his arm back to showcase the upended car and the two men, now groaning in pain inside.

“You made a reckless and selfish choice, Peter.”  There was heat in Bucky’s voice now, a slight frown forming between his brows, his jaw set.  “You webbed my windscreen, that’s what alerted them to our presence.  It was stupid, and it was dangerous.”

Peter bit the inside of his cheek to stop from biting back at Bucky.  He railed against the fact that Bucky had a point.  Breathing heavily, he stared at the bitumen, shaking with fury and exhaustion.  In the distance, wailing sirens split the night.

Bucky sighed, “C’mon.  We don’t have time for this.  Get in the car, and I’ll take you home.”

Peter didn’t move a muscle, except for the one clenching his jaw shut as his teeth ground together.  Bucky stopped and turned to look at him again.

Meeting his eyes, heat flushing his cheeks, Peter shook his head.

“No.”

He turned and stalked away, sending a web flying up to the roof of a factory and launching himself upward.

****

“Are you gonna tell me what the hell that was about?”  Walker was leaning against the wall outside Bucky’s apartment door at the tower, face scrunched and flushed red, arms crossed, anger rolling off him in waves.

Bucky sighed.  This was the last thing he wanted to deal with right now; he should have driven the extra distance back to Brooklyn.  It had been a long and unproductive night, and all he wanted to do was shower and collapse into bed.  

“Not tonight, Walker.”  He grumbled, reaching to open his door.

John’s arm flung out across the doorframe, blocking his way.  Flicking a steely glare at him in warning, he was met with Walker’s set jaw and furrowed brow.

“You owe me this one.  I had to catch the damn subway back here, asshole.” 

Bucky broke eye contact first this time, looking down at Walker’s arm still obstructing his path to bed.

“M’sorry about that.  It wasn’t intentional.” He mumbled.

“My phone and wallet were in the car.  I had to hop the turnstile.  Do you know how embarrassing that is?”

Guilt crept in slowly, slinking in at the corners of his mind.  Walker was right; he did owe him for this.

“I’m sorry, Walker.  I didn’t know.”  He released a breath through pursed lips and rubbed his bloodshot eyes.  “You wanna come in for a drink?”

Walker flinched backward, his arm dropping suddenly to his side, wide eyes blinking like Bucky had suddenly started speaking in tongues.

“Uh, I…Okay, I guess.”

Making his way to the small kitchenette counter, Bucky pulled down two scotch glasses and poured a decent amount (maybe a little too much) into each glass.  Walker sat at the counter on a high stool, and he tilted his chin in thanks as Bucky handed him the glass.  Downing his own in one large gulp, he poured out another, then tipped the bottle toward Walker in offer.  As he poured out another good measure, he bought himself time to decide how much he was willing to trust his colleague.  The bottle was set down with a heavy thunk, and Bucky drained another glass before speaking.

“I stumbled into the middle of a case a few nights ago.  The guy dealing with it is…inexperienced.  I told him to stay out of it, that I’d deal with it.”  

Bucky poured himself another scotch and topped up Walker’s glass.  

“Guy doesn't listen very well,” he mumbled before taking another swig.  

This one burned on the way down, and warmth started to spread in his belly.  He couldn’t get drunk these days, but he could get a pleasant buzz if he drank fast enough.

Walker eyed him cautiously, sizing him up.  This kind of honesty and vulnerability was not part of their usual dynamic, so he understood the suspicion.

“Who’s the guy?”  Walker asked, still eyeing him warily as he rolled his glass between his hands.

Bucky deflected.  “Don’t you wanna know what the case is?”

“What’s the case, Bucky?”  Walker pressed his lips together and breathed out heavily.

“Arms dealer.  New kind of weapon.”  

“Isn’t that a little small-time for us?  Why not just tip off the NYPD?”  

“It’s a weapon that makes people disappear,”  Bucky said with a shrug.  “Figured it might not be so small-time.”    

John’s eyebrows raised, and he nodded, taking another mouthful of scotch and wincing slightly.

“You know what they are?”

“Nope,” Bucky replied, offering the bottle to Walker again.  He waved it away.

“Right.”  Walker finished off the dregs of scotch from his glass and set it down with a clink.  

“So, who’s the guy?”  He looked at Bucky pointedly now.

“Someone I’ve worked with before.”  He knew he wouldn’t get away with such a vague answer, but he didn’t trust Walker enough to expose Peter.

“Don’t fuck with me, Bucky.  You’ve bypassed Val on this, and you involved me.  So now it’s my neck on the line if I don’t speak up.”  

Bucky’s jaw ticked as he clenched his teeth and huffed out a sardonic laugh.  This is exactly why he couldn’t trust him.  

“You breathe a word of this to Val, and I’ll make sure it’s your last.”

It was an empty threat, but he would do whatever he needed to protect this kid from her.  It hit him like a slap to the face at how suddenly he’d come to the decision that protecting Peter was his number one priority.  He shook his head slightly, as if to shake the thought loose, but it clung.

John snorted, “Like to see you try.”

Bucky raised his eyebrows at him and saw the flicker of fear in Walker’s eyes.  His last fight with Bucky still fresh enough in his mind to make him think twice before challenging him again.

“Look man, I don’t have options, okay?”  Walker visibly deflated with the words.  “Val is the only one who gave me a second chance.  You think anyone wants to have dime-store Captain America on their team?  The guy who beat someone to…”  

Harsh breaths were ripping from Walker’s lungs now, and he slid the scotch bottle across the counter to pour himself another glass, downing it in one go.  He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand before he spoke again.

“You have options.  You can go solo.  You can go join Wilson.”  He met Bucky’s eyes.  “I have this.  Only this.  I can’t risk getting on Val’s shit list.  I’m tryna…”  Walker looked down at his glass, studying its contents as if it contained the words he needed.  “I’m tryna be someone my son can be proud of.”

The moment of unexpected vulnerability had rendered Bucky speechless.  He had never really taken the time to consider the rest of the team’s motivations for being there.  But now that he thought about it, aside from him, the rest of them really had nowhere else to go.  Even so, he couldn’t put Peter at risk.

“I’m sorry, John.  I can’t tell you who he is.  And I can’t let you tell Val about this.”

John huffed out a chuckle and shook his head, still looking into his glass.  

“You’re a real piece of work, you know that?  I’ve just sat here and bared my soul, asked you to help me save my job, and that’s your answer?”  He pushed back his stool and stood, looking Bucky in the eye again.

“You know what?  I don’t owe you anything.  I sure as shit don’t owe you my silence on this one, seeing as you’re willing to throw me under the bus so easily.”

John began to stride to the door, but Bucky slid out from behind the counter, catching him off guard and shoving him into the wall, vibranium arm pinned against his chest.  John struggled, but the vibranium didn’t budge.

“You’re not gonna tell Val,”  Bucky growled, nose almost pressed to John’s, staring deep into his wide blue eyes. 

“Oh, really,” John smirked. “Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t.”

A burning rage flushed up Bucky’s chest and throat. 

“Because he’s a fucking kid.”  The harsh whisper was pushed out between his gritted teeth.

John’s eyebrows met his hairline, previous anger forgotten.

“A kid?  What, like a child?”

Bucky’s face screwed up, “No, not a child!”  He rolled his eyes, “A teen, maybe…twenty at most.  He’s young, he’s alone, and he’s out of his depth.  But I’ll be damned if I let Val get anywhere near another kid after what she did to Bob.”

Giving John a final shove, he released him and placed his hands on his hips as he studied John’s features.  He could almost see the cogs turning, and just prayed that he’d land on doing the right thing.  

Finally, John nodded.  “Okay…Okay.  I won’t tell Val.  But if she finds out, I’m not taking a bullet for you.”

Bucky nodded, lips pressed into a thin line.  “That’s fair.”

John brushed himself off and headed for the door, pausing as he opened it. 

“And Bucky, don’t ask for my help again.”

Chapter Text

Anger swelled and ebbed within him, rising up his chest in a hot flush, radiating to his extremities, and then fading away like a wave on the shore.

Peter ground his teeth together as Bucky’s words washed over him again, an endless loop that had been keeping sleep ruthlessly at bay since he’d finally made it back to the apartment three hours ago.  He pressed his threadbare pillow over his face and was tempted to scream, but didn’t want to wake the neighbours through the paper-thin walls between them.

Outside your scope.  Out of your depth.  Kid.  

The words burned and chafed against his skin.  He rolled to his other side and pulled the covers up over his head, scrunching his eyes shut, blocking out the pale grey light of dawn creeping in through the curtains.

Kid.

Who was he calling a kid?  Peter breathed deeply and blew it out harshly from between pursed lips.  Although he supposed, to a one-hundred-and-ten-year-old, anyone under seventy must seem like a kid.  The guy was born before television even existed.  Still, it was condescending.  Righteous indignation began to ebb away until the words sailed in again.

Outside your scope.

Peter pressed his lips together firmly and shook his head, breathing out through his nostrils in a huff.  He rolled over again, punching his pillow twice to try to fluff it up.  It didn’t work.  It wouldn’t be outside of his scope if he still had access to Stark tech.  He’d been on much harder missions than this.  He’d fought against Thanos for Christ’s sake.  But, there was only so much he could do with a laptop made from dumpster-dived parts, and a homemade suit made from Lycra and whatever parts he’d been able to salvage from his old Stark suits.  Without a decent computer or money, he couldn’t even reverse engineer parts.  But he was doing his best, damnit!  And was doing freaking fantastic all things considered.  Of course, Bucky had no way of knowing that, though.  Bucky didn’t know anything at all about him.  Because he hadn’t volunteered any information.

But he had to hold everyone at arm’s length.  Everyone.  It was dangerous to get too close.  Everyone who got close to him got hurt.  It was for the best to be on his own.

It had been kinda nice to have someone at his back, though, he had to admit.  He shook his head to loosen the thought and discard it.

Out of your depth.

It rankled.  It did.  But he had to admit it.  He was out of his depth. 

Hopelessly.

He was no one, officially.  Erased from all records and memories.  On his own, working a shitty job instead of going to college, barely making rent on a run down tenement apartment that should have been condemned several decades ago, eating other people’s leftovers or greasy fast food, no family, no friends…  No wonder Bucky took pity on him.  Was it pity, though?  What if it was concern?  Sure, he had been slightly condescending, and bossy, and intrusive, but…  As he replayed each of their interactions, he started to see where moments of genuine concern could have been misconstrued as condescension.  The money for decent food, the offers for rides home, the way Bucky’s arm shot out to protect him as the car came to a screeching stop.  

Maybe it was concern.  And maybe that terrified Peter.  The first time he had gone to see MJ with the intention of telling her who he was, he had seen her at peace, happy, safe, and he had vowed then and there that it was worth enduring the soul-crushing isolation if it meant that few people left who he loved were safe.  People weren’t safe around him.  

Could he work with Bucky and still keep his distance?  

Could he work with Bucky and keep the truth from him?  He’d stolen his memories, just like Hydra had.  If Bucky knew, he would never forgive him.  And he wouldn’t deserve that forgiveness, no matter how well-intentioned he'd been.  Maybe that conversation could wait if he just kept him at a distance and stuck to the job.  Wasn’t that using Bucky, though?

Peter sighed heavily and rubbed at his closed eyelids to relieve the pressure in his head.  He was so tired.  Not just in the physical sense, but the kind of tired that permeated the soul.  

He didn’t want to do this alone anymore.

****

It had stuck in Bucky’s mind like a thorn since he’d been to Peter’s apartment - the sad state of his living situation, the dark circles under his eyes and pallid cast to his skin, the underlying edge of desperate loneliness that practically seeped out of his pores.  The questions tumbled and repeated every time Peter crossed his mind.  Worry, thinly veiled as practicalities - like why the kid was seemingly alone without anyone to check in on him, and whether he’d survive living in that dingy apartment with no heating and not a vegetable in sight, despite his powers.  

Questions about the holes in his memories still bothered him, like a mosquito in the night, buzzing at the edges of his brain as he tried to sleep.  He tried to tell himself it was nothing but the usual fuzziness that applied to regular people’s memories as time passed.  But something about it still didn’t sit quite right.  However, it wasn’t the priority right now, so he pushed the doubts away.  Truth be told, he was terrified to dig too deeply into what the memory loss might mean.

Bucky resolved to push Peter for more information about himself when he saw him next.  He was certain that they’d run into each other again, as the kid couldn’t seem to follow instructions and stay the hell away from this case.  

That happened sooner than he expected, as he stepped out onto the Watchtower rooftop only four days after their last encounter.  

The cool air of dusk gusted through the access door as he swung it open, thirsting for fresh air and solitude after a hectic training session with the rest of the team.  It had gone particularly poorly, devolving into Ava launching a sneak attack on John and pushing him off a high platform after he made some shit head remark.  Granted, she had pushed him toward Bucky and Alexei, so at least they could break his fall.  But still, he felt like he was trying to train a pack of rabid circus monkeys at times.  

With one hand on his chin and the other on the opposite side of his skull, he pushed his neck until a satisfying drumroll of cracks and pops brought him relief.  That was when he spotted him; the red and blue a flash in the corner of his eye.

“I told you not to come here, kid,”  Bucky muttered, sinking into the outdoor sofa and gazing up at the soft purple sky, starless as always.  Below, the lights of Manhattan were beginning to flicker on, like stars reflecting off a dark ocean.     

“No one saw me.  Except you.”  The crunch of gravel grew louder behind him, and suddenly Peter was vaulting over the back of the sofa, landing with a bounce.  

Bucky sighed heavily and pressed his lips together. 

“What are you doing here?”

Peter let out a deep breath, then shrugged, “Came to enjoy the view.”

They sat with the lie as one minute stretched into two.  The questions that had been prodding at Bucky’s subconscious the last few days all forced their way to the forefront.  He looked at Peter, his maskless face looked thoughtful as he gazed out at the skyline.  The kid couldn’t be older than twenty, but he was aged beyond his years in the slumped set of his shoulders and the sorrow in his eyes.  

“Is there anyone looking out for you, Peter?”  An uneasiness came with the question; he really had no right to invade his privacy.

Peter startled at the question, his reverie of the cityscape slipping away as he processed it.

“I’m kind of like, a superhero, remember?  I don’t need anyone looking out for me.”  The words came out with a forced nonchalance that even Peter wasn’t buying.

Bucky nodded and chewed the inside of his cheek.  Who was he to be trying to help anyone?  He was a monumental fuck-up himself, so how could possibly think he could offer advice to someone else?  But damnit, something about this kid was bugging him.  Maybe it was his earnestness, his naivete, his sharp wit, that reminded him of another stupid little punk that got himself into trouble trying to do the right thing.

“Everyone needs someone to have their back.”  A gust of cold wind ruffled through his hair.

“Even you?”  Peter gave him a pointed look.

Bucky squared his shoulders and cleared his throat.

“Yeah, even me.”  It was all but a whisper, but the words were out.

Peter’s shocked face turned to his, then he nodded thoughtfully.  He chewed on his lip, as though tasting the words before speaking them, turning back to gaze at the cityscape once again.  His eyes reflected the lights of the city, shining spots atop deep brown pools.

“No.  I don’t have anyone.”  He swallowed thickly, jaw set, defiant in the face of his vulnerable declaration.

“What about your parents?”  Bucky asked gently, a knot in his gut, his body already knowing the answer.

“Dead.  They died when I was little, I don’t remember them.”  It was the most he’d spoken of them in years.

“That must be hard.”  The words were awkward; he was never really sure what to say in these situations.  

“You got any other family?” He continued.

“My aunt May and Uncle Ben.  They took me in, raised me.  Uncle Ben died years ago, and then Aunt May…”  Peter’s bottom lip trembled and the knot in Bucky’s gut twisted.  Peter sniffed, and his voice was strained when he spoke again.

“Aunt May was the best.  She was always there for me, y’know?  Even with the superhero stuff.  I hid it from her at first - didn’t want her to worry,”  he huffed out a small laugh.  “But she was great.  She was just…she was really great.”  Peter’s voice broke on the last word, and he flexed his jaw, clenching his teeth to stop tears from forming, a look on his face that was almost angry, like he’d revealed more than he had wanted to.

“I’m sorry,”  Bucky offered, not knowing what to do with his hands or where to look.  He averted his eyes to give Peter a moment to collect himself.

Peter wiped his face with his sleeve and sniffed again.  

“It’s kinda nice to talk about her, actually.  I don’t have anyone to talk to about her.” An awful hollowness had settled behind Peter’s eyes; his words hushed.  “There’s no one left who remembers us both.”   

An icy shard of grief speared through Bucky as he was reminded of the fact that everyone who had known him “before” was gone now, too.  There was a whole other life, full of people he loved, and who had loved him, that were now lost to time.  Nothing more than memories that no one else shared.  He almost wanted to reach out, offer some type of comfort, but didn’t quite know how to do that, so instead he just clenched his fist on his knee and stared out at the horizon.

They sat for several minutes listening to the sounds of traffic and voices drifting up from the street many stories below.

“I actually did come here for a reason,”  Peter admitted, the spark in his eye reemerging as he straightened his posture.  

Bucky’s attention was drawn back to the here and now when Peter started talking again, and he shook his head lightly to clear the fog of grief.

“I’m willing to compromise.  I’ll let you work on this case with me.”  Peter said with an air of generosity.

The corner of Bucky’s mouth quirked up at the corner.  “Let me, huh?” 

“Yeah, let you.  It is my case after all.  And besides, you can’t stop me.”

Bucky mulled it over for a moment, considering his options.  The kid had a point; he couldn’t stop him from turning up and interfering, and he really didn’t want Val getting wind of him.  She’d practically salivate over an impressionable young superhero who didn’t have any adult guidance.  Damnit.  Having his hand forced like this chafed at him, but he pushed that feeling aside.  Keeping the kid safe from Val, and getting these weapons off the streets were more important than his ego.

“Alright,” He relented, “On one condition.”

Anticipation creased Peter’s brow as he waited to hear the caveat to working together.

“I lead.  You follow orders.” Pointing at Peter, he fixed him with a stern look. “And you never come here again.  Got it?”

It took a moment for Peter to respond, chewing his lip as his eyes darted, thinking through all of the potentialities, before finally nodding his agreement.

Relief washed over Bucky, the tight knots in his shoulders releasing just enough to ease the tension headache he’d had since their last disastrous encounter.  

“First things first,” He looked over at Peter’s expectant face and smiled, “Have you got any other means of transportation, aside from your bike?

Peter shook his head, “I don’t know how to drive,” he admitted sheepishly.

“Okay, so driving lessons first.  You won’t always be able to keep up by swinging between buildings, and if we end up tailing them outside of the city, you might not have that option available.”

“But, I don’t have a car,” Peter responded, face creased in confusion.

“I have vehicles.”  Bucky stood and clapped Peter on the shoulder as he passed behind him.

Peter’s head snapped around to follow him, a mixture of an offended and excited look on his face.

“Meet at the Simmons factory car park on Sunday.  Eight AM sharp.”  He ordered, and with that, the door to the stairwell swung shut behind him, leaving Peter confused and hopeful on the rooftop.

****

It had been two hours.  Two hours in this cramped sedan as he tried, and failed, to learn how to drive.  Peter felt worse with every passing minute.

“Okay, now ease on the brake.  Brake, Peter.  Brake.  BRAKE!”  

Peter jammed his foot on the brake pedal, a second too late, as the car slammed into the cinderblock wall that ran along the edge of the car park.  They both jolted hard against their seatbelts, and Bucky let out a pained sound, rubbing his sternum.

“Sorry…”  Peter offered with a grimace.

Bucky’s jaw was clenched shut, and Peter suspected it was to stop himself from saying words that he couldn’t take back.  Instead, he nodded and let out a shaky breath.

“Sor-”  Peter’s apology was cut off by a loud hissing sound that came from the engine, as a plume of steam rose from the hood.

“Out.  Now.”  Bucky ordered, unbuckling his seatbelt and swinging his door open.  Noticing Peter’s lack of movement, he ducked his head back into the car.  “Now.”  

Shaken out of his shocked stupor, Peter unbuckled and scrambled from the car.  Bucky was already at the engine bay, inspecting the damage.

“Is it gonna explode or something?”  Peter asked, running a hand through his hair and pacing restlessly.

“No.  We’re good.”  Bucky looked up from the engine and wiped his greasy hands off on his t-shirt.  “Just a busted radiator.  Nothing I can’t fix.”

“I really am sorry, Mr Barnes.”  Peter offered him a contrite smile.

“Bucky.”

“Sorry, Mr Ba-  Bucky.”  Peter corrected himself.

Bucky closed his eyes and let his head fall forward, hand on hips.

“I think we’re done here.”  He said, finally, and Peter’s heart sank.  He’d fucked it up, of course.  And now, Bucky was giving up on him before they’d even really started.

“I can do better!  I think I just need to, I don’t know…  It’s like, my senses are dialled up to eleven allll the time.  Like, I can feel every minute change in temperature, the way the wind moves, I can hear a butterfly flap its wings from twenty yards away, and smell a hotdog from a street over,” He was talking at hyperspeed again, he knew, but he wanted to fix this.  He could do this alone, he’d been doing it alone for so long now…but the thought of losing his only ally opened a chasm of self-doubt within him that left him feeling nauseated.  He took a breath and forced himself to slow down.

“When I’m inside the car, it’s like all my senses are muted, and it makes it hard to concentrate.”  It sounded like an excuse, even to his own ears.  But to his surprise, Bucky was looking at him with a bemused expression.

“Calm down, kid.  We’re done with this car for today,” he clarified, leaning his elbows on the roof.  “I think I might have something that’s a better fit for your particular…quirks.”  He smiled at him.

Peter released the breath he had been holding, and his knees felt a little weak with relief.  

Bucky pulled out his phone, tapping away.  A moment later, Peter heard an engine come to life, and a sleek midnight-blue porsche emerged from the other side of the factory, pulling up next to them.

“Whoah!”  Peter exclaimed reverently.  “Is this yours?  Is it self-driving?  Can I drive it?”  

Bucky looked aghast, mouth agape, brows drawn.

“That was a joke.  I was joking.”  Peter chanced a smile and was rewarded with a shake of the head and a tiny smirk as Bucky got into the driver’s side.  Peter slipped into the passenger seat and immediately reached for the touch screen to access the radio.

Bucky slapped his hand away.  

“Driver picks the music.”  He muttered.

As they pulled away, Peter turned back in his seat to look at the still-smoking sedan in the parking lot.

“What about the other car?”

“I’ll have it towed,”  Bucky responded.

Peter sat back in his chair as an old song started playing.  It was familiar, he thought the singer was named Marvin-something.  It was actually kinda good.

“So, where are we going?”  He asked after they’d wound their way back into the city and were heading across the Brooklyn Bridge.

Bucky sniffed, then shot Peter an assessing look out of the corner of his eye, hands gripping the steering wheel.  He bit his lip, then gave a small nod to himself.

“To my house.”  He replied.

Peter’s eyebrows shot up to his hairline.

“I thought you lived at Av-, at the Watchtower?”  

Bucky shot him another sideways glance.  His shoulders were a tight line.  

“Sometimes.  But I have my own place as well.  I like the solitude.”  The last part was said pointedly, with a look that told Peter it was a warning.  Don’t come to my house unannounced, like you did at the tower.

“Got it.”  Peter nodded.

Soon, they pulled into a narrow alleyway between brick-walled courtyards behind rows of tall brownstone buildings.  Bucky turned the car smoothly into a small garage at the rear of a townhouse.  A fluorescent light flickered on above them.  The garage was modest and tidy, with tools hung neatly above clean workbenches.  Bucky exited the car, and Peter followed as he made his way to one of two large objects covered in grey blankets at the back of the space.  He yanked the blanket off the closest one in one smooth move, revealing a shining, modern Harley-Davidson.  Peter didn’t know anything about motorbikes, but this was just about the coolest thing he’d ever seen.

“This is different to the one from the other night.  How many do you have?”  Peter asked as he ran a delicate finger over the smooth, glossy body of the bike.

Bucky shrugged nonchalantly as he folded the blanket and tucked it under the workbench.  “I have a few stashed around the city, for when I need them.”

Reaching up, he opened a safe and pulled a set of keys out, then tossed them to Peter.

Catching them instinctually, Peter’s mouth opened in shocked confusion, eyes wide.

“What do you-?”

At Bucky’s fixed look, Peter shook his head.

“Oh, no!  No, I couldn’t possibly…”  He trailed off as he looked at the bike again.  The keys were burning a hole in his palm at just the mere thought of taking this thing out for a spin.

“It should fix the sensory issues,”  Bucky explained, as he tossed a helmet to Peter.  

Releasing the kickstand, Bucky took the handlebars and steered the bike out into the alleyway.  Trailing behind, Peter pushed the helmet over his head and was met with the roar of the engine coming to life.

“Get on,”  Bucky yelled to him over the rumbling.

“What?  Now?  Here?”  Peter could hear the hint of barely concealed panic in his own voice, even over the cacophony.

Bucky just nodded at him seriously.  Peter approached the bike cautiously, his previous awe now turned to anxiety.  Letting out a deep breath, he swung one leg over and placed his hands gingerly over the handlebars, feeling the deep rumble through every atom of his body.  Rather than being overstimulating, it almost felt like the vibrations were shaking every last bit of tension and worry from his body.  Replacing it with a calm assuredness, and a feeling of being connected to the world around him, his senses dialled in, but not overwhelmed.

“Okay, so, this is go,” He pulled back on the throttle, and the engine revved loudly, the sound bouncing off the walls of the alleyway.  “This changes gears.  Go up gears when you’re going fast, go down gears when you’re slowing down.  This one’s stop.  Lean into the corners.”  Bucky took a step back and put his hands on his hips, waiting expectantly.

“What?  That’s it?”  Peter looked at him incredulously.

“Pretty much.  Give it a go.”  

Peter steadied himself with another deep breath and released the brake.  The bike moved slowly forward, and he trailed his feet along the ground to keep himself balanced as the bike wobbled.  It was just like riding a bicycle, really.  Go too slow, and you’ll wobble and fall over.  

He eased up a gear and pulled back on the throttle gently.  The bike coasted smoothly down the alleyway now, and he settled his feet onto the pegs.  Testing the steering, he made slow curves back and forth across the narrow alleyway.  It almost felt like the bike was an extension of his body.  He could feel the cool wind whipping against his skin, the warmth of the mid-morning sun, he could smell jasmine as he passed one townhouse, the aroma of fresh-baked apple pie as he passed another, and a small dog barking as he flew past.  Exiting the alleyway into the quiet street, he made a U-turn and coasted back to where Bucky was patiently waiting; his smile was almost as big as Peter’s.

“You’re a natural, kid!”  Bucky clapped him on the back as he pulled to a stop.

“That was awesome!  I need to get one of these for myself someday.”  He said as pulled off his helmet and attempted to smooth down the messy waves of his hair.

Bucky gave him a funny look, “It’s yours, Peter.  Thought I’d made that clear.  Can’t work with you if you can’t get yourself around.”

Peter’s mouth worked soundlessly for a full minute before he finally remembered to breathe, and then the words came tumbling out once more.

“I can’t…I mean, it's too much!  You can’t just give me a bike like this, this must have cost a fortune, Bucky, like, I mean, thank you, but I just…it’s too much!”

“I have more.” He said flatly, as if it were no big deal.  “I tend to go through them pretty quickly, so I make the boss replace them for me.”  He gave a sly grin at that.  “Seriously, kid.  You need transport.  I’ve got a garage a few blocks over from your place, you can store it there.”

Peter had to swallow hard around the lump forming in his throat and the prick of tears in the corners of his eyes.  

“Thank you.”  Was all he could manage to rasp out.

Bucky just nodded and walked back into the garage, giving Peter a much-needed moment to collect himself.  He reappeared a moment later, wheeling out another motorbike similar to the one Peter was on.

“Let’s go for a ride, get some practice.”  Bucky smiled as he mounted his bike and its engine started with a rumble that vibrated down the alleyway.

****

The exhilaration of the ride, of being given such an incredibly generous gift, and Bucky’s patience and thoughtfulness while teaching him to drive today hit him like a punch to the solar plexus.  Peter hesitated for a moment, watching as Bucky coasted down the alley.  The guilt and shame of his betrayal clawed its way into his gut.  It was going to be much harder than he had anticipated to keep his distance while they worked together.  He hadn’t expected Bucky’s gruff, prickly demeanour to crumble so fast.  He hadn’t expected this kind of generosity.  

He had to tell him.  

Sooner than later.  

But not today, he convinced himself.  It had to be at the right time.  If he could just get to the end of this case, he’d tell him then.  That way if Bucky, rightfully, wanted to cut Peter off, at least the case wouldn’t be compromised.  The decision sat uneasily as he guided his bike out into the street.

Chapter Text

The chill morning air brought a pink flush to Peter’s cheeks as he strode down the sidewalk toward the garage where his (his?) motorbike was stored. Peter hadn’t asked Bucky about ownership papers for the bike for two reasons - one, that he didn’t exist on paper, so couldn’t transfer the ownership to his name anyway. And two, because he was pretty sure that Bucky didn't technically own most of his vehicles. He’d mentioned making his boss pay to replace them, and seemed to take a certain measure of satisfaction in his careless destruction of them. Based on this, Peter was pretty certain that Bucky didn’t like his boss much. It also made sense of the fact that Bucky had told him in no uncertain terms to stay away from the Watchtower. And that Bucky seemed to be taking on this case without involving his team. But all of that made Peter question - why would he work with people he didn’t trust?

The rusted door of the garage slid open soundlessly, its mechanisms well maintained despite the outwardly dilapidated exterior. The garage was small, its interior clean and organised. Reinforced steel lockers ran down one wall, each sporting a biometric lock that Peter hadn’t been given access to. Along the back wall was a steel bench with electrical outlets, and a door that led to a tiny bathroom. One, unlocked cupboard held a stack of old blankets. The rest of the space was bare, with the exception of the motorbike; helmet dangling from its handlebars. Peter suspected that the space was not just storage, but possibly some type of emergency safe house. Bucky seemed like the kind of guy that would be prepared for any and every situation, regardless of whether he would ever need it. Some might call that level of preparedness a PTSD symptom, but personally, he thought it was just common sense given their line of work.

Peter mounted the bike and a smile came to his face as the rumble of the engine filled the space, vibrating through his body, electrifying his nerves, and soothing his senses.

Twenty minutes later, he was pressing the bell on the front door of Bucky’s townhouse. Leaning in toward the camera, he announced himself.

“Uh, hi, uh, Mr Ba-, Bucky. It’s me…Peter?” Why did it come out sounding like a question? Peter cringed internally.

“I know, Peter. It’s a camera.” There was a pause, in which he could have sworn he heard a faint sigh, before the door swung open to Bucky standing there in jeans and t-shirt, feet bare, and hair half tied back.

“Hi,” Peter stated with a nervous little wave that he aborted mid air as Bucky continued to stare at him in silence.

“Umm, you said to come by today. At ten…?” He glanced at his watch and saw it was currently ten-oh-one.

“Are you a vampire? Do you need an invitation to come in?” Bucky asked flatly, releasing the door handle and dropping his arm to his side.

“Uh, no, sir. Thanks, thank you.” Peter cursed at himself. He didn’t know why Bucky made him so nervous. Sure, the guy was the world’s most deadly assassin, had a disturbing staring problem, and was a super soldier…a super soldier that Peter had pissed off on more than one occasion. But they were allies now.

“Relax, kid. It was a joke. Come in,” Bucky called over his shoulder as he made his way to the kitchen.

“Oh…  I didn’t know you knew how to do those.” Peter stated. Bucky shot him a glance, one eyebrow raised, and chuckled at the wide eyes and nervous gulp Peter couldn't hide.

He opened the refrigerator and pulled out a can of soda, tossing it to Peter as he stood in the middle of the spacious open plan living area gaping at the luxury of the space. Large arched windows set along the front let in the mid-morning sun. Dappled light filtered through the trees outside, reflecting off the polished wooden floors, and casting golden streaks across the soft cream rug and enormous dark blue sofa. The television was so large it wouldn’t even fit in Peter’s apartment. The kitchen was all marble countertops and custom cabinets. Tasteful artwork decorated the walls, and the furnishings looked like they cost more than what Peter would make in a year.

“What?” Bucky asked, a slight frown creasing his brow as his eyes flicked around the room to follow Peter’s line of sight.

“This place is really…nice.” Peter answered, eyes still roaming about the room.

“That surprises you?” Bucky half smiled, one eyebrow cocked.

“Well, yeah. I mean, I didn’t really take you for the interior decorating type.” Peter responded honestly, before thinking, then winced as he realised how insulting that must have sounded.

“Gotta have hobbies, Pete.” Bucky shrugged as he took a swig of his drink.

“Of course, sorry.” He offered him a thin lipped smile, shoulders hunching involuntarily.

“I bought it fully furnished. I wouldn’t know the first thing about…” he waved his hand in the air, “decorating.” Bucky chuckled lightly, and Peter breathed a sigh of relief.

He took a seat at the kitchen counter and hoisted his backpack onto the benchtop. It looked grimy and out of place against the clean white marble. Quickly pulling out his laptop, he dropped his bag to the floor and pushed it under the stool with a dirty sneaker.

“So, I tried to find any information about Gigantor, ah, Mr Wagner” Peter said as he logged into the device and brought up his folder of research.

“But the guy just…it's like he just appeared out of thin air one day a couple of years ago. There’s nothing, and I mean nothing, on him prior to that.”

Peter chewed the inside of his cheek as he scowled at the screen.

“I had the same results. But that tells us one thing,” Bucky said, leaning against the counter with one hand as he took another sip of his drink, “That’s not his real identity."

Peter’s shoulders sagged and he rubbed his eyes. Bucky silently pushed an apple across the counter to Peter, as he thought through their current predicament. The apple crunched loudly in the silence. It was sweet and tangy, and he wasn’t sure if it was because he skipped breakfast, but it was just about the best thing he’d tasted.

“So, how do we find him then, if we don’t know who he is?” He asked through a mouthful of mushed apple.

“The old fashioned way. We look for clues.”

“Clues? Like, what kind of clues?”

“When I was with Hydra, in the early days, assassinations weren’t as cut and dry as they are today, with all of this technology. My early missions were focused on retcon, intel…spying, basically.” Bucky’s eyes were far away.

Peter stayed uncomfortably still, afraid that if he moved he’d break the spell and Bucky would stop talking. It was like witnessing a real life history lesson from a soviet spy during the cold war. He listened in rapt silence.

“I had to search for physical evidence, use context cues, read people’s accent’s, mannerisms, body language. You can learn a lot about someone from the way they dress, certain phrases they might use, what jewellery they wear, car they drive, where they shop. It all paints a picture of the person.” Peter realised he was staring, eyes wide, and quickly snapped his mouth shut and looked away as Bucky seemed to come back to himself.

Peter cleared his throat.

“What kinda clues do we have?”

“You’ve heard the man speak, does he have an accent?” Bucky crumpled his empty can with his vibranium fist and tossed it into a bin hidden in a cupboard. Even the bin was fancy.

Peter thought back to that first meeting. He’d only heard Gigantor speak a few sentences, but he could say with pretty high certainty that it was a Brooklyn accent.

“Brooklyn…I think.”

“Okay. How old?”

Most people looked old to Peter. But he hazarded a guess.

“I dunno…fifty, mid-fifties, maybe?” He waved his hand back and forth in an uncertain motion.

Bucky nodded thoughtfully.

“He had to go to school somewhere. We can look for yearbooks in Brooklyn high schools between say ninteen seventy and nineteen eighty and see if we can find a photo that matches.”

“Why can’t we just stake out the restaurant again? We know that it belongs to him.”

“That cover is blown, it’s already boarded up. I searched it and came up with nothing, the place was totally cleared out.”

Peter sighed heavily through his nose as he swallowed the last bite of apple, placing the core uncertainly on the counter. Bucky plucked it up by the stem and tossed it into the garbage. When he turned back, he was holding a granola bar, which he tossed to Peter, before he spoke again.

“The Brooklyn Public Library website should have an archive of yearbooks in Brooklyn dating back to the fifties. You can start there.”

Peter nodded, bringing the site up on his laptop, typing quickly as he crunched his way through the granola bar. The one photo he’d managed to find online of ‘Henrick Wagner’ would be useful now. It only took about five minutes for him to adapt an existing code and start running the facial recognition tech on it. Bucky was watching him when he finally looked back up.

“It might take a couple of days, depending on how many photos there are, but I’m running the program now. I’ll let you know if anything comes up.” Peter smiled at him, and a small burst of pride warmed his chest at the impressed look on Bucky’s face.

Bucky reached out and pulled the laptop toward himself, lifting it to inspect it from all sides.

“You made this?” He asked, eyebrows raised.

“Yeah. I know it doesn’t look great. I have to work with whatever scrap parts I can find. But it does the job.” He shrugged, wishing that Bucky would give it back and stop inspecting it so closely.

“Impressive. I can see why Stark liked you. You’re resourceful like he was.”

Bucky handed the laptop back to him, and Peter did his best to blink away the burning sensation in his eyes.

“Thanks,” he said quietly.

Bucky cleared his throat awkwardly and brushed his hands off on his jeans.

“While you work on that, I have some contacts that I can utitlise for information. We need to find out how these weapons operate.”

Bucky hesitated for a moment, eyes darting as he thought it through.

“The results seem to vary depending on what material they hit. I can’t say I’ve seen anything like it before. The only thing that comes close were the tesseract-powered weapons that Hydra used during the war. But the infinity stones were all returned, so it can’t be that.”

Peter chewed his lip and swung one way, then the other, as he swivelled on the stool, his fingers tapping on the bench as the wheels in his mind turned. The clay-like substance on the cars, the sand from the windows, the people that just disappeared…except for the old man on the street that night.

Bucky reached across the bench and swept the crumbs of granola - oats, seeds, nuts - from the counter top into the sink.

Crumbs.

Peter stopped still.

The granola bar had reverted back to its separate ingredients.

Maybe…

Bucky watched him intently.

“I might have a theory. It’s just a wild guess though, really…”

Bucky looked at him expectantly. Mustering his courage, he continued.

“The raw form of aluminium is bauxite.” At Bucky’s questioning look, he explained. “It’s a compound made from aluminum hydroxides, iron oxides, and clay minerals. It’s like a reddish-brown rocky clay kind of stuff, like what we saw on the cars after they were hit. And glass…it’s raw form is silica sand. After they hit the windsreen, and the building windows, there was a sandy substance left behind.”

Peter’s heart was racing now as pieces began to fall into place.

“So, you’re saying that these weapons might revert things to their original form? How does that make people vanish?”

Peter shook his head, brows drawn down as he bit his lip once more.

“I’m not sure.” He admitted with a small shake of his head. “But it’s gotta have something to do with reversing processes.”

Bucky nodded thoughtfully. “That’s good thinking, Pete. You might be onto something with that. If we can find out who might have the capacity to develop that kind of tech, that could be another lead. I'll look into it when I'm back in town.”

Peter sat up straighter. “You’re going out of town?”

Bucky passed him a bottle of water from the refrigerator, cracking open one of his own.

“For a few days. Mission with the team.”

He didn’t look very pleased about it. In fact, he looked kind of apprehensive. Peter didn’t ask why, it was really none of his business. But it did make his questions about Bucky’s motivations for working with these people come back to the forefront again. From what he could tell, they all had kind of sketchy pasts. But so did Bucky.

****

The lunch rush was over, and Peter had just finsihed scrubbing the pots, when he heard a distinctive ping from his backpack.  

A match in the archives.

His wet hands left dark streaks on the front of his apron as he hurriedly dried them off.

“Going on my break Romeo,” he called into the walk-in refrigerator as he rushed past with his bag over one shoulder.

Romeo grunted in response.

The breakroom consited of two plastic milk crates stacked atop each other, next to an upturned steel drum in the alleyway.  Peter yanked his laptop out and set it on top of the drum.  Staring back at him from the screen was a teenager that could only be Gigantor.  He looked like he barely fit into the frame.  Same non-existent neck, barrel chest and shark-like eyes as the man at the weapons deal.

The name underneath read Hans Wechter. 

A bloom of something akin to pride swelled in his chest.  He’d actually done it.  Smiling, Peter fished his phone out of his backpack and typed out a message to Bucky.

****

The phone vibrated against Bucky's chest from inside his tac vest. He slipped the phone free from its pocket just as it vibrated again, in sync with the jet shuddering through some turbulence. The screen lit up again as a third message came through. Bucky frowned, a spike of anxiety shooting through his chest at the urgent succession of texts.

Peter: I found him

Peter: In one of the yearbooks

Peter: His real name is Hans Wechter

A relieved sigh escaped him before his brows scrunched together and he hastily tapped out a reply.

Bucky: That could have been one message, Peter. Good work. Try a criminal history search and look for any property records, relatives, employment history, etc.

He would never understand why young people sent multiple messages when one would suffice. Yelena and Bob did it, too, and it drove him up the wall. Another vibration rattled against his chest and he sighed, rolling his eyes as he pulled the phone back out.

Peter: Sorry

Bzzzz

Peter: I'll get started on the searches

Bzzzz

Peter: Sorry. Won't happen ahain

Bzzzz

Peter: *again

Bucky rubbed his eyes and breathed out slowly through his nose, counting to ten. He had a sneaking suspicion that Peter had done that on purpose. The corner of his mouth twitched upward, and he fought it down. It wasn't funny, he told himself. It was annoying.

The kid was annoying.

Although, he found most people kind of annoying. Every single person on this team was annoying in their own distinct ways. He looked around the cabin. Ava and John were arguing quietly over a game of cards. Alexei was passed out with a Russian newspaper over his face to block out the light, his faint snores ruffling the pages every so often. Bob and Yelena were watching a movie, huddled together, one headphone each.  Bob still wasn’t active duty, but he liked to come along to be what he called ‘moral support’. 

Maybe they weren't so bad.

It's not exactly like he himself was good company. His people skills were a little more than rusty. And he didn't have a slate any cleaner than theirs. In fact, his slate was probably bloodier than all of theirs combined. Maybe that was why felt like he fit in here. Sam could never understand.  Bucky could never join him. Be an Avenger. Be like Steve. He'd never be a hero.

But with this team, he had a chance to try and redeem himself at least a little bit, whilst still being able to operate within that grey area he specialised in.  While giving the others a chance at that, too. They deserved that. For the most part, they weren't bad people, just people who had to make the best of the hand they were dealt, who'd had to make some shitty choices in order to survive.

The jet shuddered again, shaking him from his thoughts. Bucky glanced at his phone. Peter's last message was still on the screen. Sorry. Won't happen again. He snorted. The kid was lying. It would absolutely happen again. But for some reason, that didn't bother him as much as it should.

****

Head tilting one way, and then the other, Peter rolled his shoulders, cracked his knuckles, and sat down in front of his laptop. The tiny, wobbling, dining table strained to hold up both him and the device. If a fly landed on it, he was pretty sure it would just give up and collapse. He might collapse, too, if he didn't rest soon. But he'd spent the last three days since finding Gigantor's yearbook photo searching every database and records office he could find, with only a few old addresses and parking tickets to show for it. It was becoming an obsession. Only two minutes after walking in the door he was already sitting in front of the screen with his first search pulled up.

The fine hairs on the back of his neck stood on end before he'd even consciously heard the sound.

Feet. Heavy. Two sets. Creeping steadily towards his door.

Vaulting out of his seat, he snatched the lone lightbulb from its socket.

"Ahhhh, hot, hot, hot," he hissed as he tossed the bulb from hand to hand, then onto the sofa.

He snatched his laptop off the table and stuffed it into his backpack, slinging it over his shoulder just in time as the door burst open.

Two large men filled the doorway, silhouetted by the dim light from the corridor. Each was brandishing a weapon.

Peter clung to the ceiling, hidden by the darkness.

One of the men slapped his hand against the lightswitch. When nothing happened, he swore quietly and tugged at something on his belt.

Peter crept slowly, silently, across the ceiling toward the bedroom. If he could just make it to the window…

A beam of light illuminated him.

Then a crack split the air with a red flash.

He thudded to the floor, feeling the wash of displaced air ghost across his face as he fell. Particles of ceiling debris rained down on him.

Another flashlight beam hit him.

He rolled and sprang to his feet, vaulting over the sofa just as another red burst hit the back of it, leaving a hole.

Thudding boots were coming at him from both sides, their flashlight beams searching.

Peter launched the small coffee table to the left with a swift kick, and was rewarded with a bone crunching sound and an expletive from goon number one.

Goon number two fired at him, narrowly missing as he slid himself under the sofa and out the other side, toward the open door. He rolled onto his stomach and scrambled forward on hands on knees just as the two men began to fire again.

Dodging as he half ran, half crawled into the corridor, Peter spun in place and slammed the door shut behind him. Several holes appeared in it, the cracking of the weapons in time with the splintering of the wood.

Hastily shoving on a spare web shooter from his backpack, he shot it at the ceiling and rappelled down the centre of the stairwell. His feet were running the second they hit the ground. Red flashes and whip-crack echoes followed him as he tumbled out of the front door of the apartment building.

The next web he shot hit its target perfectly and he swung across the street and onto a rooftop.

He ran.

Jumping from one rooftop to another until the hairs on his neck were no longer standing at attention.

The backpack made a soft thunk as he dropped it to the rooftop, and flopped down next to it. Back pressed against the central heating duct as he focused on slowing his breaths.

Shit.

Shit, shit, shit.

They must have followed him home from work, or somewhere near there. Why hadn't he noticed them? He slapped his forehead, leaving his hand there for a moment before scrubbing it down his face.

He'd been distracted. And exhausted. But those were mistakes that could get him, or someone else, killed. He growled and punched his fist into the concrete beneath him, then hissed at the pain radiating through his knuckles.

The apartment might not have been much, but it had at least been a roof over his head. And if there was a chance that they had followed him from work, he couldn't risk going back there either.

He had nowhere to go. He had no money. He had no one.

He wanted Aunt May.

In his mind he could still smell her shampoo, the way the scent wafted into him when she hugged him. The warmth of her arms around him as she held him and ruffled his hair. The way he could hear her heatbeat, strong and alive, when he pressed his ear to her chest.

A sob welled up in his throat, and erupted from his mouth in a harsh gasp. He shoved his fist between his teeth. If he could stop the tears, he could stop the yawning chasm of grief within him from swallowing him whole.

A single tear broke free and slid down his face, over his cheek and settled in the corner of his lips. The salt drying on his skin.

Something in his backpack vibrated.

He swiped at his eyes with the back of his sleeve and sniffed deeply as he rummaged through the bag and found his phone.

There was one unread message.

Bucky: Back in town. Meet tomorrow at ten to show me what you've found.

Peter hiccupped and sniffed again, his vision a little blurry from the phone's screen light refracting off his watery eyes.

A small part of him wanted to message Bucky and ask for help. But he had no right to ask him that, not while he was actively deceiving him about who he really was, and what he'd done. And aside from that, he wasn't some dumb kid, a charity case. He could take care of himself. News about Gigantor's goons could wait until tomorrow; they'd be long gone by now. Decided, he typed out his reply.

Peter: k

Just as he was shoving the phone back into his bag, it vibrated in his hand. The screen lit up his face in the darkness, blue light highlighting the dark bags under his eyes.

Bucky: What does that mean? K? Are you coming or not?

A laugh bubbled up and rippled out into the quiet night air. Peter shook his head, smiling as he responded.

Peter: It's short for okay

Peter: I'll be there at 10

Peter: See you then

The phone buzzed again.

Bucky: That could have been one message.

Peter rolled his eyes and pushed the phone into the front pocket of his bag. Something jingled. He pulled out his keys and rubbed his thumb over the smooth plastic casing of his motorbike key.

The garage.

It had electricity, and a bathroom. He hadn't been there since Bucky had left. It wasn't safe to leave the motorbike behind the restaurant while he worked, so he'd been cycling instead. No one would know he was there, and it was secure.

Peter pushed himself up from the floor and scooped up his backpack, pulling it over his shoulders as he walked to the edge and surveyed the street below. It was all clear. He swung out over the street, and made his way silently to a safe place to stay for the night. Or maybe a few.

Chapter Text

A shrill ringing split through Bucky's dream, startling him out of sleep and onto his feet within seconds. The bright glare of the phone caused him to squint as he focused on the screen. The security camera in the rear had picked up movement, and a high res video showed Peter standing at the back door, shifting restlessly from one foot to the other, hand raising as if to knock, then dropping back to his side.

Curious.

He was almost an hour early.

Bucky unlocked the door from the app and spoke into his phone, the tiniest smirk crossing his face as Peter jumped.

"It's unlocked, Peter. Come in."

Without hesitation, Peter opened the door and disappeared inside, the security display instantly changing from one camera to the next as Peter made his way through the house and into the kitchen. Bucky spoke into his phone again.

"Make yourself at home, I'll be a minute."

With that, he slipped the device into the pocket of his sweatpants. He scrubbed a hand over his face and yawned, it had been another night of waking up every few hours in a cold sweat. Nothing new. The t-shirt that he plucked off the chair in the corner looked clean at first glance, but he reeled back at the odour upon giving it a sniff. It was unceremoniously tossed into the growing pile in the opposite corner. The closet door whispered across the plush carpet as he opened it and flicked on the light. Empty, except for two pairs of jeans and one faded blue sweatshirt that used to belong to Sam. Head dropping forward, he sighed. Taking care of himself was something he just honestly forgot to do after spending the best of part of century not having to think about it.

The hoodie smelled of Sam as he pulled it over his head. The scent of his cologne faint, but still perceptible. Shaking off the pang of grief that accompanied the memories of his time with the Wilson's in Louisiana, he entered the kitchen, and was surprised to find Peter sitting hunched over on one of the stools with his head in his hands.

"Peter?"

The boy looked up at his voice. His face was drawn, deep purple crescents under his eyes, skin pallid, clothes rumpled, and hair a mess. A ratty backpack tucked neatly out of the way under the stool. Like he was trying to take up as little space as possible. He offered Bucky a smile that didn't even come close to reaching his eyes.

"You're early." Bucky continued to assess him, watching his expression change from exhausted to slightly panicked.

"Sorry. I'm sorry if I woke you up. I can…I can go. Come back later. If you want?"

Bucky pushed him back down into his seat on his way to the refrigerator with a firm hand on his shoulder.

"Sit. Stay. It's fine." He tossed him an orange juice. "You eaten?"

At Peter's shake of the head, Bucky pulled out a carton of eggs and a pack of bacon, his movements fluid and precise as he moved about the kitchen. He wasn't great at taking care of himself, but with an enhanced metabolism, cooking was the one thing that was a necessity.

"I uh…" Peter started.

Bucky glanced at him as he pulled out a frying pan and put it on the gas hob. The look on Peter's face, eyes blinking rapidly as he swallowed thickly, was enough to give him pause. Bucky turned away from the pan and leaned against the counter opposite him.

"Why are you early, Peter?" He had tried to gentle his tone, but wasn't sure if the delivery came out the way he intended. That still happened sometimes.

Peter rubbed at his eyes with his thumb and index finger, squeezing them shut tight. He exhaled heavily, shoulders sagging, and the warning bells started to ring inside Bucky's head. His heart began to gallop in time with his racing thoughts. Catastrophising. That's what his therapist had called it.

"They found me. My apartment. I think they followed me home from work." He wouldn't meet Bucky's eyes, staring instead at his hands where they wrung together in his lap.

"From work…Peter, when did this happen?" He was conscious of the way his vibranium fingers flexed against the marble counter, and forced them to relax.

"Last night?" Peter grimaced, his shoulders tight, apology written across his features.

Bucky nodded as his mind raced ahead, too fast for him to be able to parse one thought from another. Finally, he breathed again.

"Tell me what happened. Everything." He ordered.

As Peter finsihed recounting the events of the night before, Bucky pinched the bridge of his nose and tried to breathe through the rising tide of conflicting emotions. Worry, irritation, overwhelm, all fighting for pole position.

"Are you sure you weren't followed here?" He asked, finally meeting Peter's wide and pleading eyes.

"I'm sure. That's why I left early - didn't want anyone to see me leaving. And I looped around for a while to make sure there no one was tailing me. I was really careful, I wouldn't have come otherwise."

Bucky believed him. But then another concern occured to him, pressing a furrow into his brow.

"Where did you sleep last night?"

Peter bit his lip, hands back to wringing in his lap again. He looked up at Bucky, offering a contrite smile and a shrug.

"The garage."

"Okay, good. That was smart." He nodded.

Peter's shoulders loosened and he sat a little straighter.

"It's secure enough for a night. But you'll need to find another place to stay. Somewhere safe."

The look on Perter's face made his heart clench on the next beat. How could he have forgotten? The kid had no one.

"I have…" Fishing around in his pocket, he pulled out a small wad of cash. "Three hundred dollars. I could probably get a motel room for a few nights. I just have to find a new job, so I can get another apartment."

Bucky leaned both elbows on the counter now and let his head drop into his hands, carding his fingers through his hair as he thought through the predicament.

"No." He muttered in resignation to the countertop. Was he really going to do this?

"No? What…what do you mean?"

Looking up at him now, Bucky ran a hand over his stubbled jaw, back and forth. There really was only one solution. He groaned and let his head drop back down to thump his palms against his forehead.

"A motel isn't going to be secure enough. Neither is any job or apartment you can find." He said to the cool white marble.

"I can't afford anything else. Especially without a job. This is my entire savings. I just," Peter released a harsh breath, "I don't…I don't have anywhere else to go."

Pushing himself upright, Bucky chewed his lip, reluctant to let the words out. This was a bad idea. But it was their only reasonable option at this point.

"You'll have to stay here. At least for a few days."

Owlish eyes blinked back at him from across the kitchen island, Peter's mouth agape as he took in what Bucky had just said.

"Here?" It squeaked out. Peter cleared his throat.

"Don't make me regret this." Bucky warned.

"I'll do my best…?"

Bucky actually chuckled at the honesty with a sardonic shake of his head.

"Once we've got this case wrapped up I'll put you in touch with my friend, Sam. He's already offered to take you on with the Avengers." Peter stiffened at the mention, Bucky filed that away for later, they had other priorities this morning.

"Is there anyting in your apartment you need to go back for?"

"Not really. I keep everything I need in my backpack. Just in case, y'know?"

That was smart. Maybe there was some hope for this kid, despite this slip up.

"Well, tell me what you've got on this Wechter guy while I cook."

****

Peter shifted in his seat again. His right foot had started to go numb as he sat cross-legged in the large leather desk chair, hunched over his laptop for the ninth straight hour. He rolled his shoulders to ease the tight muscles, and let his head fall back against the headrest, surveying the room around him. The expanse of polished mahogany desk between he and Bucky was tidy, and somewhat barren. No calendar, no phone, no pen holder, no picture frames with photos of loved ones. Although there was a framed black and white photo of Bucky and Steve on the wall, and a smaller one of he and Sam with a woman and two boys, perched on one of the floor to ceiling book shelves. They were the only personal touches that Peter had seen in the house so far. The house itself was luxurious, but unsettlingly impersonal. Like a hotel. Like Bucky was a guest in his own home.

Bucky had shown him to the guest room after they'd finished breakfast. It was on the first floor, with a view over the courtyard below, and a bed that was larger than any he'd ever seen in his life. A wall mounted TV that was only slightly smaller than the one in the living room hung from the wall opposite the bed. The ensuite bathroom could just about fit his entire apartment inside it.

Bucky had shown him the walk in robe and told him he could put his things in there, and Peter had awkwardly leaned his tattered backpack against the wall and given him a thin smile. When he'd ducked back into the room after lunch to grab his laptop charger from his backpack, he was shocked to find a shopping bag on one of the shelves with some clothing in it. The tags were still on them. He hadn't even noticed a delivery, but Bucky must have ordered them at some point and put them in there. Something so simple, a small act of care, had formed a lump in his throat and made his eyes sting. Bucky has brushed him off when he tried to thank him and offer him some cash, and simply returned to staring at his own monitor screen on the other side of the desk.

Peter sighed heavily and ran a hand over his face, stifling a yawn that turned into a simultaneous stomach grumble. They'd been at this all day and had turned up exactly nothing on Wechter. The frustration of it was starting to chafe under Peter's skin.

Bucky finally looked up, meeting his eyes across the desk.

"Anything?"

"Nothing" Peter shook his head.

"Alright. Don't know about you, but I need food. You like Chinese?"

At Peter's nod, Bucky pushed himself up from the desk, rolling his neck from side to side and stretching his back, setting off a chain of cracking sounds.

"Whoah…" Peter breathed.

Bucky side-eyed him, a crease between his brows.

"What?"

"Oh, uh, it's just that I thought with your serum you had cellular regeneration. Does your back sound like that because you're so old?"

Bucky closed his eyes and breathed deeply before responding.

"Biologically, I'm in my thirties, Peter."

"Yeah, that's what I said. Like, you're old." Peter fought against the smirk that was trying to break out.

Bucky breathed deeply again and rolled his eyes. "Keep going with this conversation Pete, and you'll be lucky to make it to old age."

The words didn't hold any real heat, and he was pretty sure that he'd seen the corner of Bucky's mouth quirk upward in a smile, despite his scowl.

****

Cold dawn sunlight was edging in through the gaps in the curtains when he awoke the next day. Peter was pretty sure he'd passed out the second his head had hit the pillow. This bed was not only huge, it was like sleeping on a marshmallow, covered by a quilt so thick and heavy that it pressed him down into the mattress and settled his nerves. He couldn't remember the last time he'd slept so well. The room was warm, no drafts, no street noise or sounds of neighbours coming through paper-thin walls. An excellent security system, and a highly trained super soldier on the next floor also helped.

He swiped his phone off the bedside table and checked the time. Five AM. Six hours of sleep was a record for him these days. The plush carpet underfoot was warm as he pulled on one of the new sweatshirts from the bag of clothing Bucky had given him. He revelled in the warmth - the heated room, the cozy bed, the soft sweater. He hadn't felt warmth like this since the summer, when he'd sweltered away in the diner kitchen and then returned to the stuffy apartment, most nights spent on the fire escape just to try to catch a breeze. Winter had been barely survivable in that place. The cold had permeated his bones.

It was going to be hard to leave this place and return to that.

But maybe he didn't have to.

Peter squashed the thought as soon as it arose. No matter how enticing Sam Wilson's offer to join the Avengers was, he couldn't entertain the idea. It was too dangerous to let himself be part of a team. Too dangerous to reveal his real identity again. Too dangerous to have hope.

A lead weight pressed down on his sternum, his heart throbbed against it as his lungs struggled under its mass. He shouldn't be here. Taking advantage of Bucky's generosity like this. The sweater itched, too hot, too tight, uncomfortably constricting. Peter grasped at the fabric, twisting his fingers into it, yanking it off over his head and throwing it onto the bed.

A burst of electricity coursed through him, driving him like an engine with no brakes.

Covers pulled up on the bed, pillows adjusted. The sweater folded neatly and placed back in the shopping bag. Belongings shoved hastily into his backpack.

He scanned over the room one last time. It looked as though he'd never even been here. Good.

The house was silent as he crept down the stairs, easing each footfall to avoid making any noise. Bucky's bedroom was on the second floor, but with his enhanced hearing he didn't want to risk waking him before he left. His foot was mid-air, half way off the last step to the ground floor, when he heard the distinct clink of ceramic against marble, and he froze.

Bucky was at the kitchen island, watching him.

"Morning," Bucky said. One word. But loaded.

Peter knew his eyes were wide, staring, deer-in-the-headlights. He took the final step down onto the polished floorboards, one hand still on the bannister, and tried to hide the backpack on his shoulder.

"Morning," he replied, his faux casualness falling flat.

Bucky picked up his coffee cup and drained it, setting it back on the counter without his eyes ever leaving Peter's. The staring was unnerving.

"Going somewhere?" Bucky asked, a light frown drawing a crease between his brows.

Peter forced himself to breathe.

"Uh, I was…umm… I really appreciate everything you've done for me. Truly. But I can't stay."

"Okay," Bucky nodded, "So what's your plan?"

Peter cleared his throat, and blinked absently a few more times.

"Plan?" He repeated dumbly.

"Yeah, Peter. Your plan. To not get evaporated by Wechter and his goons. You remember, the guys who broke into your apartment and tried to kill you?" Bucky gave a thin-lipped smile, eyes not moving from Peter's face.

Damn, didn't this guy ever blink?

"I…I don't exactly have a plan…yet."

Bucky nodded again, finally looking away as he rinsed his cup and put it in the sink.

"Well, maybe you should stay and have some breakfast while you figure it out. You want eggs or cereal?"

Peter's mouth opened, then closed again. He wanted to protest, to tell Bucky that he would be fine, that he had to leave. But instead, he placed his backpack at the bottom of the staircase and took a seat at the kitchen island.

Bucky looked at him expectantly.

Realizing he hadn't responded to Bucky's question, he settled on the fastest option. Whatever would get him out of here soonest.

"Cereal, please," he all but whispered.

Bucky pulled a box of Lucky Charms out of a cupboard, snatched the milk out of the fridge and slid them across to Peter, followed shortly after by a bowl and spoon.

Under Bucky's scrutiny he poured his breakfast carefully into the bowl and took his first hesitant bite.

"You wanna tell me why you're risking your neck leaving a secure location when you've got homicidal weapons dealers after you?"

Peter choked, soggy cereal and marshmallows caught in his throat. He coughed, eyes watering, until Bucky pushed a glass of water in front of him and he gulped it down. Risk of imminent death by Lucky Charms over, he placed the water glass down and tried to look Bucky in the eye, but stopped short.

"I don't want to take advantage of your generosity when I've put you in danger by coming here. I don't want anyone else else to get hurt because of me."

It wasn't entirely untrue. Risking a glance up to see Bucky's reaction, he found the other man looking at him with an assessing gaze.

"It's not taking advantage. We're…colleagues, at present. So for the time being, this house is our base of operations. It's secure." He paused, eyes narrowing. "I'm not going to force you to stay. But I would strongly recommend it. If you value your life, that is."

Peter stared at his hands, thinking through his options. There really were only two; stay and help Bucky take these guys down before they disappeared any more people, or leave and be hunted down until they were able to disappear him. His posture slumped.

"I'll stay."

Bucky nodded again, "Good choice."

He'd tell him. He would. And he'd pay him back for everything, somehow. They just needed to find Wechter and the weapons first. Then, he'd tell Bucky everything and let him take penance in whatever way he deemed fit.

****

The kid was hiding something. Of that, he was sure. He believed Peter when he said that he didn't want to put anyone else in danger, it was clear the kid had suffered devastating loss. That bright, witty, cocksure teenager that he'd first encountered at the airport in Germany was now a solemn young man who stammered and mumbled and apologized for existing. Bucky could relate.

But the same feeling he'd had since running into Peter on the street that night almost two weeks ago was still there. Buzzing in the background. Crawling up his spine and burrowing into his brain in quiet moments. There was something he was missing. Something that Peter was concealing. Maybe it was something to do with the gaps in his memories, something he'd forgotten. Maybe it was just a distrustful and isolated kid keeping his problems close to his chest.

Bucky sighed and rubbed at his tired eyes. Their day of scouring the internet had been frustratingly unproductive. But he had to say that he was pleasantly surprised by how he'd not so much enjoyed having company, but that it didn't bother him as much as he thought it would. The chaos of the Thunderbolts, or whatever they were going to call themselves, quickly became overwhelming for him. However, Peter was mostly quiet and polite, he fidgeted a lot, but was laser focused on his work. And when he let his sense of humour slip out, making gentle barbs and snarky comments disguised as innocent observations, he was actually pretty funny.

Maybe this wouldn't be so bad.

Maybe, Bucky could actually help him. Until he could get him set up with Sam, anyway.

Peter's cereal lay soggy and abandoned in it's bowl, he hadn't touched it since choking on it. Bucky pulled it away from him and dumped it into the sink.

"I guess we should get back to searching for Wechter," Peter mumbled as he stood.

"No. Follow me." Bucky ordered, heading for the basement door, completing a retinal scan and then also scanning his palm on another biometric lock.

"What? Where are we…" Peter trailed off as Bucky disappeared down the stairs.

The gym was open space that spanned the entire basement level. There was regular gym equipment in one corner, another was set up with punching bags and sparring dummies, and various targets and an armoury ran along the rear wall.

"Alright, kid. You have super powers, you're smart, and you have a skill for making the most of your surroundings in a fight. But you're lacking in tactical training, and hand to hand combat skills. I respect your stance on not using weapons or lethal force, but with that, your lack of formal training makes you a liability in the field. So…we're gonna train."

Bucky pulled a knife off the armoury wall, and turned to Peter.

Peter swallowed thickly, and nodded, shifting into a loose fighting stance.

Bucky assessed him as he slowly circled him. His left arm was too low, leaving his side unprotected.

Bucky lunged, the knife flashing silver through the air.

Peter dodged, spinning out of his way.

They circled each other again, hesitant steps mirrored with each move.

Bucky was impressed. The reaction time from when he moved to Peter's reflex action was infinitesimal.

But his left arm was still open, leaving him vulnerable.

Bucky spun, simultaneously lunging to Peter's left, whilst switching his knife to his right hand.

Peter dodged, and let out a yelp as the knife poked into right hand side. Not hard enough to draw blood, just hard enough to make a point.

"Not a fatal wound, but it'll slow you down." Bucky warned.

"I think it would make the fight more even if I could get my web shooters," Peter countered as he mirrored Bucky's movements.

"Not every fight is gonna be fair, Peter. And you won't always have your web shooters, or your suit, or back up. You need to learn to fight without it." Bucky met his eyes, and saw the understanding deepen, his young face becoming serious, more focused.

He registered the movement a split second before he felt the impact. Peter's foot collided with his knee, as he slid across the floor. Tumbling forward, Bucky tucked into a roll and sprang back to his feet.

"Nice move," he praised, a small, but genuine smile on his lips.

"Thanks. Mr Stark told me to go for Cap's legs. And he didn't even have a vibranium arm, so…figured it was worth a shot," There was a note of pride in Peter's voice.

Bucky smiled, still pacing slowly around the room like a cat stalking its prey, while Peter countered every move.

"Good work, Pete. You're getting it. You're strong, and you're fast, but the thing that'll save you is your brain. You gotta be smarter than your opponent."

Several hours later, Bucky lay panting on the floor, one hand on his thrumming heart, sweat plastering loose strands of his hair to his face and neck. Once Peter had warmed up, they had amped up the intensity of their sparring until they were just barely pulling their punches.

Peter was picking up on things fast. Bucky had suspected he would, being a protege of Stark's came with the expectation of a certain level of genius intellect.

It had been a long time since he'd trained someone who had never received formal combat instruction before. Not since the Red Room. Those girls had been so young, some as young as four. Babies. An icy shard of shame and grief speared through him, piercing his heart and making it feel as though he was bleeding with each beat. Sometimes, he would lay awake at night, picturing each of their faces, remembering their names…wondering what became of them. Most of them probably died young. A short life full of strict routine, cold oversight, and bloodshed.

The Soldier had been punished many times for not "correcting" the girls harshly enough. That may have been why they eventually stopped sending him there. No matter the punishment, the Soldier would not hurt the girls. They were only other humans that looked at him with trust.

"…cky? Are you okay?"

Peter's voice cut through his fugue.

He blinked, the room swimming into focus around him, bringing him back to the present. Peter's face appeared above him, brows drawn.

"Yeah. I'm fine."

Peter straightened, smiling now.

"Oh good, I was afraid I'd finally worn out the centenarian and you'd keeled over and died."

The vibranium hand moved fast as lightning, snatching Peter's ankle and yanking it up. Peter crashed to floor with an oof of expelled air.

Bucky laughed.

"Asshole," Peter wheezed.

****

After several more wasted hours scouring every database they could get access to for any mentions of Wechter, Bucky called it a night and ordered them some Mexican takeout.

He had reluctantly agreed to let Peter walk him through how to use the gaming system that he'd never touched. From what he'd gathered these computer game things were mostly about gunfights, killing, and maiming, and he'd had enough of that to last several lifetimes. It didn't sound like a relaxing way to spend his free time. But Peter had assured him that there were other games as well. Something about a guy named Mario who used to be a plumber? And some princess named Zelda who needed saving. He'd humour him, for tonight.

Tomorrow, he was going to (illegally) access Val's CIA accounts and see if he could pull up any info on Wechter. The guy had to have some kind of criminal record. Villains like him didn't just appear out of thin air.

Chapter Text

"What do you want, Walker?"

Bucky pulled the phone away from his ear for a moment to check the time. Eight AM. Shit.

"Were you sleeping?" The incredulity in John's voice irked him.

"Yes. I sleep. People do that. It's necessary."

Bucky rubbed at his eyes and yawned as he swung his feet to the floor and started trying to find clean(ish) clothes. Settling on a pair of faded jeans and yesterday's t-shirt. The pile of dirty clothing in the corner loomed in silent judgement.

"You never sleep this late. In fact, you barely sleep at all. So, what? You had a late night? You got some hot piece of ass keeping you up till all hours?" John snickered.

Bucky's face scrunched like he'd just smelled something awful.

"Piece of… Jesus, John. That's low, even for you," Bucky started, getting heated now, blood pulsing.

"Oh come on, Buck-"

Bucky cut him off, "And not that it's any of your business, but no, I didn't have a woman over."

Why was he bothering to even entertain this conversation? He must be tired.

"Man, woman, whatever gets your juices flowing, man," Bucky could almos hear the smug look on John's face.

"I was up late playing Mario Kart, asshole."

The line was suddenly silent.

Ten seconds passed. Then twenty. Then there was a faint sputtering sound as John found his voice.

"Mario Kart? What, were you hosting a tenth birthday party?"

Bucky sighed and closed his eyes.

"What do you want, Walker?"

"We need you here today. Mission briefing at ten hundred."

"I'll be there," Bucky said, resigned.

He was about to end the call when John's voice came wafting out of the speaker.

"Hold on. Do you have a kid with you? Do you have the kid with you?"

Fuck. Bucky let his head fall forward before finally lifting the phone to his ear again. How the fuck had Walker, of all people, figured that out.

"It's temporary. The case had a hiccup, he needed somewhere safe to stay."

"Bucky…I don't think that's a good idea. I mean, you're not exactly…"

Bucky's eyes snapped open and scowl darkened his features. Between his teeth, he hissed the words out, cold and threatening.

"Not exactly what, John?"

There was a slight pause while John carefully considered his words, knowing he was tiptoeing through a minefield.

"Well, you know, not exactly anyone's first choice for a babysitter."

Bucky scoffed and shook his head. He was doing just fine. They were both doing fine. Peter was safe, and fed - actual vegetables even. Still, John's words prodded sharply in his mind, poking holes through the thin veneer of normalcy that having Peter in his home had brought. Eating meals with someone, playing video games, having someone to talk to. But there was nothing normal about a former brainwashed assassin with a metal arm and PTSD trying to convince himself that he had any business caring for a traumatized orphan. It wasn't normal.

But it was familiar.

A strange kind of familiarity that he hadn't felt in nearly a century. Looking out for the underdog was something that had been ingrained in him even before the serum.

"Bucky? Are you there? Look, man, I'm sor-"

"I'll see you at ten."

Bucky hung up the phone while John stammered and fumbled on the other end.

****

There had been a moment last night, somewhere around two AM, when a lump had formed in Peter's throat and his eyes had begun to sting. The realization of just how much he had missed having a friend - hell, having anyone to just spend time with - had hit him hard. The contrast was stark between the silent, lonely nights in his rundown apartment, and the almost brotherly back and forth teasing and commentary while he and Bucky played video games and ate snacks in the cozy living room. Quickly chased by the ever-present shadow of guilt that hung, dark and heavy in the background, like storm clouds waiting for their chance to unleash the truth and wash all of this away. In that moment, he had resolved to do everything he could to start making amends before Bucky even knew the truth. He owed him that much at least.

That morning, Peter sat at the kitchen counter with a bowl of cereal and his laptop, scanning the news for any stories of mysterious disappearances. He looked up as Bucky reached the bottom of the stairs.

Bucky had slept late today. Of course, they hadn't gone to bed until three AM as Bucky had stubbornly insisted they keep playing until he finally won a match. For someone with enhanced abilities, he was comically terrible at video games. Peter had finally let him win a race when he realized that they'd be up until dawn before Bucky even came close to winning on his own.

"I made coffee, if you want some?" Peter said, around a mouthful of cereal. Swallowing, he followed up with, "I was going to make bacon and eggs, but…well, I'm not much of a cook."

Bucky's eyebrows were raised, but he was smiling. That must mean it was okay that he'd helped himself to the kitchen.

"Thanks, Pete." Bucky went to pull a coffee cup out of the dishwasher and upon realizing it was empty, he looked up at Peter.

"I emptied the dishwasher, too…I hope that's okay? I know I'm just a guest here, but I want to help out, if I can." He fidgeted with his spoon.

"Sure, yeah. Knock yourself out." Bucky smiled, pouring himself a fresh, hot coffee. A small frown creased his forehead as he took a sip. "You must have been up early. You get any sleep?"

"Couple hours, I think." Peter shrugged.

Bucky was studying his face, that assessing gaze of his that made Peter feel exposed. Followed by a knowing nod of his head.

"I have to go into work today. But it'll give me a chance to get into Val's systems and see if can find anything on Wechter. Keep your phone on you." Bucky gulped down the hot coffee. "And try to get some more sleep, okay?"

Peter nodded noncommittingly, not intending to sleep at all, but Bucky didn't need to know that. Peter couldn't help but be touched that he cared, though.

"I'll be back by dinner time. Pick something to have delivered." He tossed a credit card down on the countertop.

Peter nodded again as Bucky scooped up his keys and headed for the garage. He stopped at the door, and called back over his shoulder.

"And don't let me win at Mario Kart again. I don't need your pity," He grinned, at the shocked look on Peter's face, then, chuckling, disappeared out the door.

****

The elevator chimed as it reached the seventy-sixth floor of the Watchtower. The doors opened with a quiet mechanical swish to a brightly lit, sterile hallway. Everything here was clean lines, metallic finishes, and the soft hiss of air vents. Bucky stepped out to see Ava hastily retreating down the corridor, the thrumming of her heartbeat fading along with the clack of her footsteps on the cold tile, as she disappeared around a corner. John stood facing him, eyes wide, face a little flushed, and hair just slightly dishevelled.

Interesting.

"Bucky! Listen, about earlier -" John started, smoothing down his hair and adjusting his shirt.

"It's fine." Bucky brushed past him, heading toward the conference room.

John pivoted and followed him.

"It's just, I know you're working this case off the books, and this kid-"

John let out a startled sound as Bucky's vibranium hand contracted firmly around his bicep and shoved him through an open doorway into an empty meeting room. The door shut with a slam, and Bucky rounded on him.

"Don't talk about that here," he hissed, glaring at John as if he could knock the stupid out of him with just a look.

John squared his jaw and straightened to his full height, but still took a minute step backward as Bucky stepped up to him.

"I'm not an idiot, Bucky. Val's not here yet," he justified in an angry whisper.

Bucky shook his head and released a breath.

"You seriously think she isn't surveilling every inch of this place?"

John tilted his head and chewed the inside of his cheek for moment, before sagging and resting against the desk behind him.

"Point taken, okay? I know you think I'm an asshole, but I wouldn't put…someone in danger. I gave you my word, and I'll keep it."

Bucky looked him up and down, assessing, listening to the steady thump of his heart. He wasn't lying.

"Okay."

They walked the rest of the way to the conference room in uneasy silence. Yelena and Ava were already there, sitting at opposite ends of the room, both scrolling on their phones. Ava's eyes flicked up and met John's as they entered. John took the seat next to her. Bucky chose to sit at the head of the table; a strategic move that would force Val to sit at the opposite end of the long room, as far from him as possible.

Alexei blustered in a moment later, filling the space with his usual raucous energy. He slapped Bucky on the shoulder as he passed, his voice booming through the quiet room.

"Ah, our Winter Soldier has returned! Walker says you've been holed up with sexy new woman, da?" Alexei chuckled loudly and slapped him on the shoulder again.

Bucky stared daggers at John, who just gave a minuscule shrug, but there was a contrite look creeping across his face.

"Come onnn, tell us all about it Mister Loverboy. Is she a red head? Has she got big-"

"Dad! We don't need the gory details." Yelena admonished, her lip curled in disgust.

Alexei continued to mime large breasts as he grinned at Bucky. He could feel the blood rushing to his face, and made a mental note to poison John's coffee at the first opportunity.

Val swept into the room with her usual air of superiority, hesitating mid-stride as she took in Bucky sitting her rightful place, then recovering by heading to the opposite end. Bucky never thought he'd be glad to see that woman, but at this moment he was so relieved for the disruption to the line of conversation that he could almost have beamed at her. Her assistant Mel came trailing in a moment later, a stack of manila folders in her arms that was threatening to spill as she grappled with the door. Bucky sprang to his feet, holding the door for her, and catching two of the folders as they slipped.

"Thanks, Bucky," she smiled at him with genuine gratitude.

Returning her smile Bucky pulled out a chair and placed the errant folders down in front of her as she sat. When he looked up Alexei was watching them, shit-eating grin firmly in place as he waggled his eyebrows. Bucky rolled his eyes and returned to his seat.

With the mission briefing underway and everyone's attention diverted, Bucky pulled out his phone and began his real mission here today - getting into Val's accounts. Hacking at close range like this was pretty simple. As technology had progressed, it had become necessary for Hydra to train him in cyber espionage, and it was a skill that he had found useful during his time on the run after the Triskelion. He'd picked up even more skills during his time in Wakanda, spending days in the lab with Shuri between his torturous sessions with Ayo.

While Val continued to bark instructions and orders, Bucky feigned attention. He turned pages of the briefing at the appropriate times, but kept one eye on his phone. The CIA database had taken a little more time to get into, but the payoff was worth it. The file on Wechter was downloaded to his device before Val finished the briefing, and he tuned back into the conversation just as she was assigning roles.

"…and Bucky, you'll be heading this team. I trust you'll keep the New Avengers in line and ensure that there's no bad press. It's all about image here, people."

Bucky sighed, "We're not calling ourselves that," he mumbled, but didn't really have that fight in him today.

"I beg your pardon?" Val questioned, her tone making the spines of his teammates stiffen, all eyes turning towards him.

Bucky cleared his throat.

"We're in the business of saving people, Val. Not marketing." He met her steely glare with one of his own. As much as he despised her, he had to admit she had balls to stare down an angry super soldier.

"It's all about marketing, Mister Barnes. Do you think the public will continue to support a team of murderers and criminals if they don't-"

Bucky stood abruptly, slamming his vibranium hand on the table so hard that it creaked and splintered.

"We're done here. Thunderbolts, training room. Now."

The team stood as one, pushing back their chairs, gathering their folders and filing out of the room without glancing back at Val, her face a darkening red as she vibrated with rage.

Bucky shot Mel an apologetic look as he left the room. She gave a tiny nod in return.

A pit of anxiety began to grow in Bucky's gut. He knew he'd seriously misstepped with Val just now. Their power play dynamic was quickly becoming untenable. Bucky forced himself to exhale slowly. He couldn't lose his cool like that in front of the team, they needed him to be the steadying hand. This team might be made up of people with dark pasts, but for the most part they hadn't had much choice in it. And he'd be damned if let someone like Val hold that over their heads when they were all trying to turn their lives around and do something good.

****

Peter hesitated outside Bucky's bedroom. The restlessness of waiting for Bucky to return with information while he effectively sat on his hands like a grounded fifth grader was starting to grate on his nerves. He had cleaned, researched, cleaned some more, worked out in the basement gym, paced aimlessly, and explored the house. Most of the rooms were untouched, just guest rooms, bathrooms, and empty closets. It didn't seem like Bucky spent too much time here, using it more as a retreat from the Watchtower than a home. Until Peter had arrived, that is.

He stood, looking at the closed door to Bucky's private space. It hadn't escaped Peter's notice that the clothes Bucky had worn the last couple of days had been a little rumpled, and his shirt this morning had a small stain on the sleeve. He'd mentioned in passing the other night that he missed the laundry service they had at the tower. Surely he'd be grateful for the clean clothes, despite the invasion of privacy… he had told him to "knock himself out" when it came to cleaning after all.

Decision made, he pushed open the bedroom door. The curtains were drawn, the only light was the small slivers of sun edging in through the gaps, casting thin white stripes over the rumpled sheets and pile of discarded clothing. Deciding not to touch the bed, that felt too invasive, Peter had scooped all of the clothing into a hamper and trudged to the laundry.

All the pre-war photos and stories of Bucky had presented an image of a man who was fastidious about his appearance, always neatly pressed, hair combed, clean shaven. It was kind of sad, really, that he seemed to have lost that part of himself. Thinking back on the last couple of weeks Peter could see all of the small ways that Bucky had taken care of him, the motorbike, the place to stay, nutritious meals, clean clothes. But he couldn't think of a single thing that Bucky had done to care for himself.

A few hours later, he was just setting the clean, folded clothing onto the end of Bucky's bed when his phone chimed.

Bucky: File obtained. Arrest record expunged, and a lot has been redacted. Was running guns for mafia. Mother's name is Irena, see if you can find any records.

Peter smiled as he typed out a reply. A small sense of triumph washing over him that they finally had something, no matter how small, on Wechter.

Peter: On it

Peter: Will let you know if I find anything

Peter: Good work

Peter: 👍

As he slipped the phone back into his pocket it vibrated against his palm. He pulled it back out.

Bucky: That really could have been one message.

Peter snorted out a laugh and bit his lip to stop the grin from spreading. He knew it was annoying, but it was also kinda fun to rile up the old man.

It took two hours of searching to find an address. Irena had remarried about thirty years ago, so was going by Irena Sandler now and had moved to Long Island. Mr Sandler was marked as deceased.

Now, he was paralysed with indecision. Bucky was still at the Watchtower, and wouldn't be back for a few hours. He hadn't explicitly been told not to leave the house (but you know you're not supposed to), his mind supplied helpfully. What could be the harm in visiting a little old lady? He'd case the place out, first. Make sure Wechter and his goons weren't there. He could just have a little chat with her. Then, when Bucky got home, he could show him that he wasn't just a burden, eating his food and sleeping in his guest room. He was an equal partner in this.

He was an equal partner in this. He didn't need permission to leave.

****

Somewhere inside the modest home on Long Island, Peter could hear the shuffling of feet and a small dog yapping. The barking cut short as a door closed.

The front door swung inward to reveal a tiny, wrinkled lady with curled white hair and thick glasses. She smiled up at him through the mesh of the screen door.

"Hello, young man. What can I do for you?"

"Hi, ma'am. I'm hoping you can help me? I seem to have gotten myself lost on the way home from my friend's house, and my phone is out of battery," he held up his dark phone screen for effect, continuing on with his most wide-eyed innocent school boy look. "Could I please use your phone to call my mom?"

Irena hesitated, peering past him into the street.

"Oh, I…Oh honey, I'm not so sure…" One gnarled hand twisted its fingers into the fabric of her house coat.

"Please? I promise I'll only be a minute." Peter batted his eyelashes at her and gave her his most harmless smile. He could see her resolve waver, and leaned into it. "I really don't want to be out on my own after dark, it's kinda scary, and my Mom will be so worried."

"Oh honey, okay, come on in." She pushed the screen door open and waved him inside as he thanked her profusely.

Peter scanned over the rooms as she led him to the kitchen. It was a tidy home, if a bit cluttered, with knick knacks and photos set atop doilies on every surface. There were no photos of Wechter that he could see amongst the assorted family photos.

The telephone was an old landline hung from a wall and Irena invited him to use it while she lowered herself into a chair at the formica dining table. Peter picked up the receiver and punched in a random series of numbers, surreptitiously pressing down on the hook to terminate the call when Irena looked away.

"Hi Mom," he started, speaking to the quiet hum of the dialtone. "I know I said I'd be home by now, but my phone died and I got lost on my way back from Ned's." He almost choked on the name, and cleared his throat. He pushed on.

"I'm on Maple Avenue, a really nice lady is letting me use her phone." He smiled at Irena, and she smiled back. "Could you please come and pick me up? It's number seventy seven… Oh, I guess I can wait, that's okay. Thanks, Mom…love you, too."

He placed the phone back into its cradle and schooled his face into his best impression of a lost puppy before turning around.

"Thank you for letting me use the phone. My mom will be a while, so I guess I'll just wait on the curb," he made a point to glance past her out of the kitchen window at the growing dusk outside. "…in the dark." He wrapped his arms around himself for extra impact, and saw the motherly concern deepen the lines on the old lady's face.

He was probably going to go to hell for this.

"Nonsense, young man. You take a seat in the living room and I'll bring you a nice glass of lemonade. You can wait right here for your mom." Irena rose stiffly from her seat and began to bustle about the kitchen, shooing him out the door and back toward the front of the house.

Peter began to search the living room immediately, scanning all of the photos and knick knacks. A wedding photo - a younger Irena smiling in a white dress in the arms of a handsome man. Photos of Irena with a young boy, but the era was wrong. These photos looked to be taken in the 1990's, judging by the clothing. So they couldn't be Wechter. Had he got the right house? The right Irena?

Just as he heard Irena come shuffling down the hallway, his eyes caught on another photo - this one of a young man in a graduation cap and gown, smiling at the camera. His breath caught. It was the man from the diner that very first night. The seller. Eyes darting, breath still trapped in his chest, his mind raced. How could that be? The frame below the graduation photo held a copy of a diploma from MIT. The name on it read William Sandler. He had a Doctorate of Science, specializing in Physics.

Irena shuffled into the room carrying a tray with two tall glasses of lemonade and a plate of sugar cookies.

"Here we go, dear," she announced as she set the tray on the coffee table.

Peter smiled, trying to force himself to breathe and slow his racing heart.

"Is this your son? You must be very proud. A doctorate from MIT is a big accomplishment."

Irena swelled with pride, tottering over to him to admire the photo alongside him.

"Oh, yes. I always knew my Billy was special. Such a clever boy. And handsome, too," she tittered.

"What does he do now? I'm sure he had a million opportnities to choose from," Peter indulged her, fishing for information, but also aware of just how much she was enjoying getting to brag on her son.

To his confusion, Irena's face fell. "He used to work for Stark Industries."

Stark Industries. Peter had to remind himself to breathe again.

"Wow, Stark Industries. That's impressive! What did he do there?"

Irena sniffed, pulling a handkerchief out of her sleeve and dabbing at her eyes.

"Oh I'm not really all too sure of that honey, all that sciencey stuff is beyond me. But he loved that job. He was happy. Before it all got blown to heck. Before his brother got to him." The way she spat the word, brother, made the hair on Peter's arms stand up.

"You have another son?" He probed.

"I don't like to talk about that." Irena looked longingly at the photo one last time, before turning away and settling into an armchair.

"I'm sorry," Peter offered sincerely. She seemed like a nice lady. He didn't want to upset her. But he couldn't come this far without getting more information.

"I have an older brother," Peter lied, "He got into trouble with the law a few years back. We don't really talk about him anymore either. He's...not a nice guy." He risked a glance up at Irena's face and saw it soften.

"My Billy was always such a good boy. Always did his homework, stayed out of trouble, looked after his momma." She smiled softly, dabbing at her eyes again

"But Hans…well, I always had trouble with Hans. He talked back, stayed out late at night, hung out with the wrong crowd. I knew he was destined for prison and that's right where he ended up, just like his good-for-nothing father."

He had it. Confirmation that this was Wecther's mother, and that William Sandler, the Stark Industries employee, was his apparent half-brother.

"Where is Hans now?" He winced internally, knowing the question was insensitive, but determined to continue regardless.

"I don't know. Probably up to no good somewhere, and taking my precious Billy with him." Irena choked out a sob and Peter's heart clenched. He felt like a total asshole.

"I'm sorry, ma'am, I shouldn't have asked. Can I…can I get you anything?"

Irena continued to press the handkerchief to her face as she reigned in her tears. Peter stood and plucked a glass of lemonade off the tray, handing it to her with a squeeze of her shoulder.

"Thank you…I don't think I got your name?"

"Parker," he blurted out. The first thing that came to mind.

"Parker. Thank you, Parker. You know, you remind me a lot of my Billy when he was your age. You keep being a good boy now, and look after your momma."

Peter swallowed thickly.

"I will. Speaking of which, she'll be here soon. I should go and wait outside for her. Thank you, for everything. I hope Billy comes home to you soon."

After assuring Irena that she didn't need to see him to he door, and that he'd be safe outside for a few minutes, Peter shut the front door behind him and made his way down the front stairs. His head was swimming with all of the new information. He fidgeted with his phone as he waited for it to power back on, full of nervous energy and excitement to tell Bucky everything that he had found.

He'd made it a few doors down, to where he'd left his motorbike, before he saw the dark SUV parked on the opposite side of the road. The two hulking figures inside following his every move.

Chapter Text

A million thoughts competed for his attention.

The air in his lungs turned stale as he held onto it.

Peter forced himself to exhale. It was slow and shaky, but his mind cleared and narrowed in on his options.

One, turn and run.

Two, get on the motorbike and try to out-maneuver them on the road.

Or three, go on the offense.

It only took a split second to decide.

He thrust his palms forward. The web-shooters hidden under his sleeves launched two webs. One hit the windshield of the SUV, the other wrapped snugly around the front tire.

With their vision obscured, Peter mounted his bike and slammed the helmet down over his head. The engine rumbled to life under him, tires screeching as he took off, just as a red blast streaked past his helmet.

"Call Bucky," Peter yelled to the Bluetooth in his helmet, listening to it ring as he zigzagged down the street, making himself a difficult target.

"Can't talk now," Bucky answered.

"Bucky, don't hang up!" Peter pleaded.

"Hold on." There was the sound of a door closing. Then Bucky's voice echoed back down the line, rhythmic thumping in the background as he continued, "What's wrong?"

Peter risked a glance behind him. The van was tearing down the street, quickly gaining ground despite the smoke flowing out around the webbed front tire, as it scraped across the road.

"Wechter's guys are on my tail. I'm on Long Island, leading them to an industrial area."

There was a moment of silence. Peter's heart began to beat in his throat.

Another red flash streaked past, catching the edge of his sleeve this time.

Shit. Too close.

He zigzagged again, feinting one way, then sharply taking the next corner.

"Bucky, I could use a little backup" He said, urgency creeping in to his tone.

"Okay, I have your location."

Peter slid around a corner as another blast overshot him and struck the window of a convenience store.

"I'm on my way." Bucky signed off.

And then, he was on his own. The SUV continued to screech along behind him, a trail of burning rubber smoke left in its wake.

****

"Can't talk now," Bucky said, keenly aware that the team was close enough to hear even though they were currently distracted with a training exercise.

"Bucky, don't hang up!"

The urgency in Peter's voice had him hastily crossing the training room floor, heading for the stairwell.

"Hold on."

He burst through the stairwell door and immediately started taking the stairs down to the garage level two at a time.

"What's wrong?"

"Wechter's guys are on my tail. I'm on Long Island, leading them to an industrial area." There was the distinctive whip-crack sound of Wechter's weapons in the background, and the screeching of tires.

Damnit. Bucky bit back the urge to yell at Peter, to scold him like a child for leaving the house without letting him know. All he was supposed to do was find some records on an old lady. How the hell had he ended up getting chased by gun runners on Long Island? The tracking app on his phone showed a moving pin of Peter's location and he was already visually mapping out several routes to get to him.

"Bucky, I could use a little backup"

"Okay, I have your location," he assured him as he reached the door into the garage, pushing it so hard that it hit the wall behind and snapped back toward him.

There was more squealing of tires, and engine revving, and another sharp crack.

"I'm on my way." He hung up, mounting his bike and kicking over the engine just as John came bursting through the door.

"Bucky! What's going on?" John called to him over the roar of the motor.

Bucky didn't respond. John would either follow him, or not. If he did, then great, they could use the backup. If he didn't, then it would have been a waste of precious seconds to explain.

The bike expertly wove through traffic at dangerous speed. This drive would normally take about forty minutes, but they didn't have that kind of time. Bucky was determined to make it in less than twenty. He slid around another corner, then sped through the intersection, dodging cars and a courier bike. Heart pounding, he pulled back on the throttle even more. If he didn't make it in time…

"Call Sam," He ordered into the bluetooth of his helmet.

Sam answered on the third ring. There was loud chatter in the background, and the sound of clinking dishes.

"Bucky, what's up man?

"Are you in New York?" There was no time for pleasantries.

"Yep. Hold on, I'm leaving the restaurant now. Where do you need me to be?"

Bucky sent up a silent prayer of thanks for Sam's instinct to know when not to ask unnecessary questions.

"Long Island, the industrial estate. The kid is there, he's in trouble, and I don't know if I'll make it in time."

"On it. Anything else I need to know?"

"Don't get hit. The weapons'll make you evaporate."

There was a beat of silence as Sam took that in.

"Right, don't get shot. I'm on my way."

****

Peter had circled and weaved through the streets and around the buildings of the industrial estate, dodging the men just enough to lure them into the ambush that was coming when Bucky arrived. It had worked. For fifteen minutes, anyway.

But as he rounded the next corner, an inconveniently placed shipping container loomed in front of him.

He swerved.

Too fast. Loose gravel sprayed out from his back tire and he fishtailed wildly.

The bike tipped.

Peter shot a web. It caught a light pole and he swung upward, landing on the rooftop of a factory. The bike skidded and crashed into the side of a dumpster. He grimaced, shoulders hunched. Bucky didn't seem to care too much about the vehicles…but he might not be willing to give him another one after this.

It only took a matter of seconds before the SUV screeched to a halt in front of the factory. The men burst out of the doors and took cover behind the vehicle already starting to fire toward him as they moved into position.

He ducked and rolled, pressing himself to the rooftop as a barrage of glowing red streaks lit up the sky above him. A split-second later a volley of whip-cracks echoed off the steel buildings and concrete around them.

Heavy feet crunched over gravel.

They were making a move on his location.

Peter sprang to his feet and shot two webs toward them. One caught the first man, wrapping around his forearm and the gun in his hand. The other web struck the second man in the face, narrowly avoiding his mouth. Peter was relieved that at least the man wouldn't suffocate. Until the first man raised his webbed arm and shot toward him again.

Damnit.

He was webbed, but still functional enough to be a threat.

The sound of their retreat was interspersed with the firing of the weapons. Peter took cover behind the building ledge. They were at a stalemate.

Web-face's voice carried up to him, begging his colleague to get the web off of him. With his not-so-ethically obtained ingredients and their sub-par quality, he wasn't too sure how long the web's tensile strength would last. He was lucky they hadn't failed yet under his body weight, if he was being honest with himself.

While the men below him struggled to free themselves, Peter took the opportunity to get a visual assessment of the current situation. Popping his head above the ledge, he took in the view.

Both men were crouched behind the SUV. They had managed to free the windshield and front tire from the first webs he shot at them. But he could stop them from leaving if he could disable the vehicle. Even if it only delayed them for a few minutes, that should be long enough for Bucky to get here.

He webbed the two tires visible to him, along with the windshield again. Then ducked down again, flattening himself on the corrugated steel roof as much as possible, as the men rose up behind the SUV and started firing toward him again.

Except, this time they weren't firing at him. They were hitting the building.

The rapid fire of their disintegrating rays were hitting the steel siding on the corner of the building, leaving behind a lumpy sludge of raw materials that quickly pooled to the gravel below.

What the hell were they doing?

It only took a few more seconds until Peter felt the rooftop shudder and sway. Then, it dipped down with a loud clanging and crashing as the support pillar in the corner of the building was reached by the blasts and dissolved into sludge.

Peter slid uncontrollably toward the edge, catching himself on an air vent at the last moment before he went over the side.

Risking everything, he let go with one hand and sent a web flying at the ventilation stack. He pulled himself toward it as a red burst hit the steel siding where he had just been.

Shit, shit, shit. Bucky better get here soon, or they'd have this building levelled before he could recover.

Peter heard him before he saw him.

The slight mechanical hum. The whoosh of displaced air.

Rolling onto his back, he saw the dark shape blotting out the stars as it moved across the sky.

"Holy crap," he whispered under his breath, as another red streak flashed across the building, hitting the spot right below his feet.

A buckled edge of steel sliced into his abdomen as he rolled back onto his stomach and scrambled into a low crouch, trying to get behind the stack before they fired again.

Sam, Captain America, dove out of the sky, pulling back at the last second and kicking one of the men in the chest. The man flew backward, landing with a thump against the side of the SUV. Hard enough to leave a dent.

The second man spun, and raised his weapon to fire at Sam. Peter slung a web, catching the man's arm and yanking it backward, pulling him off his feet and sending his shot wide.

The man shot the web with his weapon before Peter could pull him back down, and sprinted for the vehicle.

Another whip-crack, another red light, and Sam was barrel-rolling to avoid fire from the other guy, who had recovered enough sight through the tangle of webs on his face to provide cover for his colleague.

They both scrambled into the vehicle. The engine grumbled to life, revving at full power as the tires struggled against the webs. One side of the SUV sprayed gravel, while the other billowed acrid smoke from the tires. The vehicle fishtailed and screeched, as they tried to steer it back toward the access road.

Sam descended on them quickly, but one of the men aimed out the window and fired at him, forcing him to dodge away.

Over the cacophony of sound from the SUV, Peter heard a low rumble, growing closer. Not one, but two, motorbikes. Bucky. And backup.

Bucky rounded the corner first, steadying the bike with one hand as he reached over his shoulder and pulled forth a massive gun. He fired.

Peter watched a small black disc sail through the air and latch itself to undercarriage of the SUV. A moment later, there was an explosion and the SUV flipped, landing on its side as it skidded across the road.

Peter stood, watching, waiting, as Bucky cautiously approached. Due to his position, Peter saw it before Bucky did. The hand coming up out of the passenger window, weapon ready to fire. Without even thinking, Peter slung another web. Catching the weapon alone this time, he tugged sharply, pulling it clear, bringing it back toward himself. It clattered against the rooftop and he stooped to pick it up without looking away from where Bucky was now pressed against the side of the vehicle. He made a hand motion to someone Peter couldn't see, and then another man came sprinting from the shadows, a round shield raised. John Walker.

"Sam, heads up," Bucky called, just as he shot into the front of the vehicle.

The men inside screamed and scrambled to climb out of the shattered windshield. Walker grabbed the first one by his shirt and flung him upwards into the air, where he was promptly caught by Sam. Sam incapacitated him immediately with some kind of shock device.

Simultaneously, Bucky grabbed the other man with one hand while driving his vibranium fist into the man's face. The man slumped, blood pouring from his nose, as Bucky set him down and snatched the weapon from his hand.

Sam landed a few feet away, dragging the unconscious captive behind him and tossing him down next to his friend. Walker set about handcuffing them as Bucky and Sam looked up toward Peter on the roof.

Peter waved, then quickly dropped his hand at Bucky's expression. It was thunder personified.

Uh oh.

There was a creaking sound, and then the roof was swaying beneath him. A louder creak vibrated through the steel and up through his body.

Oh crap.

There was nothing but air below him for a precious few seconds before he hit a pile of twisted metal, a burst of pain radiating throughout his body upon impact. Beams and machinery collapsed around him.

Peter tucked himself into a ball and covered his head as debris rained down on him. Something heavy and hard landed on his back and sent him sprawling.

"Peter!" Bucky was yelling at him. No, for him.

He tried to answer, but there was so much dust lodged in his throat that he could only cough.

"Peter?" All three men were calling his name now. He could hear scuffling and dragging sounds, metal clanging as they tried to get to him. A thought penetrated his daze of pain and confusion - Sam and Walker now knew his name and face - panic rose in his throat.

Peter coughed again.

"Here! I'm here."

Bucky's face appeared through a gap in the debris, about fifteen feet away. He turned away.

"Walker, Sam, I got him."

Bucky approached cautiously, careful not to send any of the debris careening toward Peter.

Walker arrived next to him a moment later, Sam only a second behind. Bucky ordered the men into position so they could lift the beam safely from him without risking crushing any internal organs or snapping his spine as the beam moved.

The pressure against his back disappeared, and he gulped in a huge lungful of dusty air. He coughed again. His ribs hurt. Maybe one or two were broken. As he rolled over he took in the multiple shiny dark red patches on his t-shirt and jeans.

Bucky crouched beside him, assessing him. He pulled up Peter's t-shirt, while Peter fought against him.

"I'm fine," he insisted.

Bucky made a tsking sound and huffed out a harsh breath. But he didn't say anything. Peter felt like maybe that worse than being yelled at.

Despite that, Bucky offered him a hand and he gingerly got to his feet.

Glass crunched under his shoes and he looked down. The weapon he had been holding has been crushed under him, the glass chamber on top that held the glowing power source had been shattered and gone dead. He tried not to feel too disappointed, Bucky had another one, after all. It just would have been a good bargaining chip in the coming argument if he had something to show for the disaster this turned out to be.

Peter limped out of the demolished building, trailing behind the others, and hoisted himself up onto the side of the upturned SUV. He sat, relieved for a moment of rest while the blood on his clothing cooled and hardened, his wounds already starting to heal. Nearby, Sam and Bucky argued quietly about what to do with their captives. Walker attended to some rudimentary field medicine on the unconscious criminals.

In the end, Sam won. He was going to call it in, and then take them to the hospital. Bucky's scowl was even deeper than usual, mouth down-turned and a deep furrow between his brows. He wanted to question them, of course. But Sam had reasoned that he wouldn't be getting any information out of them tonight in their current state, and if he held them for questioning, well…that was a kind of illegal that Sam, Captain America, just couldn't condone.

"There's no grey area there, Buck. It's black and white. Right or wrong."

Bucky looked like he was about to retort, his mouth open, chest heaving. But Walker approached them before he could.

"Walker," Sam stated, not quite a greeting, the way it escaped from between clenched teeth.

"Wilson," John replied, voice laced with a distant politeness.

Without looking away, Sam hefted his shield over his shoulder and latched it to his back. John's face was sour.

****

"A word?" Sam asked him. His tone sent foreboding roiling through Bucky's gut.

Bucky nodded and released a breath as Sam walked a dozen or so feet away. Turning to Walker, he clapped his shoulder.

"Thanks, John. I appreciate your backup, really. You didn't have to do that. But I've got this from here."

Taking his dismissal for what it was, John gave a brief, sharp nod of his head and stalked back to his motorbike.

He noticed Peter watching him leave, head tilted to one side as he sat atop the upturned SUV, feet drumming out a rhythm against the roof.

"You. Stay put. I'll deal with you later."

Bucky pointed his finger at him, feeling every bit an angry Winifred Barnes. But he was too worked up to care right now. Peter at least had the good sense to look contrite.

Sam tapped his foot as he waited, arms crossed across his broad chest.

"Just say it," Bucky said, resigned to the fact that this was a long-overdue conversation that was going to happen tonight. Whether he liked it or not (he didn't like it).

"Walker your partner now?" The words came out calm, but Bucky could almost taste the tension bleeding through.

Bucky scoffed and shook his head.

"No. Sam. Okay? We're not partners. We're colleagues at best."

"Am I right in assuming you're working this one off the books?" Sam raised his eyebrows questioningly.

"Yes…why does that matter?"

Sam smirked as he shook his head again, his breathing sharp.

"So you're not on official Thunderbolts business, but he's just, what? Tagging along uninvited?"

Bucky bristled at the way Sam had spat the word. Thunderbolts. Like it was something distasteful. First it was Val, the same woman who was as corrupt and unethical as they come, casting judgement on his team. Now Sam.

"What does it matter to you, Sam? Captain America? You think you're too good to associate with criminals and murderers? Hate to be the one to tell you, but have you read my files?"

Blood roared in his ears, pulsing with every beat of his heart. His face flushed and hot.

"Ah-" Sam tried to interrupt, but Bucky cut him off.

"I'm one of them, Sam. So if you think they don't deserve a second chance, if you think they can't change, then you think that about me, too."

His right hand was shaking. He stuffed it into his pocket.

The anger bled from Sam's body with every breath, as they stared at each other.

"You know I don't think that, Buck." Sam's words were quiet, apologetic.

"About me," Bucky corrected, a grim smile on his face that faded with his next words. "But not about them. They're my team, Sam. I belong there. I'm not a hero, like you." He swallowed hard. There was something stuck in his throat.

"You can choose to be. You are. I'm not blind, man. I see all the good you're doing."

Bucky sighed and studied his feet for a moment.

"Then you see the good they're doing, too," he met Sam's eyes. "But they need guidance. I can't trust Val to steer them in the right direction. They need me."

Sam chewed the inside of his cheek, before finally nodding and slapping Bucky on the shoulder.

"I get it, Buck. I don't agree with it. But I get it."

Bucky released a shaky breath and smiled at Sam. It wasn't acceptance, not quite, but it was a step forward at least. It was understanding.

After saying his goodbyes to Sam, and thanking him again for his help, Bucky watched him leave before turning back to Peter.

"I know what you're going to say," Peter blurted, hands help up placatingly, "But we got the weapon, didn't we? So it was worth it. We can figure out what the hell these things are now, and how to stop them."

"Worth it? Peter, you almost got yourself killed. A fucking building fell on you," Bucky all but shouted, incredulity written in every feature.

"But I didn't. I got the results."

The blood was pulsing in his ears again, his heart hammering against his ribs as his vision turned red.

"And if you got yourself hurt, or worse, then that's on me." He jabbed a finger into his own chest, anger not dispelled by the look of guilt blooming in Peter's eyes. Voice raised almost to a shout, he continued. "Stark didn't invent time travel to bring you back, just so you could go and kamikaze yourself over some fucking weapons dealer."

Peter blinked at him, silenced for moment, his mouth worked a few times before he finally found his voice.

"What?"

Now it was Bucky's turn to blink at Peter in silence.

"Oh. You…didn't know."

"Tony did that for me? How do you know that?"

"Steve told me. They asked Tony for help, and he wasn't going to. But he couldn't live with the guilt of losing you. It fucking broke him, Peter." The fight left his body all at once, replaced by a bone deep weariness.

"I have enough guilt to last several lifetimes. I don't need your untimely death added to that. So just, be fucking careful, you...brat"

"Brat?" Peter snorted, biting his lip to stop his grin from spreading.

"You know what I mean." Bucky rolled his eyes, utterly exasperated. This kid would be the end of him.

"Oh and by the way," Peter said, as he jumped down from the car, landing with a pained wince next to Bucky. He grinned up at him. "Wechter has a half-brother who worked for Stark Industries."

Chapter Text

His initial anger at Peter had ebbed away on the drive home. The cool air whipping against his exposed skin calmed the flush of adrenaline that had pulsed through him in a throbbing staccato beat. As he literally and figuratively cooled down, the anger had revealed its true self. Fear.

A surge of visceral dread had frozen the breath in his lungs as he helplessly watched the building fall out from beneath Peter's feet and then cave in on top of him. He knew he'd been abrasive with him, letting all of his fear pour out of him in harsh words. But that feeling was something he never wanted to experience again.

Bucky didn't have many people. Steve was…unavailable. Sam was a work in progress. The team was finally beginning to feel like a team, but he still found himself holding back from them, unsure how to bridge the gap between leader and friend. Or whether he even should.

Peter, however, had worked his way under Bucky's skin in record time, like the annoying younger brother he never had. Maybe it was the familiarity of having a scrappy, impulsive little pain in the ass punk pulling him into trouble. But maybe it was because Peter was a good kid. Bright. Courageous (dangerously so, at times). And alone in a world with powers he didn't ask for, but was trying to make the best of anyway.

The biometric lock on the back door beeped twice as he completed the scan.  He pushed the door open, flicking on the lights, as Peter trailed in behind him.

"I'm really sorry about the bike. I'll pay for the repairs as soon as I can get another job." Peter said, apologizing for what must be the twelfth time.

Bucky tossed his keys on the kitchen bench and leaned against it, rubbing his eyes. He sighed.

"It's okay, Peter. I'm not worried about the bike," he assured him for the dozenth time. "What I am worried about is your impulsive recklessness. If we're going to work together, I need to be able to trust you. Trust is a non-negotiable."

He tried to meet Peter's gaze, but instead was met with downcast eyes and a slight frown as he nodded silently at the floor. Peter opened his mouth as if to say something, tension rolling through him like an electric current. But then he swallowed it back down, the moment dispersing and fizzling away.  It struck Bucky as odd, but he wasn't going to push it, not tonight.

"Go shower off all that dust and blood," Bucky ordered.

Peter nodded at the floor again and made for the stairs, each movement laced with pain and dejection. Bucky scrunched his eyes shut, hands on his hips as he released a long breath.

"Peter?"

The despondent young man stopped, bracing himself before turning around.

"You did good on the intel. If we get these guys, it'll be down to your work on this."

Peter met his eyes now, a small smile on his face as his shoulders straightened.

"Thanks, Bucky."

Forty-five minutes later, Peter re-emerged downstairs smelling of soap, his hair dripping dark splotches on the shoulders of his t-shirt.

"I ordered Indian," Bucky announced from the kitchen, a takeout bag on the counter emitting an enticing aromatic steam.

Peter's face lit up and Bucky was pretty sure he could hear his stomach grumbling from across the room.

"Argh," Bucky growled as Peter reached for the bag, slapping his hand away. "Sit. Shirt off. Gotta check your injuries first."

"Oh, come on," Peter protested, already pushing his luck. "You already checked them. I'm fine."

Bucky scowled at him. His best murderous assassin glare. It didn't seem to work.

"I couldn't see them properly with all the blood and dust. Can't have you being a liability in the field if you're injured."

Peter sighed, slouching in his chair, pouting. But he obediently peeled off his shirt to reveal a tapestry of blacks, purples, and blues, interspersed with red-brown lines where the blood had scabbed over and was starting to heal.

Bucky sucked in a breath between his teeth, grimacing at the sight.

"Do you have regenerative healing factor with your powers?" Bucky asked as he slowly turned Peter's stool to see his back. More bruising and lacerations, the worst of it being across his shoulders where the beam had landed.

"Yeah. I'll be fine in a couple of days." It was half assurance and half defiance.

"I need to check for broken bones. Can I touch your back and ribs?" Bucky asked, waiting for an affirmative response before proceeding.

At Peter's nod, Bucky worked his fingers along his spine. The kid was tough, but still winced a few times, sucking in a sharp breath and letting it out between clenched teeth. He tensed unconsciously as Bucky made his way to his shoulders and neck.

"Spine's okay. You're lucky that the beam was caught on a machine at one end or I would have had to bring you home in pieces. No amount of regenerative healing could fix that."

Peter slouched a little, chewing his lip as he nodded.

Bucky gently prodded at his ribs and Peter shot up off his seat with a yelp.

"Broken ribs. Not much we can do for them except ice," Bucky said as he made his way to the refrigerator and pulled an ice pack out of the freezer.

He tossed it to Peter and ordered him to the sofa to ice his ribs while he plated up dinner for them both.

****

Bucky was being kinder than he deserved. He had fucked up rather monumentally today. Damaged the bike, dragged not just Bucky and Walker, but Captain freaking America into a situation where they could have been evaporated, but almost got himself killed, too. Not to mention the fact that his carefully curated anonymity was rapidly disappearing. Anonymity that had cost him literally everything. It's not that he thought Sam and Walker were a threat. It was more so that the more people who knew, the more he was at risk of being exposed. He didn't know if he could go through that again.

The worst part of all though, the thing that really hurt, was that he had let Bucky down.

He'd only known him for a matter of weeks, but after being completely isolated for so long, the thought of being alone again was suddenly terrifying. Bucky had shown him more care, generosity, and trust in that short time than he'd experienced in years.  It was what he imagined having an older brother would be like.  Someone who bossy, and interfering, but would have his back no matter what.

The guilt hit him like a punch to his already bruised and battered gut. He'd almost told him, when he'd said that trust was non-negotiable. The words were getting ready to escape his lips and spill all over the polished wooden floor. But he'd bitten them down and swallowed them. Like a coward. Bucky deserved the truth. But Peter was far too selfish to give it to him.  What he had found here was something he didn't think he'd ever have again and he wasn't ready to lose it.

Bucky handed him a steaming plate of rice and curry, his favorite samosa on the side.

"Thanks," he offered him a weak smile.

The blue light of the television flickered across their faces as they ate in silence. But not even his favorite show was enough to distract him from his thoughts.

Bucky must have noticed something was wrong, because once their meals were finished he switched the TV over to the Nintendo and started up Mario Kart, handing Peter a controller.

"Ready for a rematch?"

Peter smiled at him, quickly morphing into a smirk.

"Are you, old man? I won't be going easy on you this time."

****

The kid was beating him soundly, his quick fingers sending the kart careening around the track, avoiding obstacles and overtaking competitors so easily he could almost do it in his sleep. The race finished with Peter in first place and Bucky in eleventh.

"I'm starting to think your 'spider-sense' is an unfair advantage," Bucky grumbled.

"I'm starting to think you're a sore loser," Peter quipped, not even trying to cover his grin this time.

Bucky shot him an icy glare that landed with far more affection than he wanted it to. He changed the subject before they veered into sentimental territory.

"So, you know Stark tech best. How hard is it going to be to hack into their HR systems and find Sandlers' employment records?"

Peter raised his eyebrows and took a deep breath, eyes still glued to the screen.

"Impossible. Stark Industries' security is the best in the world. Makes government firewalls look like child's play."

Bucky grunted in frustration at both that news and the fact that he'd just driven off the side of a bridge and died.

"You have a connection with Pepper though, right? From all the charity work you did with SI a few years ago."

A strange tension filled the room as Peter hesitated. He skidded off the side of the track and lost his first place position.

Bucky glanced at him. Peter shrugged.

"Not really. I mostly dealt with her assistants. I haven't spoken to her since Tony…" his voice trailed off, leaving the unspoken grief hanging in the air.

Something was off about the kid's reaction, the hesitation, a forced nonchalance to his words. But Bucky couldn't quite place his finger on it.  

"The Thunderbolts are technically working for the CIA, though, right? So wouldn't you have the authority to request that from her?"

Bucky tilted his head in a 'maybe' gesture, as he thought it through. Sure, as leader of the Thunderbolts he did have a certain level of authority. But contacting the widow of a guy whose parents he had murdered, the guy whose team he had inadvertently torn apart…it just didn't sit right.

"I don't think me contacting Pepper is a good idea. We'll find another way," he eventually said.

Peter was silent for a moment, but Bucky could tell he was working up to saying something.

“You and Tony weren’t friends.”  It was a statement.

“No.”  Bucky replied quietly with a small shake of his head, lips pressed into a thin line.  

It felt like talking to someone about Stark was long overdue, but he didn’t know if the kid was the best person to have that conversation with.  He should probably go back to therapy, like Sam had urged.  Raynor had been abrasive, making him clam up instead of speaking freely. His guilt surrounding the Starks was complex and Raynor was the last person in the world he wanted to open up to about it.

Peter shifted in his seat, but his eyes remained glued to the screen as he sent his character careening around a corner, shooting an oil slick out behind him that Bucky's kart slid through a few moments later.

“I know what you did.”  Peter swallowed nervously, his posture tensing slightly.

The familiar sensation of icy water filled Bucky's lungs and began to creep across his chest like a fast moving glacier.  He did his best to swallow it down, to keep breathing against the tide of frigid liquid surging into his system.  His kart slid off the side of the track and disappeared into the abyss below.  He couldn’t bring himself to look at Peter as the game reset.

“I know it wasn’t you…not really.  That it was the Winter Soldier,”  Peter continued, still deftly steering his character around the track, reflexes like a cat despite the heavy energy that had settled over the room.

Bucky gulped down more air, fighting against the sensation of drowning in his cozy living room.  His eyes burned.

“Howard was my friend.  I never would have…”  He shook his head.  “I didn’t have a choice.”  The words were quiet, said to the garishly bright cartoon characters on the screen, rather than to the person sitting beside him.

“You were friends with Tony’s Dad?”  Peter glanced at him, eyebrows raised to his hairline.

“Yeah,”  Bucky cleared his throat, trying to dislodge the stone that had settled there.  Despite the constricted feeling in his throat, the words came tumbling forth. 

“We were both in the Strategic Science Reserve.  Steve was their experiment, so the Howling Commandos operated under the SSR's jurisdiction,“ Bucky explained, his steering now wild and haphazard. Peter was at least ten places ahead of him.  The burning in his eyes was making his vision swim a little.  He hadn’t spoken to anyone about the Howlies, about the SSR, since Steve had been gone.  There was no one left who had known them.

“I actually kind of hero-worshipped Howard, truth be told.”  He huffed out a chuckle.  “I used to drag Steve to science fairs just to see Howard’s new inventions.  There was this flying car once…”  Bucky shook his head fondly at the memory, then a sour taste crept into his mouth.  That was the last night he was ever really Bucky Barnes; the naive, confident young man who spoke with ease and wasn't wracked with guilt and trauma and never-ending nightmares.  

Peter continued to make laps around Bucky in the game, eyes not moving from the screen, but Bucky knew he was listening.  

“Whenever we weren’t out on missions, I’d spend my free time in the SSR lab.  Howard had such a brilliant mind, and he wasn’t shy about letting you know it.”  Bucky smiled at the memories flitting across his mind’s eye.  “But he let me help, and he took my ideas seriously.  He taught me a lot.”

He forced a deep breath. Warm air infiltrated his lungs.  He no longer felt like he was drowning, but grief was creeping in to take its place.  It sat heavily on his heart, which struggled to throb under its weight.

“He was a good man.  He didn’t deserve…”  The words choked off.  Bucky cleared his throat again.

“Tony had every right to hate me.  I wanted to apologize, but sorry just isn’t a big enough word, y’know?  I can’t even forgive myself, so I had no right to ask him for forgiveness.”

He forced himself to breathe around the tightness in his throat.  God, he was a mess.  What was he doing unloading all of this old trauma onto a kid that was going through enough hell of his own.

“He did, though.”  

Peter’s voice startled him, and it took a moment to parse the words.  Bucky looked at him now, turning away from the screen fully for the first time.  Peter’s eyes met his, and he let the controller fall to his lap as he took a deep, steadying breath.

“What?”  The words were barely a whisper.

“He did.  Forgive you.” 

He studied Peter’s wide eyes for traces of deception, of placation.  But there was nothing there, just Peter.  Honest and open.

“How do you know that?”  There was a dangerous feeling burgeoning inside him, one he hadn’t felt for a long time.  One he ruthlessly trampled down every time it reared its head.  More dangerous than fear, more lethal than anger, more catastrophic than doubt.  It was hope.

Peter turned to face him, one knee propped up under his chin, childlike in his pose.

“I overheard Tony and Pepper talking one day.  They didn’t know I was there, that I could hear them.  But they caught my attention because Pepper sounded angry, and she didn’t get angry very often.” Peter’s eyes drifted away as he recalled the memory.

The lab had been quiet when he'd come back in from lunch, and he assumed that Tony must have taken one of his infrequent breaks to go and eat.  So he’d returned to the circuit board he was working on, but before he could make the first connection, he’d heard Pepper’s voice.  She sounded frustrated, her voice carrying across from the other side of the lab where Peter couldn’t see her behind a wall of shelving.

“You can’t keep ignoring him.”

“Why not?”  Tony had responded, his words clipped. 

It wasn’t like him to talk to Pepper that way.  Peter considered sneaking back out of the lab, he shouldn’t be listening in on something private like this.  But his feet stayed rooted to the spot.

Pepper huffed, and he heard her pace back and forth.  “Because, Tony.  What if it's important?  He’s been trying to call you for weeks.”  She sighed heavily.  “He’s your friend.”

“Was my friend.”  Tony replied, a metal clanking following his words.  Peter could picture him continuing to work, his usual way of avoiding difficult conversations.

“Hey!  I was using that!”  There was a clang as something was thrown to the floor.

“Tony, I’m serious.  You’ve read the files, you know what they did to his friend, that it wasn’t his choice.  And right or wrong, Steve was trying to protect both of you.”

“Yeah, well, he didn’t. " There was pause, then, quieter, "He chose him.”  Tony sounded tired now, defeated.  Hurt.

“I’m not saying he was right.  But I am worried that this is going to eat you alive.  You’ve hardly slept, you barely eat, you’re running on fumes.  And I just…”  There was a wet, teary sound to Pepper’s voice now.  “I think you need to find a way to forgive them.  For your own sake, before this destroys you.”

The silence stretched on for twenty seconds, thirty seconds.  Peter held his breath.

“I have.”  

Without his super hearing, Peter never would have heard the words.

“I know, Pep.  I read the files, and what they did to him was…it made me sick.  And I get why Cap wanted to protect him.  But that doesn’t change the fact that he betrayed me.  And it doesn't change the fact that his friend killed my…”  Tony took a shuddering breath. 

“I forgive them.  I just…need more time.”

Peter’s gaze came back into focus and he met Bucky’s eyes as he finished recounting the memory.

“It wasn't too long after that, Thanos showed up and half of us got dusted.  So I guess he just never really got the chance.”

Bucky felt simultaneously weaker, wrecked, hollowed out, and somehow lighter and more free than he had in years.  The burden of guilt, whilst not gone, had been slightly lessened by a forgiveness he never expected to get.

***

A beam of glaring white light was the first thing he noticed upon waking. An errant strand of sunshine that had forced its way between the gap in the curtains was hitting him square in the face. It almost felt purposeful. Peter scrunched his face and tried to roll over, but was met with the screaming pain in his shoulders and ribs. He groaned, frozen halfway through the movement, his breaths shallow in his chest.

"Ow," he announced to the empty room as he let himself fall back, eyes flickering open against the harsh glare to stare at the ceiling.

Judging by the strength of the sunlight, he had overslept. He took several more deep breaths, letting the fire in his ribs and the throbbing in his shoulders ease before he moved again. Waking up the day after a serious injury was always the worst. Everything stiffened up overnight. He'd be fine once he was moving.

Fifteen painful minutes later, he had managed to get down the stairs and into the kitchen. His muscles loosening and the stabbing in his side abating the more he moved. There was a note stuck to the fridge with a magnet.

"On mission. Back in two days. Have contacted Pepper, will let you know if/when I get a response. STAY OUT OF TROUBLE!"

Of course he was going to stay out of trouble. It's not like he went looking for it. Well, not exactly. He was just going to stay at the house, rest, and play some video games. Bucky had even left a credit card on the counter for him to order himself food. There was no need for him to leave this house at all.

The day passed in a perfectly, blissfully, mundane order.

Peter slept, watched TV, and raided the kitchen for whatever snacks he could find. Unfortunately Bucky only had healthy snacks, but that was probably for the best given that healing took a lot of energy.

He did decide on ordering in pizza for dinner though, rationalizing that at least it had vegetables (tomato sauce counted as a vegetable, right?), and protein (cheese was a great source of protein!).

When the doorbell chimed, Peter grabbed a few one dollar bills from the coffee table and headed to the front door. It occurred to him as he walked the short distance across the room that he hadn't heard a vehicle pulling up out front, and he hesitated. The moment of uncertainty stretched out as he stood in the center of the room.

The doorbell chimed again.

Maybe the guy had an electric bike, he reasoned. Better to be safe than sorry. He veered toward the security display panel beside the door and checked the screen. A man stood on the other side of the door wearing a Joe's Pizza cap and holding a square box. With a sigh of relief, he stepped across to open the door.

"Hi, sorry about the-"

As the delivery man smiled at him, the hair on the back of Peter's neck stood on end. A surge of electricity coursed through him like pins and needles in his veins.

The pizza box dropped to the ground.

The man lunged, a fraction of a second too late, as Peter swung the door shut with enough force to knock him back.

It didn't latch, bouncing back as the man kicked at it.

A loud crack resonated from the direction of the back door.

Peter was distracted for just a moment, and that gave the man enough time to draw his weapon.

Standard Glock with a silencer attached. No glowing red chamber on top.

He charged the door with his shoulder. The man was no match for his strength, but he did manage to fire once before Peter was able to close the door on him.

Even with the silencer, the shot was loud at such close proximity.

Another whip-crack from the rear of the house. They were firing at the triple-glazed, bulletproof glass in the window next to the back door.

Shit.

Something wet dripped on his bare foot. He looked down. Blood?

The pain hit him all at once. The wild shot had somehow found his right shoulder.

The doors were reinforced, but that wouldn't keep them out forever. Peter ran for the stairs, sprinting up them two at a time, then hurtling down the hallway to his bedroom.

He scooped up his backpack, swinging it onto his back, sucking in a pained breath as the strap dug into his wound.

More cracks from downstairs.

Peter shoved his feet into his sneakers and took off again for the stairs. He swung around the banister and headed upward. Hopefully they hadn't thought to cover the roof.

There was a shattering of glass, and then loud feet thumping across the timber floors.

No time. Roof was the only option.

Peter burst through the door to the rooftop terrace, grateful that it was empty of homicidal villains. Without a moment's hesitation, he threw himself over the edge, easily making it to the next rooftop just as a red streak washed past him. Followed by shouting.

"What are you doing, you moron? Boss said he has to come in alive!"

Huh. That was something. He didn't have time to think on that though, as he hurled himself toward the next building, and the one after, not slowing for even a moment to look back. Just trying to put as much distance between himself and Wechter's guys as possible.

Chapter Text

The muscles in his shoulder screamed in great wrenching throbs as he sailed across the gap between buildings, landing harder than he expected to. His barely healed ribs adding to the searing pain on that side. Peter stumbled forward, catching himself a millisecond before the tipping point and straightening up. He paused. Just for a moment.

Listening.

Sounds of the Brooklyn night drifted to him. He mentally catalogued them as his hearing tuned in to each one in turn, so quickly that they barely registered as distinct noises before he moved to the next one.

A television, laughter, cars, a siren, a dog barking, a child crying, someone singing.

They all blended back together as his body registered that there was no longer a threat. The silent space between each heartbeat grew longer. The burning in his lungs dissipated with each jagged breath.

But the scorching throb in his shoulder remained. His right side was flushed with ice as a cool wind plastered his wet t-shirt against his side. Peter looked down. The movement made his head spin. The ambient light from surrounding streetlights and buildings revealed a dark, shiny stain covering the right-hand side of his t-shirt. He touched his fingers to it, then held them up in front of his eyes. It took a moment for his gaze to refocus. Red. Glistening in the light. The coppery tang unmistakable. Blood.

Shit.

His left thigh vibrated insistently. He vaguely wondered how long his phone had been ringing. The phone caught against his pocket as he tried to pull it out and almost slipped through his slick fingers.

"Bucky?"

"Peter, oh thank God! I saw on the cameras. Are you okay? Where are you? Are you safe?"

His head swam under the barrage of rapid-fire questions.

"I'm okay. Well, kind of." He looked at his slick fingers again, and rubbed them together, smearing his blood.

"Kind of? What does that mean?" Bucky's voice was laced with urgency. If Peter didn't know better, he'd think that Bucky was panicking. But Bucky wouldn't do that.

"Umm, I kind of got shot?" Why had it come out sounding like a question?

"Kind o-. Peter, you were either shot or you weren't. There's no kind of."

"Umm, then, yes. I was shot. In the shoulder."

The line crackled as Bucky sighed. Peter could picture him rubbing his eyes, hand on hip.

"Okay. How bad is it?"

"There's some blood. It hurts." It wasn't exactly a lie. Just a little bit of an understatement.

"Where are you?" Bucky asked.

"I'm on a rooftop somewhere. I think about fifteen blocks south of home." Home? Since when had it become home?

Peter shook his head to clear it. Everything was sent spinning around him. He needed to focus. There was another heavy sigh from Bucky.

"Right. There's a hospital about -"

Peter cut him off.

"No! No hospital. They'll have too many questions about my healing. I can't do that."

Another deep breath from Bucky.

"Walker is at the Watchtower. He has field med experience. Do you think you can get there?"

"Sure," Peter nodded and the sky above him dipped and swung dangerously.

"Alright. He's on the seventy-fourth floor. And Peter -"

The sentence cut off abruptly. Peter pulled his phone away from his ear and looked at it. Dead. Just his luck.

Okay, he needed to get to the Watchtower. Couldn't exactly catch a cab in his current state, though. And definitely couldn't go back to the house to get one of the bikes. He rubbed his brow as he tried to think. It seemed to be getting harder to do that.

He walked to the edge of the roof and peered down into the street below. It was quiet, warm lights on in windows, a singular passing car. Halfway down the street on the other side was a shiny red motorbike. Sporty looking. Fast. Peter slung a web with his left hand and swung down over the street. The pain in his shoulder was blinding, stealing his breath as his feet connected with the pavement. Peter took several steadying breaths before he continued.

It wasn't hard to start the bike, a few stripped wires, a little spark, and presto. He told himself that it wasn't stealing. Not really. He was going to return it. But a pit of guilt joined the bile in his stomach. The way his head was spinning was making him feel sea-sick as he steered the bike down the street, turning left toward Manhattan.

Peter couldn't remember getting here, but he had made it. Standing in the service alleyway opposite the Watchtower, he looked up at the building as his hands shook. It was unseasonably cold out tonight.

Seventy-fourth floor. He could do this.

****

"I know you said not to ask you for help again…"

"What do you need, Bucky." Walker sounded resigned.

"The kid is on the way to the tower. Gunshot wound to the shoulder. He knows what floor you're on and should be there soon."

"Jesus, Bucky!" John hissed. "You said yourself that Val has this place surveilled. You didn't want her getting wind of the kid and now you've sent him here?"

"I know, John. I know. But he can't go to the hospital, too many questions. I…I'm sorry. I know you didn't want to be involved. And if you can't protect him from Val, I understand. But just…help him? Please?" Bucky waited, lip chewed to the point of bleeding.

John sighed loudly. "Fine."

"Thank you! I'll owe you one." The knots of tension in his shoulders loosened just a fraction and he breathed again.

"You'll owe me more than that," John muttered as he hung up.

Bucky leaned back against the tree, the dark forest around him filled with the quiet rustling of leaves. The engine of the jeep rumbled at the roadside; Alexei, Yelena and Bob waiting for his return. He ran a hand through his hair to smooth it back into place as he closed his eyes and breathed in the cool air. It smelled of pine and ozone, and decaying foliage. Walker would take care of him. And Bucky would find a way to deal with Val if she tried to get her hooks into Peter.

****

He was sure he'd counted the floors properly as he climbed. The sight of the armed security guard at the front door and the alarms on the rear doors had made Peter's decision for him. The only viable way of getting to Walker was to scale the building from the outside.

Now, he was making his way around the tower on what he was pretty certain was the right floor trying to figure out which windows belonged to John Walker.

There was a creak to his right and then a voice. Peter looked up toward it to see Walker standing in the window frame. It was cracked open as far as it would go and Walker put his face to the gap, whisper-yelling at Peter.

"What the hell are you doing? Why didn't you take the damn elevator?"

"Security guard," Peter gritted out, as he forced himself into motion again. His whole right side felt like it was being licked with flames that he would swear were coming straight from hell itself. Walker was saying something again, but his voice was coming from some place far away. Fuzzy and faint. The sky dimmed, then lit up again with the reflection of the city lights against the clouds.

Peter forced himself to breathe. Keep moving. His fingers wrapped around the edge of the windowpane.

"Hold on -" John called to him.

Peter blinked several times, scrunching his eyes tight, trying to clear his vision. There was a crack above him, then a small piece of metal window hinge struck his chest, falling away to the street below. A hand reached out just as nothingness enveloped him.

****

Someone was knocking at the door.

Peter's eyes flickered open. The bright light above him seared into his retinas. Something soft was underneath him. A bed? No, a sofa.

The knocking continued. Someone swore.

Walker's face appeared above him in flickering still images. Peter closed his eyes tightly. He tried to move his right hand, but a bolt of lightning shot through him and he groaned.

"Shhh," Walker instructed. "I gotta get the door, but you have to be quiet. Don't move."

Footsteps faded away from him. Peter bit his lip to stifle another groan and tried to hold himself still.

The door opened.

"Ava! Hey, sorry I was ah, in the bathroom," Walker said.

"Are you okay? I heard groaning." Ava replied.

"Oh, ah, yeah. No. I ah, ate a bad taco. Got the runs real bad. It's just shootin' outta there like a fountain." Walker groaned for effect.

"Ugh, I really didn't need to know that, babe. Good luck with that. I'll see you tomorrow," Ava sounded suitably disgusted.

The door closed with a soft click, and the footsteps came closer. Peter released the breath he had been holding. It came out shaky. He could taste blood in his mouth from where he'd bitten through his lip.

"Nice one, kid. She'll never want to see me again." Walker lamented. He ran a hand through his hair, then stroked his chin for a moment. "Okay, can you make it to the bathroom? I don't want you bleeding all over my carpet."

Peter nodded, which made the room swirl around him. But he pushed himself up, gasping as the burning feeling in his shoulder started to feel like tearing. He swayed in place, and then Walker's shoulder was under his arm, hand holding him steady as he led him to the bathroom. He helped Peter to lie on the cold tiles, then quickly rummaged through a cabinet, bringing out a first aid kit.

The room went dark for a moment, someone slapped his face, and the lights came back on.

"Stay with me, kid. Bucky'll have my head if you die on me."

Walker pulled out a pair of scissors and cut through the blood-soaked cotton of his t-shirt, peeling it away where it had begun to stick to his skin. Strong hands then gripped Peter and rolled him to the side, rolling him back a moment later. Peter gasped and tried to stifle his scream.

"It's a through-and-through. Which is lucky for you or I'd have to dig the bullet out, and I don't have any anaesthetic. It's already starting to heal, but we need to stop this bleeding," Walker said, his tone dry and factual, as if this was just another day at the office.

"Okay," Peter rasped. His mouth was so dry. Dark shapes crept in at the edges of his vision.

"I'm going to disinfect the wounds first, it'll sting a bit. I need you to roll onto your side, can you do that for me?"

Peter fought against the fire in his side to roll to his left. He grunted as Walker sprayed a cold liquid over the entry and exit wounds. It burned, icy and sharp against the heat.

"Okay, I'm gonna stem the flow of blood now with some gauze. This is gonna hurt, so ah," Walker snatched a towel from the counter with one hand, still kneeling beside him, and shoved it into Peter's mouth. "Bite down on this. Can't have you screaming the place down."

A second later, Walker firmly pressed two gauze pads to the gunshot wound, one on either side. Peter's vision whited out, followed by a moment of absolute nothingness. As he snapped back to awareness, the pain took over and he screamed into the wad of fabric between his teeth. Breaths ripped out of him in ragged gasps as his eyes watered. He fought to stay still, every instinct urging him to writhe away from Walker's firm hands.

After the first few minutes, which felt more like days, the pain finally subsided a little.

Walker peeled away the gauze at his back, then his front, inspecting the wounds.

"Looks like we stopped the bleeding. You're lucky heal so fast. If you lost any more blood…" He didn't finish that thought. "I'll put some steri-strips on it now to hold it closed, then we gotta get your fluids up."

Peter grimaced, grinding his teeth together as Walker applied the steri-strips to his tender, torn flesh.

"Okay, stay put. Clean yourself up a bit," Walker instructed as he shoved a handful of wet wipes into Peter's left hand. "I'll get you a shirt."

By the time Walker returned with a t-shirt that was two sizes too big, Peter had managed to sit up, resting his back against the bathtub as he scrubbed the blood from his skin. The small bathroom trash can was filled with red-stained wipes. He looked up at the man as he handed him the shirt.

"Thank you. I appreciate it, really," he croaked out form between parched lips.

Walker's mouth pressed into a thin line, but he nodded. "Don't mention it."

Once he was back in the living room, collapsed once again onto the sofa which was now covered by a blanket to hide the bloodstain, Walker handed him a giant pitcher of bright green liquid.

"Electrolytes. Help you regenerate your blood faster," he explained.

Peter downed it in one go, afraid that if he tried to take it slow he'd pass out before he was finished. Several moments later, he realised Walker was talking again and that his eyes had closed.

"Go to sleep, kid. You need it. I'll stay on watch." Walker said quietly, as something warm and soft and heavy draped over Peter's body.

****

Bucky hung up the phone and tossed it down onto the bed next to him. A little swirl of dust motes exploded into the air, visible in the dim light from the single bare bulb above him. He let his head fall into his hands, staring at the dirty floorboards between his heavy combat boots. This safehouse was a mess, he was thankful this was their last night here.

Peter was safe. For now. Walker was sure that he'd recover, but he didn't know how long it would be before Val showed up. And she would. Nothing got past her in that damned tower.

"Hey, Bucky?" Bob stood in the doorway, a small smile on his face, one hand holding the door frame. He still wasn't ready to fight, but he liked to come along on missions with Yelena. Those two were joined at the hip these days. Bucky didn't think there was anything between them other than a deep affection and friendship. They had a certain way of understanding each other, almost like they spoke a language no one else understood. He was glad they had each other.

Bucky ran a hand through his hair and forced a smile.

"What can I do for you, Bob?"

Bob looked at the floor and shuffled his feet. Then he entered the room and sat next to Bucky on the bed. In a quiet voice, he finally spoke.

"Is your friend okay?"

Bucky's eyebrows shot up, the breath caught in his throat.

"What? What friend?"

Bob gave a tiny smile and a shrug.

"Your friend that's been staying with you. I see and hear a lot more than people realize. Most people kinda forget that I'm there, but I pay attention."

Bucky blinked a few times, mouth open, caught between shock and apology.

"I uh…I'm sorry, Bob. I hope you don't think that I don't notice you. I do," Bucky started. Bob cut him off with a gentle laugh.

"It's okay, Bucky. I know you see me. You've helped me a lot; I think I'm getting closer to being ready to fight because of all your training. I just want to help you sometimes too, y'know? Feel useful…" He trailed off.

Bucky nodded thoughtfully, then released a deep breath, shoulders sagging. If helping Bob meant letting him help him…

"My friend is okay. Thanks for asking. Walker is helping him. I just…don't want Val to know about him."

"I can understand that," Bob agreed. "Val is…not a good person."

"Yeah," Bucky breathed, leaning back against the wall now. The small bed creaked under his weight as he shifted. "I don't want her to hurt anyone like she did to you. I can't let that happen again."

"It wasn't your fault," Bob shrugged, his hands clasped between his knees. "I should have listened to you guys." He shifted back on the bed and leaned against the wall next to Bucky, his shoulder brushing against him. He smiled, "But it all worked out okay, right? Now we're a team. We've got each other and we're not alone anymore."

Bucky smiled back, genuine and warm. "Yeah. We've got each other."

"Your friend will be okay. I know you'll make sure of it. Just like you do with all of us."

The words hit Bucky like a slap to the face. Is that how they felt? Did they really see him that way? Not just as their reluctant and at times unsteady leader, but as a protector?

"We all take care of each other, Bob. We're a team." Bucky nudged him with his shoulder, and glanced at him.

The corners of Bob's mouth slowly dipped down, his brow furrowing. "I won't let Val hurt your friend. Even if it means using my powers."

"Thanks, Bob. You're a good guy." Bucky said sincerely.

"I try." Bob shrugged, but the smile was returning to his face.

****

As Bucky approached the conference room, he could see Peter sitting with his back to the door. Val had her hands planted on the opposite side of the table, leaning toward him. That ghoulish grin of hers highlighted in sharp relief by blood-red lipstick, teeth showing.

She must have caught the movement, her eyes flicking up to meet Bucky's as he stormed toward the door. Her smile vanished. Peter turned in his seat, the look of relief on his face clear as he saw him.

The door burst open with a loud crash. Peter flinched. Val took a step back.

"Bucky," she plastered on her fakest smile, "I was just chatting with your friend here about joining the New Avengers."

"I'm sorry, Bucky," Walker's voice came from the corner of the room, where he was standing with his back to the wall. "She just showed up, and I couldn't…" Val shot him a steely-eyed glare and his mouth snapped shut.

"We're leaving. Come on." He gestured to Peter, who jumped out of his seat and fled out the door, heading for the elevators. Bucky glanced at John and tilted his head, motioning for him to follow. John hesitated, taking a step forward, then freezing as Val shot him a look full of thunder.

"Are you coming?" Bucky asked him quietly, meeting his eyes.

John took a deep breath, then gave a short, sharp nod. He brushed past Bucky and went to join Peter at the elevators. Bucky watched him go.

"Who the hell do you think you are," Val hissed, her composure slipping. "I am the leader of this team. I outrank you. You report to me, Soldier."

Bucky's head snapped back around to meet her eyes with a murderous look. Hackles raised at the name. Soldier. If she wanted the soldier. She could have him.

Bucky strode across the room, getting into Val's space. Barely an inch between them. Towering over her. She was backed against the wall now, and he could hear the way the breath hitched in her throat, the way her heart pounded. The jugular vein in her neck throbbed.

"You come near him again, you threaten my team, and the Soldier isn't the worst thing you'll have to face. You even breathe wrong and I'll have Bob throw you in the void." The words gritted out from between his teeth.

"Are you threatening me?" Val tried vainly to regain her composure, straightening slightly.

"Not a threat. A promise." Bucky replied, glaring deep into her ink-black soul.

Val smirked. "Bob answers to me."

Bucky huffed out a laugh, short and sharp, a smile pulling up one side of his mouth. He shook his head.

"Does he?"

A flicker of shock crossed Val's face and Bucky grinned down at her, before turning and stalking from the room, joining Peter and John as they entered the elevator. He called back to her, just before the doors closed.

"Don't forget, Val. We own you."

Bucky wasn't stupid enough to think that Val would back down. But he had at least bought them some time.

****

Another day, another safehouse.

It irked Bucky that his home had been infiltrated. What irritated him more was that he couldn't figure out how Wechter had found him. How they happened to be there at the exact right time to intercept the delivery driver before he got to the front door. He'd watched it back on the security cameras several times. One of Wechter's men had walked into frame at the front of the house, already holding the pizza box and wearing the Joe's Pizza cap. Upon checking local police reports, he'd found a report that a delivery driver had been knocked from his e-bike and had his delivery and cap stolen about a block from Bucky's house. It didn't make any sense.

Regardless, he and Peter were now holed up in a cramped one bedroom apartment in Queens. At least this place was nicer than the last one had been. This was one of his own, and he made sure it was always clean and well-stocked.

Peter had looked like death warmed up as they rode the elevator down to ground floor of the Watchtower. His skin had looked a sickly grey, dark circles under his eyes, and a slight tremor in his hands. Bucky was concerned that his blinks were too long, bordering on micro-sleeps. From what John had said, he had probably lost over two pints of blood, saved only by his rapid healing. He had barely made it up the stairs to this apartment.

Once inside, Bucky had steered him toward the bedroom, where Peter had promptly passed out, fully clothed on top of the covers.

Bucky took the couch. There was no other bed here, but he didn't think he could sleep anyway. A restless energy coursed through him, the familiar current of hyper-vigilance running through his veins and sending his mind reeling in every direction at once - playing out every possible scenario and outcome. He didn't know how long he had sat there, staring at the drawn curtains over the living room window, listening to every creak, every footstep, every whistle of the wind as it forced its way through a gap in the window frame.

Peter groaned from the bedroom, followed by a whimper. Bucky was on his feet in an instant. Moving silently to the bedroom door, he carefully pushed it open. The lamp on the bedside table cast a warm, soft glow across the room, revealing Peter's sleeping face, twisted in discomfort. Whether from a nightmare or from pain, Bucky didn't know. But he was safe.

A reflection caught his eye. Light from the lamp shining off a small rectangular object on Peter's chest. As Bucky moved into the room, he noticed that a journal had been left open next to him. Standing over him now, Bucky gently lifted the object - a glossy photo . It was of Peter and a girl who looked to be his age. They were both smiling, arms around each other, a loose strand of her curly hair tickling the side of Peter's face. It struck Bucky that he had never seen Peter look so happy. So at ease.

Peter woke with a start. A shallow gasp escaped him as he clutched at his shoulder. His eyes fluttered open, and he froze. His heart hammered so loudly that Bucky could have heard it from across the room.

"Sorry, I…you were making noise. I was just checking on you." Bucky explained, a little embarrassed to be caught.

"That's okay," Peter responded in a whisper, his gaze flicking rapidly between Bucky's face and the photo he still held in his hand.

"This your ex?" He asked. At Peter's nod, he handed the photo back. Peter nearly snatched it out of his hand. "She's pretty. You guys looked happy."

Peter nodded, forcing himself into a sitting position against the headboard. He looked down at the photo.

"We were."

Bucky wasn't sure what to do with his hands, so he stuffed them into his pockets.

"What's her name?"

Peter hesitated for a moment, taking a deep breath and wincing as his injured shoulder moved.

"MJ," he finally replied, not meeting Bucky's eyes.

Peter opened the journal, shoving the photo between the pages and snapping the book closed. But not before Bucky caught a glimpse of one other photo. The brunette woman he remembered from Stark's funeral, standing with her arm over a younger Peter's shoulders as he smiled shyly at the camera and she beamed with pride. Aunt May. Bucky's mind spun as he stared at the cover of the now closed journal. After sifting through the possibilities, Bucky had to settle on the uncomfortable realisation that the faceless person standing next to May in his memories was Peter. He struggled to get enough air into his lungs. Why hadn't he been able to remember his face?

"Um, I'm kind of tired, Bucky. I think I might go back to sleep, if that's okay?" Peter looked up at him, a small furrow between his brows as he fidgeted with the bed cover.

Bucky wrenched his mind back to the present moment. To Peter's eyes, bloodshot and weary, his skin still too pale after the blood loss.

"Yeah. Yeah, of course." Bucky brushed his hands off on his jeans, and walked awkwardly to the doorway. That irritating buzzing, crawling sensation reared its ugly head again. It had never truly gone away, just been buried beneath the camaraderie that he and Peter had built over the last few weeks. "G'night," Bucky murmured as he closed the door with a soft click behind him.

Was he going crazy, or had Peter seemed scared. Cagey. He shook his head. Of course the kid was scared. He just got ambushed in what was supposed to be safe place, shot in the shoulder, almost fell from the Watchtower, accosted by Val, and was recovering from massive blood loss. It was normal for him to be acting off. But something still just wasn't sitting quite right, no matter how much Bucky wanted to justify it.

The phone on the table pinged with a notification. Bucky snatched it up as he flopped back onto the sofa. An e-mail. From Pepper.

He held his breath as he opened it, half expecting it to be a tirade of well-deserved vitriol.

Mr Barnes,

I hope this email finds you well. Unfortunately without a warrant I'm not at liberty to discuss Stark Industries' employees, past or present. However, I would advise that it may be in your interests to meet with Dr Bruce Banner. Dr Banner is currently at MIT as a guest lecturer, and he would be happy to speak with you about any subjects that might be of interest in your ongoing case.

On a personal note, I have a proposition that I would like to discuss with you that I think you may find to be mutually beneficial. I can't disclose the details via email, however, if you contact my office I'd like to set up a meeting with you to discuss this further, if it's of interest to you.

Best of luck with your search.

Regards,

Pepper Stark

Bucky released the breath he was holding, and read through the email again. Proposition. Mutually beneficial. What the hell could that mean? This day was just throwing one curve ball after another. He placed the phone down, still open on the email, and carded his hands through his hair. Whatever it was would have to wait. With Wechter coming after Peter at every turn, their first priority was getting to Cambridge to meet with Bruce Banner.

****

Peter's exhausted body begged his mind to be dragged back into unconsciousness. But his mind wouldn't relent. Bucky had seen the photos. The one of Aunt May. The way he'd frozen in place for several seconds. Peter had almost been able to see the cogs turning in his mind. Bucky would have met May, just the once, at Tony's funeral. Peter had been there, too, of course. Without his mask. Bucky was smart; he was going to put it together eventually.

The blow would land a lot softer coming from Peter directly. Maybe if he was honest, and told him the truth of his own volition, Bucky would be able to forgive him one day. Maybe.

He yawned so hard his jaw cracked, eyes closing against his will. Tomorrow. He would figure out how to tell him tomorrow.

Chapter Text

It was afternoon by the time Peter woke; the room sun-warm and golden. For a safehouse, this place was pretty nice. The sounds of passing cars and people talking drifted up to him from the street below as he slowly regained his senses. There was a dull ache in his right shoulder and his ribs were a little tender, but the bone-deep chill and exhaustion brought on by blood loss were thankfully absent. Peter rolled to his side and grabbed his phone off the bedside table. It was after three PM. He rubbed a hand over his face, trying to clear away the remnants of his eighteen-hour sleep.

The thought slammed into him like a brick wall. Bucky. He had to tell him.

The bedroom felt stuffy all of a sudden. Too hot. Oppressive. He shucked off the covers and swung his feet to the floor, heading for the window. He hesitated. If Wechter could find them at Bucky's house, if his men could force their way into such a secure place, what was to stop them from finding them here? What if they were being watched right now?

Peter swallowed thickly, backing away from the window. He couldn't do this. They needed to finish this case. Get Wechter and his men locked up. Or he'd be looking over his shoulder every day wondering when they'd strike again. His freshly healed ribs and gunshot wound were testament to the tenacity of this psychopath. Wechter had found him three times now, but this last time was different - they wanted to capture him.  He didn't even want to begin to imagine why.

The room spun as he gulped down another lungful of stale air and collapsed back onto the bed, running his shaking hands through his hair. He was trapped. If he told Bucky the truth, Bucky would leave him. He'd be all alone with a group of homicidal weapons dealers after him. Psychopaths who seemed to have access to almost psychic levels of intel. They could, and would, find him anywhere. His only other option was to take Val up on her offer, which he would never do. Not just out of respect for Bucky, but because she was even more terrifying than Wechter and his goons.

He had no money. He had no family. He had no friends. All that stood between him and the certainty of capture was working this case with Bucky.

The thoughts spun and crashed into each other like Dodgem cars, colliding and ricocheting until he felt like his brain was going to explode. The dizzying back and forth between guilt, honesty and fear kept his mind in perpetual motion. He hadn't realized that he was gasping for air until the door burst open.

"Peter? Hey, Pete, it's okay buddy. You're okay." Bucky entered the room cautiously, kneeling down in front of him. Peter pulled at the collar of his shirt. It was too tight. He couldn't breathe.

"Peter, look at me." Bucky commanded, firm hands grasping his face and forcing him to look up.

He couldn't meet his eyes. Couldn't bear to look at him after what he'd done to him. To everyone. Maybe he deserved to be captured…

"Breathe," Bucky insisted, giving his cheek a light tap.

The room tilted and swayed and Peter reeled with it, clawing at his throat to pull his shirt away with trembling hands.

Bucky pulled him to his feet, putting a shoulder under his arm and steering him to the bathroom. He was speaking, but all Peter could make out were distant, muffled sounds.

"…anic attack….going to be okay." The words meant nothing.

He was shoved into the shower cubicle. Ice water sprayed down on him, the suddenness of it stealing his breath. Peter coughed as he inhaled the water, doubling over and spitting it out onto the tiles.

Bucky smacked him between the shoulders a few times, helping him clear his lungs. Peter sank to the floor and Bucky crouched down next to him.

"You okay?" He asked, and Peter almost threw up at the genuine concern in his voice. He didn't deserve it. Hot tears mixed with the frigid spray of the shower and ran down his face, but he nodded his head.

Bucky stood and shut off the water, then handed him a towel. His whole body shook, teeth chattering, as he pulled the towel around his shoulders and wiped off his face.

"You ever had a panic attack before?" He asked as he took a seat on the bathroom floor opposite him.

Peter shook his head.

"I still get them sometimes," Bucky said quietly. "My shrink said they were 'normal' for PTSD. They suck, though."

Peter was quiet for a moment, before quietly voicing his agreement. "Yeah. That definitely sucked,"

"You wanna…talk about it?"

Peter's brow furrowed. He wanted to. But he just…couldn't. Not right now. Not until Wechter was gone. He shook his head.

"Okay," Bucky said as he pushed himself up off the floor with a crack of joints, "Well, the offer's open." He offered a hand to Peter, helping him up, then clapped him on the back. "Go get dry. I'll heat up some Chinese takeout for you."

The grumble of Peter's stomach was so loud that it made Bucky laugh as he pushed him back toward the bedroom to dry off and get changed.

The clothes in the closet were a little big, meant for a man Bucky's size. But they were clean and dry, and for that, he was grateful. The aroma of soy and spices and tender meat wafted to him as he entered the living room a few minutes later and found a steaming bowl of noodles on the coffee table for him. He sat awkwardly in the armchair, avoiding looking at Bucky. A flush of embarrassment still heated his cheeks despite Bucky's assurance that he was all too familiar with panic attacks himself.

"I got an email from Pepper last night." Peter stopped mid-bite and looked up at Bucky expectantly. "She recommended we go talk to Bruce Banner. He's at MIT at the moment. I thought we could head to Boston after dinner."

Peter's eyes widened and he looked down, trying to hide his panicked expression. He cleared his throat.

"Umm, I don't know if I should travel. Y'know, still recovering and all. Maybe I should just stay here…" He mumbled, risking a glance up to check Bucky's reaction.

There was a crease between Bucky's brows. He had that assessing look of his again.

"No. I'm not leaving you here on your own. It's safer if we stick together and keep moving for now. You can rest in the car and once we get to the next safehouse."

Peter nodded without looking up from his food, suddenly feeling queasy. MJ was at MIT. What if he saw her? What if she saw him? It would kill him if she walked right by him like he was a stranger. Like he was no one. But he was out of excuses, and Bucky wouldn't budge on letting him stay behind. Not that he actually wanted to stay behind on his own. But he wasn't sure what scared him more - being found again by Wechter, or running into MJ.

"I can get you some painkillers, if you need them." Bucky offered.

Peter shook his head. "No. I'll be okay. I'll just…rest. Like you said."

****

The drive to Boston had taken an additional half hour as Bucky had stopped at one of his many garages around the city to collect the weapon that they'd taken from the fight at the industrial estate. They were going to ask Dr Banner to take a look at it and see if he could figure out how it worked. They'd still made good time, though, pulling up to the safehouse just after nine PM. Peter had no luggage, just his tattered backpack which easily contained all of his worldly possessions, and an extra set of clothes that Bucky had insisted he buy from a Walmart off the highway. He tossed the bag in the corner of one of the two bedrooms, before joining Bucky in the living room where he was scoffing at some World War II documentary on the TV. Peter knew that he'd been too quiet on the drive. Not his usual self. And he knew that Bucky would have noticed, but was hoping that he'd put it down to recovering from his injuries.

Bucky tossed him the remote control as he sat down, and Peter changed it to something that was less likely to instigate a tirade of irritated corrections about the "revisionist history of Captain America's involvement in WWII…he wasn't some squeaky clean boy scout like they make him out be, y'know. It was war." It was the only time Bucky spoke of Steve. Peter couldn't tell if he was angry at Steve, or if he was angry at the way his image had been twisted into propaganda, and he didn't think it was his place to ask.

He'd just settled into watching some new Star Wars production that made him think of Ned, when Bucky's phone vibrated against the coffee table.

“Mel…hi,”  Bucky’s face softened, his voice warm and smooth, as he answered.  

Peter’s eyes widened, he’d never seen Bucky talk to anyone like that. Never seen his smile go all soft like that.  Ears attuned, Peter listened in to the other side of the conversation whilst attempting to look like he was absorbed by the television.

“Hi, Bucky.  How are you?  Is this a good time?” She sounded sweet, and her voice was warm and fuzzy like Bucky’s.

“Yes!  Yeah, I’m…good.  Good, yeah, uh, now’s fine.  What can I do for you?”  

A rush of blood warmed Bucky’s face as he stumbled over his words.  He had never seen Bucky so undone - he was always so in control; cool and calculating.  Peter stifled a giggle, hiding it under a not very convincing cough.

Bucky side-eyed him, and stood up, moving toward his bedroom.

"I heard about Val…" Mel's voice trailed off with the distance.

“Aww,” Peter lamented under his breath, forgetting Bucky’s super hearing until he spun around on the next step and glared at him.

“Sorry,” Peter mouthed, trying to offer a contrite look, but not quite hitting the mark.

The bedroom door swung shut with a thud, and he only caught snippets here and there of Bucky’s end of the conversation. But he wasn't giving away much, aware that Peter was still listening.

A short while later, Bucky re-emerged and began to stomp around the kitchen, a scowl on his face.

Peter decided to test his limits.

“Sooooo…Mel, huh?”

The movement in the kitchen immediately ceased and the room became uncomfortably still.  Peter could swear that he could feel Bucky’s eyes boring a hole into the back of his head.  He didn’t turn around, in case he revealed the grin that was tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“She your girlfriend?”

There was a small choking sound, and something soft dropped to the counter before Bucky cleared his throat and replied.

“Colleague.  New rule - don’t eavesdrop on my phone calls. Got it?”

Peter turned to look at him now and nodded solemnly.

“Got it,” he repeated. 

“Good.”

Bucky threw him a can of soda.  He snatched it out of the air one handed and popped it open, taking a large gulp of it as Bucky joined him on the sofa.

Peter shifted restlessly, watching his show in silence as he fought to stamp down on his questions.

He shifted, propping one foot up on the coffee table.  Then putting it back down.  Then putting the other one up.  And back down again.

Bucky sighed heavily next to him.

“What?”  He asked tiredly, giving Peter a look full of warning to tread carefully.

Peter chewed his lip for a moment, then turned the TV volume down.

“It’s just that…well, your whole face and voice changed when you spoke to her.  I’ve never seen you smile like that.  You’ve got this whole kinda resting bitch face thing going on.”  Peter finished, then immediately felt a surge of apprehension.  He was definitely overstepping.

Bucky stared at him in silence for an eternity that was in fact only eleven seconds.

“You ever think that maybe I only have a resting bitch face when you're around?”

“Oh…”  Peter said, caught off guard, wide eyes blinking.

“It was a joke, Peter.”  Bucky chuckled and shook his head, then relaxed back into the cushions on the sofa and took a swig of his drink.  “Mel’s just a colleague. I'm not…I don't think she's…interested." He cleared his throat and shifted in his seat.

"I dunno about that. She sounded pretty interested," Peter said, glancing at Bucky. He shrugged, feigning nonchalance, but Peter could see the wheels turning in his mind.

“I'm too old for her, anyway,” He finally said.

"Yeah," Peter agreed, deadpan, "Maybe you should go to speed dating night at the local senior center."

Bucky punched him in the arm, lightning fast.

"Ow, gun shot wound, remember!" Peter laughed as he rubbed his bicep. "I still think you should go for it with Mel, though. What have you got lose?"

Bucky shrugged, "The respect of my team. You can't imagine the field day they'd have if I got turned down."

"Wow," Peter said in mock amazement.

"What?" Bucky scowled at him.

"Oh nothing, just…the Winter Soldier is scared of being teased," Peter couldn't help the grin that spread across his face.

Bucky narrowed his eyes and shook his head. "So what's your excuse then? Your young. You shouldn't be spending all your time hanging out with a cranky centenarian. Why aren't you asking girls out?"

Peter's heart dropped into his stomach.

"Or boys…or whatever?" Bucky corrected himself upon seeing the look on Peter's face.

Peter took a moment before answering, breathing deeply to quell the rising tide of exhausted grief.

"I can barely keep myself safe, let alone someone else. I don't want anyone else to get hurt because of me.”  He inhaled a shaky breath as he finished, then slowly released it.

Bucky turned away from the TV and looked at him.

“That sounds lonely.”  It was said with the kind of assuredness that could only come from knowing.

“Sometimes.  But it’s better for everyone this way.”  Admitting it out loud to someone else stole the breath from his lungs. He had to force his exhale out through clenched teeth as he stared resolutely at the television.

“Maybe.  But I know for a fact that humans aren't meant to be alone like that.  It kills you slowly.”

Peter couldn’t meet his eyes.

“Is that what we are, though?  Human?”

Bucky was silent for so long that Peter finally looked up, just to assure himself that he was still there.

“I think we tread a fine line.  We’re something slightly different from just human, and if we’re not careful, we could lose the humanity that we do have.  And that…well, that wouldn’t be good for anybody.”  Bucky’s lips pressed together in an imitation of a smile as he glanced at his vibranium arm, then looked away again.

Peter nodded mutely, while his mind raced in time with his heart.

“How do we stop ourselves from losing it?”  He finally asked, a slight wavering in his voice that he was too worn out to hide.

Bucky placed a metal hand on his shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze.  Peter could almost laugh at the irony - the most inhuman part of him providing comfort in the most human of ways.

“Well, I think you gotta connect with people so that you don’t forget how to be one.”

Peter’s brow furrowed, he wanted to deny the words, the truth of the statement.  But he couldn’t.  

“What if I’m scared to?  Because what if…  I just… I can’t lose anyone else, or I think I will lose the last part of me that’s clinging on to my humanity.”

Bucky’s metal fingers pressed into his shoulder again, a little firmer this time.  A reminder that losing your “self” isn’t permanent, that no matter how much you’ve lost you can find your way back.

“Nothing in this life is permanent, Peter.  Good or bad. But we can't let fear of the bad stop us. We have to try to…live, like real people do.”

Peter huffed out an ironic laugh through his nose, and smiled at him.

"Sounds like maybe you need to take your own advice."

Bucky rolled his eyes and cuffed him lightly around the ear, but he was smiling.

****

Bruce had agreed to meet with them during his lunch hour in one of the Eastman building's physics labs. The Infinite Corridor was teeming with students as Bucky led the way to the laboratory that Bruce was using during his tenure here. He couldn't help but notice the way Peter took in their surroundings with a wistful look, an air of sadness casting a pall over his features. The kid belonged somewhere like this, not living in a run down tenement washing dishes for a few bucks an hour, or dodging from one safehouse to the next. Maybe he could talk him into taking a break from the superhero stuff for a few years once this case was done. After all, Tony had been both a genius engineer and a super hero. Peter could have that, too. If he wanted it.

"Here. Room 106." Peter announced, peering through the glass panel in the door.

Bruce looked up as they entered, and stood to greet them.

"Bucky, good to see you again." Bruce shook his hand and clapped him on the shoulder, waving him to a stool at one of the high tables. He hadn't spoken to Bruce since they met before the Battle of Wakanda. He looked older, a little more worn down.

"This is the friend I told you about in my email. It's his case that we're working on." Bucky said by way of introduction, conscious that Peter was still trying to protect his identity.

Bruce shook Peter's hand too, and motioned for him to take a seat.

"So, what can I help you guys with? Pepper said something about an old SI employee that's been causing trouble." Bruce took a seat opposite them.

Bucky glanced at Peter, waiting for him to speak up. But Peter sat in rigid silence, staring at his hands. He had been acting off for a couple days now, and Bucky wasn't sure whether to put it down to fatigue, PTSD, or something else entirely.

"Yeah," Bucky confirmed. "What can you tell us about William Sandler? We obtained intel that he worked for SI at some point."

"Sandler…" Bruce stroked his chin thoughtfully, his eyebrows drawn together slightly. "Oh, Bill! Yeah, I remember him. Hard worker, super intelligent. He worked with me at the upstate Avengers compound right up until Thanos showed up again and blew it all to kingdom come." Bruce shook his head and sighed, grief deepening the lines on his face.

"What happened to him after that?" Bucky asked as Peter fidgeted next to him.

"I wish I knew. He wasn't amongst the…recovered," Bruce avoided saying the word, but Bucky knew he meant the deceased. "He just vanished. No one ever heard from him again. What's your interest in him?"

"We have reason to believe that he's alive and well, and has been working on this."

Bucky pulled the weapon out from inside his jacket and placed it on the table. Bruce's eyes grew wide, mouth open.

"How did you get this in -" He started, then looked at Bucky and understanding dawned on his features. "Of course. Never mind."

He picked up the weapon and turned it over in his hands, inspecting every inch of it thoroughly.

"What does it do, exactly?" He asked, looking up at Bucky as he placed it carefully back on the table.

Bucky turned to Peter. "Why don't you tell him your theory?"

Peter gulped and looked between them.

"So, ah, it, umm…" Bucky was about to interject when Peter finally found the words. "The weapon seems to operate on a principle of entropic inversion. The energy beam doesn't destroy matter; it catalyzes a thermodynamic reversal at the molecular level, effectively reverting materials to their constituent base states. The chamber seems to contain some sort of quantum-phase power cell that generates the necessary energy, but the field only collapses into a coherent beam when its discharged through the weapon's waveguide array. Without that specific resonance frequency, the cell seems to be inert. However, the variable results on humans suggest that the beam interacts with biological complexity differently, but I haven't isolated the variable yet."

Bruce nodded appreciatively, while Bucky sat in stunned silence. He knew Peter was brilliant, but he rarely shared that to his full capacity.

"What variables have you encountered?" Bruce asked, picking up the weapon and inspecting it again.

"Glass reverted to silica. Aluminum reverted to bauxite. But humans are where I haven't been able to pin down the differentials. All of them have disappeared, except for one."

"Hmmm," Bruce murmured, turning the weapon over again. "Tell me about the one that didn't disappear." He prompted.

"The only one that didn't disappear was an elderly man. He was on the street, hit from a distance of about a hundred and fifty feet. I did consider that distance may have diminished the effect, but…" Peter shrugged.

Bruce stood, taking the gun with him to another table that was set up with an array of different equipment.

"I think I might…" Bruce trailed off as he ran the glowing red chamber through a scanner, then quickly moved to another machine and ran another scan on the barrel of the gun. With Peter now hovering behind him, they assessed the data scrolling across the screen. Bucky could follow along with some of it, but had to admit he was somewhat out of his depth.

"Holy cow," Peter breathed, running a hand through his hair. He leaned closer. "Is that…?"

Bruce smiled up at him. "Yep. It's a scaled replica of the quantum tunnel time machine."

"Steve told me about that," Bucky said as he leaned over to look at the display. "It was your first prototype for time travel. But it moved time through the object instead, didn't it?" He asked as everything seemed to click into place.

"That's the one," Bruce said with consternation.

"How did Sandler get his hands on this tech?" Peter asked, still poring over the data on the screen.

"He was on the team that helped me to develop it," Bruce shrugged, chewing the inside of his cheek. "I trusted him…" His posture slumped, eyes focusing somewhere far away.

The room was silent for a moment, each of them coming to terms with what this meant.

"So…why didn't it make that one guy disappear," Peter queried, looking at Bruce, head tilted to one side as he thought it through. "What was different about him?"

"The mechanism has to be set to push a certain amount of time either forward or backward. From what I can see…" He typed on the keyboard and brought up another dataset, "This weapon is set to reverse fifty years. Anyone under the age of fifty will disappear. Your elderly man just got a new lease on life."

Bucky took this in, thinking it through.

"How would it affect me? I mean, biologically I'm somewhere in my late thirties, I think. But technically I'm a hundred and ten."

Bruce took a deep breath, and blew it out between pursed lips. "That's probably something you don't want to test, if you can help it."

"Right," Bucky nodded.

"Bucky, you need to get these off the streets. The damage these could do in the wrong hands… " Bruce warned.

"We're working on it," Bucky shot Peter a concerned look. Peter's face was lined with worry.

They thanked Bruce, assuring him that they'd keep him updated as they left the laboratory and headed back toward their car. They finally had answers, but somehow were leaving with even more questions than before.

"How did Sandler manage to disappear like that? And who's been funding the development of these weapons?" Peter spoke Bucky's thoughts out loud.

Bucky sighed. "I don't know, but we need to figure that out before anyone else gets hurt."

"Congressman Barnes! Congressman?" A young woman's voice called to him as they passed through the quad. Bucky turned toward the voice, and caught sight of a pretty young woman, tall, slender, masses of dark curls. Familiar.

Peter sucked in a breath. Bucky turned to him. "Is that…MJ?"

There was no chance for Peter to answer as MJ jogged over to them, holding out her hand toward Bucky.

"Hi, Michelle Jones. Master's in Political Science." She hitched her bag back onto her shoulder as it slipped. "I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions about your campaign and subsequent resignation for an essay I'm working on?" MJ was speaking a mile a minute, almost out of breath after catching up to them.

"Uh, hi," Bucky said, his brow furrowing as he looked to Peter again. He was staring resolutely at the ground, still as a statue, but his heart was thrumming so loud Bucky could hear it over the sounds of the passing crowds. MJ didn't even acknowledge him.

"Peter?" He prompted.

"Oh, sorry. That was rude of me." MJ held out her hand toward Peter, smiling politely. "I'm MJ."

Peter hesitantly took her hand and gave it a quick shake. Dropping it like a hot coal at the first opportunity, looking like a deer in the headlights. "Peter," he mumbled.

"Nice to meet you Peter." She turned back to Bucky. "Is now a good time to ask you some questions?" She asked hopefully.

Bucky barely heard her. His mind now reeling. What the hell was going on? This girl had no idea who Peter was.

"Ah, I'm sorry. We're kind of in a hurry. You can send me a list of questions by email, if you'd like. It was nice to meet you, Ms Jones." Bucky shook her hand again and watched as she walked away.

He turned to ask Peter the question that was now burning in his chest. Peter hadn't moved, face pale as death, heart still hammering, staring at the ground where MJ had just stood.

"Peter, what the hell was that?"

Peter didn't answer.

****

Peter's heart had shattered into a million sharp pieces, but was somehow still beating.  Each thump sending shards of glass pumping through his veins.  He couldn't breathe.  MJ.  It had been so long.  She was just as beautiful, if not more so.  She was thriving without him.  He took little solace in the fact that he'd made the right decision to let her go.

Bucky's voice came to him, muffled like he was under water.  It took a moment for the words to make sense. 

"Peter, what the hell was that?"

It only took a second for the world to come crashing down around him again.  There was no more putting this off.  He had to come clean.

Chapter Text

An unsettling realisation began to claw at the edges of Bucky's consciousness, fighting to be recognised. One that had been growing, expanding, since he first met Peter. One that he had shoved down and refused to acknowledge as his protective instinct and fondness for the kid had grown. But the question was now unavoidable. Why hadn’t he been able to remember Peter's face?  He could overlook the one instance of not remembering him at the end of the battle with Thanos; he’d been disoriented from the blip and exhausted from the fight.  But to forget his face a second time, at Stark's funeral as he stood next to his Aunt whilst every other detail of the memory was clear… That feeling of wrongness stirred in his gut once more, undeniable now that there was someone else who had also apparently forgotten him.

Bucky grabbed Peter by the shoulder, a little too forcefully, and pushed him toward an empty classroom. The door swung shut with a clang behind them. He made it to the centre of the room before he stopped and spun Peter to face him. The unbridled guilt on his face was enough to confirm Bucky's fears.

All of the oxygen was sucked from the room in an instant. The blood in his veins froze, his heart a solid, unmoving mass beneath his ribs.

“Bucky, I…” Peter stammered, swallowing hard.

"No," Bucky commanded. "Just don't. I'm going to ask you something, and you're going to give me an honest answer." His voice shook as his mind raced ahead, praying that Peter had a reasonable explanation for what had just happened, but knowing in his gut that he didn't.

Peter looked up at him with wide, pleading eyes, fingers twisting in the hem of his t-shirt, breaths short and sharp.

"The girl. MJ. She didn't know you. Why?" He could barely force the words out, his chest tight, heart pounding against his ribs like a fist.

Peter pressed his lips together as his eyes brimmed with tears. He opened his mouth as if to speak, then shook his head and swallowed the words.

"Why didn't she remember you, Peter?" Bucky insisted, holding himself rigid so that he didn't do something he'd regret.

"I…" Peter started, but nothing more came forth as he swiped at his eyes.

"I met you three times before that first night. Tell me why I couldn't remember your face. Your name." The words came out in a rushed whisper. His mind fighting between the need to know, and the desire to to pretend none of this had ever happened and let things go back to normal.

"I'm so sorry," Peter's voice cracked, wet and ragged.

"What did you do?" He forced the question out between gritted teeth.

"I wanted to tell you. I was going to tell you when we finished the case. I swear."

Bucky restrained himself from reaching out and grabbing him by the arms and shaking him, as though he could shake the truth loose from him.

"Tell me what?" A muscle in his jaw ticked.

“About everything.  About MJ and my best friend, Ned, and Aunt May.  What I did to protect them.  But I…”  Peter’s mouth worked, but no further sound came out.

Bucky forced air into his lungs, and pushed it back out again.

“What. Did. You. Do?”  Bucky asked again. His eyes bored into Peter’s, searching for the truth, trying to drag it out of his mind by sheer force of will.

“I’m sorry, there was no other way…”  Peter whispered, still as a statue now, eyes filled with fear.

“Peter, just fucking tell me. You owe me that much.”  Bucky half demanded, half pleaded.

With a sigh, Peter’s shoulders slumped and he collapsed in on himself. 

“I didn’t… I had to do it.  Please understand.  Everyone I loved was getting hurt because of me,”  Peter said softly, grief ageing his face beyond its tender years.

Bucky watched him fall apart, as sympathy and burgeoning rage warred in his chest.  Peter took a deep breath before he spoke again.

“I was accused of something I didn't do, and my identity was revealed to the whole world. Being associated with me, with Peter Parker, ruined their lives, and put them in danger. I just wanted to fix it. I needed to fix it." The dam had burst and words now came spilling from his lips like water.  "So I went to Dr Strange for help, but it went wrong. Really, really wrong. We fractured the multiverse. Aunt May died because of me. And then the whole world was in danger and there was only one way to stop it…”  Peter wiped a stray tear from his cheek with his sleeve.  His mouth opened and closed a few more times, but nothing more came.

“How?”  Bucky prompted.

“The only way to fix the fracture and put everything right, to save everyone, was to…" Peter swallowed and took a deep shuddering breath, "to make everyone forget Peter Parker ever existed.” 

 The room tilted then swayed back into place, snapping Peter’s tearful face back into focus.

“Who did Dr Strange cast the spell on to forget you?”  There was a slight tremble to his words, muscles rigid and twitching with the force it was taking him to stay in place.

Peter’s chest heaved, as his face crumpled.  He bit his lip and looked away, no longer able to witness Bucky’s wrath.

“Everyone.”

Gravity collapsed, and almost took Bucky’s knees with it.  He stumbled, reaching out a hand to steady himself on the back of a chair.  

Breathe, he reminded himself.

He’d trusted him.  And he’d knowingly fucked with the minds, the memories, of millions of people without their consent.  He’d taken Bucky’s memories without his consent.

White hot tendrils of rage clawed their way up his spine. Bucky stalked across the room toward the door.

“Bucky?  Please, I’m sorry.  I’m so sorry.  I had no other choice.  I know it was wrong.  I fucked everything up…”  Peter pleaded, trying in vain to catch Bucky’s eyes as he got in front of him.  

Bucky tried to brush past him, but Peter’s hand shot out and stopped him.  He was surprised again by the strength, but didn't let it show, just looked down at Peter’s hand where it pushed firmly against his chest, and then turned his steely glare on to him.  Without a word being uttered Peter got the message and dropped his hand back to his side.

“You…”  Bucky bit his lip to stem the flow of rage that was about to spill forth.  “You took my memories.”  He could hear his own teeth grinding as he held himself back, the taste of betrayal sour on his tongue.  “You had no right.”

He met Peter’s eyes, needing to see that he understood.  Tears left salty tracks down Peter’s cheeks. He looked so much younger all of a sudden.

“I’m sorry,” Peter whispered again.

“I can't trust you." Bucky spoke the realisation, feeling a stabbing pain in his chest as he said it. He swallowed the feeling down.

"We’re done here.”  His words were as emotionless as his face.  

He sidestepped Peter, striding out of the door and almost breaking into a run, as if he could outrun the storm inside that threatened to consume him.

****

Peter's limbs felt numb, moving on pure instinct, his breaths shallow and fast in his chest. Still reeling from seeing MJ, from MJ looking at him like he was a stranger. He was a stranger to her now.

Then, finally telling Bucky the truth had gone so much worse than he had imagined. He had no one to blame but himself. If he wasn't so selfish, he would have told him before now. It wouldn't have hurt either of them as much if he'd told him before they had become allies. Friends.

He approached the door with a heavy, twisting knot in his gut. Would it even open for him, or would Bucky have already updated the biometric lock to keep him out? He pressed his thumb to the scanner and it beeped twice. There was a click and he pushed the door open to reveal the uncomfortable stillness within. No movement, no creaking floorboards, no life inside. It was what he expected, but it still hit like a tsunami, devastating, pushing him under and holding him down while he drowned. He was alone. Again.

Peter closed the door gently behind him, then moved to the bedroom Bucky had taken. Empty. Not even a stray sock left behind. It looked as though he had never even been there. Turning back to the open living room and kitchen, Peter scanned the area. He didn't even know what he was looking for. A note? An item left behind that might indicate Bucky would return for it? But there was nothing.

The tiny flicker of hope that had remained in his chest was extinguished on his exhale. It choked him on the way out, erupting in what sounded suspiciously like a sob. He had known this was coming. Bucky was always going to find out.

He moved to the other bedroom, barely aware of his own body as he lay down on the bed and curled up on his side, staring at the drawn curtains but not really seeing them.

He had read it somewhere once; that intent didn't matter as much as impact. Him trying to help his family and friends had hurt so many more people and almost ended the world, no matter what his intentions were. Bucky was right when he said it. He had no right. What made his friends, him, more important than everyone else in the world?

Aunt May had warned him that these powers of his came with an enormous responsibility, but he'd been careless and even selfish. And now, he had irreparably damaged his relationship with his only ally. He'd hurt the one person in this world who knew who he was, the only person to show him kindness in years.

He deserved to be alone. And he didn't deserve Bucky's forgiveness.

Peter pulled his knees up to his chest, and closed his burning eyes.

A shrill ringing startled him awake, splitting through the still air of the empty house. The phone screen lit up the darkened room with a blue glow, and he snatched it up. Hope rising within him, only to be dashed as he took in the unknown number on the screen.

"Hello?" He answered, voice still laced with sleep.

"Hey, kid."

"Mr Wilson? Uh, Cap…Captain?" Peter pushed himself up into a sitting position, resting against the headboard as he rubbed the sleep from his eyes. He didn't even remember drifting off.

"I spoke to Bucky, he told me everything. Damn, kid. You really messed that one up." Sam's tone was disapproving, but not harsh. Not as harsh as he deserved.

"I know," he whispered, choking on the words.

There was a pause on the other end. Peter waited, not breathing, anticipating a harsh lecture at best, a tirade at worst. He was ready for it.

"He asked me to check in on you," Sam said finally.

"He did?" Peter's brows creased, taken aback.

"I probably shouldn't be telling you that. But yeah, he did. Don't get it twisted, though. He's angry. And he's hurt. Which he has every right to be. But even though he's pissed he still wants you to be safe."

Peter gulped around the lump in his throat. He couldn't find any words. He settled on, "I'm sorry, Mr Wilson. I owe you an apology, too. I owe everyone an apology. I wish there was a way to fix it."

Sam sighed. "I get that you were trying to do the right thing, and eventually Bucky will too. It was a monumentally stupid decision. But we all made stupid decisions when we were your age. Not quite dumb enough to end the whole world, but still, you're paying the price for it. Just…make sure you learn from it."

Peter drew in a shaky breath and let it out again. "Yeah, I am. I promise."

"Good," Sam stated plainly. "You got some place safe to stay?"

"I uh…I'm still in Boston. But I have no cash and I don't know my way around here, so I'm probably going to have to head back to New York and work something out."

"The safehouse in Queens is yours until this case is done. There's a motorbike in the garage of the Boston house, you can take that. When you get to Queens there's an envelope of cash inside the lintel above the front door. It should be enough to tide you over."

A stray tear slid down Peter's cheek and he swiped it away with his sleeve. This was more than he deserved. Bucky didn't owe him anything, not even safety.

"Thanks," he murmured, followed by an embarrassing sniffle.

"I'll let you know when Wechter's in custody. Take care of yourself, kid." Sam said.

"Mr Wilson?" Peter called before he could hang up.

"Yeah?"

"Do you think that, maybe one day…that Bucky might umm, might forgive me? I know I don't deserve it, but I just…" He trailed off, aware of how childlike and desperate he sounded, a flush of embarrassment heated his face.

"I can't speak on his behalf…"

"Of course, sure, sorry." Peter swallowed thickly.

"But, if anyone knows about forgiveness, it's Bucky. Give him time."

A small measure of relief loosened the fist that was compressing his lungs. "Thank you."

"Stay safe out there, okay? I'll check in in a few days." With that, Sam was gone, and Peter was once again smothered by the silence of the house.

But this time, there was the tiniest of lights at the end of the tunnel.

****

It had been two weeks since Boston. Wecther and his gang seemed to have dropped off the face of the earth. There hadn't been sight nor sound of them in that time. Bucky hadn't had any success in finding any businesses, shell companies, or properties tied to Sandler. He also hadn't heard from Peter in that time. Which was good, he told himself.

The past two weeks had been filled with skulking around the Watchtower, barking at his team, and not sleeping. The anger inside him bubbled up every time he recalled the betrayal, ebbing and flowing and spilling over like an active volcano. John had finally approached him this morning, warily, like a ringmaster might approach an angry lion. When he'd asked for an update on the case, Bucky had brushed him off and left the room.

His initial anger at Peter had fractured, splintering in different directions and hitting other targets. Stark had dragged the kid into this life when he was only fourteen years old. Take him from fighting petty crimes in his neighbourhood and sent him to fight against enhanced men, gods, and aliens. How could he have been so irresponsible? Sure, Peter had superpowers, but he had been a literal child. The rage directed at Tony only added to the complex feelings Bucky had regarding him. He pushed it away, not wanting to speak ill of the dead. Especially someone who had somehow managed to forgive him after what he'd done. Stark's forgiveness, given as an unexpected gift from Peter, stuck in his mind. What he had done to Tony was worse than what Peter had done. Maybe Stark was a better man than him, in some ways.

But most of all, his fury was directed at Dr. Stephen Strange.

What kind of man would let a teenager talk him into casting a spell that would infiltrate the minds and alter the memories of unsuspecting people?

Now, as he stood on the sidewalk looking up at the Sanctum Sanctorum, the ire rose up in him again. He strode up the few steps to the front door and, finding it locked, used his vibranium hand to rip the handle off. Blue sparks sizzled against his hand, some type of magic, but it didn't affect the vibranium. The doors flew open with a crash as he entered.

Strange came hurrying in from the next room.

"Oh, shit," he muttered as he saw Bucky approaching. Eyes wide, he backed up several steps, hands held out in front of him sending up a golden spark.

Bucky swung fast with his right hand, connecting with Strange's face before he could finish his spell.

Strange buckled, his nose gushing blood that he tried to stem with one hand as he used the other to pull himself upright on a table.  His gaze took a moment to focus, but when it did, he held up his free hand in surrender.

“I probably deserved that.”

“Yeah, you did.  And unless you want me to keep going with the other hand," Bucky flexed his vibranium arm and it whirred quietly, "you’re gonna tell me exactly why the hell you let a vulnerable kid talk you into fracturing the universe and erasing everyone’s memories.”

"Ah, Spider-man" Strange said in recognition, wincing as his most-likely broken nose shifted. “No need for more violence.  You deserve an explanation, Sargent Barnes.  Would you like some tea?”

The question caught Bucky off guard, his face scrunched, one eyebrow raised in question.

“My mistake.  You look more like a whiskey kind of guy.  Come.”  Strange beckoned as he strode to the next room, cape billowing behind him like he was some kid’s party magician.

Bucky hesitated for a moment, bristling at the flippant way the man expected him to follow. He entered the library as Strange wiped his face with some tissue. The blood had stopped flowing now.

Bucky watched him from a distance as he placed a decanter of whiskey and two glasses on a spindly side table between two wing-backed chairs and motioned for Bucky to sit. He thought about refusing, out of sheer obstinacy, but his body moved on its own, sinking into the chair and picking up the decanter. The whiskey was well aged, its potent scent mixing with the smell of old books and incense in the cavernous room. Strange took the seat next to him as Bucky poured a large measure of the amber liquid into both glasses. He waited until the sorcerer took a sip before downing his own drink in one large gulp.

"I'll be honest with you, I can only offer you limited information on what happened." Strange began, pouring out another drink for Bucky as he swatted away the edge of his cape that was trying to push another tissue up to his nose. "The spell to erase Spider-man's real identity from collective memory also included myself."

"So there's no accountability because you can't remember? That's a load of BS," Bucky scoffed and shook his head.

"Well, I'm not sure how to answer for something that I can't fully recall," Strange replied.

Bucky clenched his first, fingers digging into his palm as he chewed on the words he wanted to spit. One corner of his lips twitched up in vitriolic smile.

"You think I didn't have to be held accountable for things I couldn't remember doing?" He could actually see the moment that realization dawned on Strange's face.

"I…" The man sensibly didn't complete that sentence. He sat back in his chair, staring out the window as the seconds stretched out. The passing time was marked by the metronomic ticking of a clock somewhere in the room.

"He was a kid. And he wanted you to do something dangerous, and stupid. And you did it. And he's been paying the price. We all have, even though we didn't know it. While you get to sit here in your mansion and carry on like nothing happened."

Strange took a another sip of whiskey before he replied.

"Spider-man came to me, he begged me for help. I warned him of the dangers. Tell me, why are you are so invested in this? Aside from the loss of your memories."

"You think fucking with my memories isn't enough of a reason?"

"I think it is, but I also think there's more to it. You're protective of him, despite all of this."

Bucky downed another glass of whiskey and licked the bitter taste from his lips, shaking his head. Strange wasn't entitled to any of this information. But, if Bucky wanted answers, he'd have to play along.

"I've been helping him," he finally conceded.

"Why?" Strange asked with a pointed look.

Bucky scowled, what the fuck did it matter why? He huffed out through his nose. "Because he's young and inexperienced and he needed help."

"Exactly," Strange replied.

Bucky shot him a warning look.

"I can't remember everything, as I said, the spell worked on me too. But I do know that he came to me asking for help because his friends and family were being hurt by their association with him. Should I have turned him away? Refused to help? Would you have?"

Strange looked at him, but Bucky didn't let his face betray an answer.

"All I remember is that the spell went awry, and resulted in a fracture in the multiverse. Villains from other dimensions were dragged here to our world and began to hunt him down. I wanted to dispose of them, but he thought they deserved mercy. From what I know, that decision cost him everything."

"Get to the point, Strange."

"My point is, everything he did, everything I tried to help him with, came from his desire to protect and to help. None of it came from ego or hubris." Strange sat back in his chair and rubbed his temples.

The silence between them was uneasy, as Bucky wrestled with this new information. He believed him. As much as he was angry at Peter, he knew deep down that the kid had a good heart. It didn't stop the betrayal from stinging, though. And it didn't do much to quell his distaste for the sorcerer's flippant use of powers that he wielded so carelessly.

"I don't think Spider-man's ego was involved in any of this. But I think yours was. He was a scared and desperate kid whose frontal lobe hadn't even finished developing. And you were the adult in the room. An adult who should have known better."

"So you wouldn't have helped him, if you could have?" Strange asked, voice rising slightly.

"I have helped him." Bucky stood, looking down at the other man, "I've helped him try to pick up the pieces of his life after the mess you helped him make of it. He's been out there alone all this time with no family, no future, barely keeping a roof over his head." He said, looking around at the palatial library, lip curled in disgust.

"I…I didn't know. I'm sorry that he's-"

"No, you didn't know. You did your spell, claimed success and moved on with your life. You didn't give a single shit about the carnage you left behind. All the people you affected." His voice was full of fire now, the anger bubbling to the surface quicker than he could salve it.

"It wasn't my intention to-"

Bucky cut him off again.

"I knew men like you for the better part of a century. Always so consumed by their intentions, their ego that they didn't care about the impact they had. From where I sit, I can't tell you that you're any different to them. Your version was just a little less violent, but the end result was the same."

Bucky was tempted give the man one more punch to the face and leave. But a moment before he moved, Strange finally spoke.

"That's fair. You're right. It's not the first time my ego has caused damage. Hurt people." Strange met his eyes, "I owe both of you an apology. I'm sorry."

The apology didn't bring relief. Some things couldn't be undone by the uttering of two simple words. I'm sorry wasn't an incantation that could magically reverse time and undo what had already been done.

"I don't know why I came here." Bucky shook his head, running a hand through his hair. He looked down at Strange one last time. If contrition had a photo in the dictionary, this man's face would be it. But he wasn't ready to forgive him. He wasn't sure if he would ever be.

Bucky turned and walked from the room without a word. Footsteps followed across the room behind him, stopping at the doorway to the library, as he continued on to the front door.

"Sargent Barnes?"

Bucky didn't turn back, just let the door swing shut behind him as he merged into the pedestrian traffic on the busy sidewalk.

****

He tipped the security guard a fifty as he closed the door to his apartment at the Watchtower. Bucky pressed his back to the closed door and sighed, looking at the small collection of boxes that had come from his Brooklyn house. There hadn't been much there in the way of personal belongings. He actually didn't have much in the way of personal belongings. Most of the things he'd owned prior to the war had been either lost to time or put into a travelling museum exhibit, credited as belonging to Steve. And after his liberation from Hydra, well, he just hadn't really seen the point in becoming attached to anything, with a select few exceptions. He had liked the Brooklyn house, but didn't feel any particular emotion about putting it up for sale now that the doors had been repaired, other than a mild annoyance.

Bucky flopped down onto the sofa and pulled the stack of three boxes toward him. Flipping the first one open, he rifled through the clothing. It had all been folded neatly. Brows creased, he lifted a sweatshirt to his face and inhaled the clean laundry soap scent. Huh. Peter must have washed them. The now familiar twinge of conflicting feelings twisted in his gut. He closed the box and pushed it away.

The second box was assorted paperwork and kitchen utensils. It could probably all just be thrown in the garbage.

He opened the final box and found the photos of him with Sam and Steve, and set them carefully side by side on the coffee table. Eyes lingering just a moment. The only thing left in the box was his small fire-proof safe, locked to his retina scan. It contained his journals. The ones he'd written while fleeing his way through Europe, trying to piece himself back together while unsure exactly what it was he was running from.

Something rolled in the box as it shifted and made a tinny clink against the side of the safe.

Bucky reached in, fingers scrabbling against the cardboard until he finally found it. Small and cylindrical. He held it up to inspect it. One of Peter's web shooters. He must have dropped it while he was escaping the house.

Bucky exhaled deeply, letting his head drop forward, his long hair falling in a protective curtain around his face. Not for the first time in the last three weeks, he wondered how Peter was doing. Sam gave him regular updates. He was checking in with Peter every couple of days, to make sure he was still safe. Still alive.

But alive was a low bar. Bucky knew all too well just how much guilt, regret and isolation could send someone careening down a very dark spiral. And he knew Peter felt guilty. Aside from this one monumental fuck-up, he wasn't a bad kid. Sam had tried a few times to talk Bucky around. But Bucky had pushed back. Not ready to find forgiveness yet.

Of all the ways for the kid to betray him, it just had to be in the worst possible way, given his history.

In the months after the Triskelion his brain had finally had a chance to repair itself. But undoing seventy years of being fried and frozen and drugged had been torture in itself. Each fragment of memory that returned had been preceded by vomit inducing migraines, and followed by bouts of horror and grief so vicious that they left him retching. For months he had existed in a liminal space outside of time, never sure what was the present or past, what was real or imagined. There were so many memories that he wished were imagined. Each time he awoke, sweaty, shivering, covered in his own sick with his head feeling like it was being cleaved in two, he wished for death. At that time, he still hadn't realized that he had free will. Unaware that he could make his own choices. And so, he lived.

Every one of those notebooks contained memories that were hard won. Memories that had almost killed him in their recovery.

Bucky sighed deeply and rubbed at his eyes. A headache brewing. Peter hadn't known him then. Hadn't known that erasing his memories, no matter how well-intentioned, would be the worst betrayal that could possibly be visited upon him.

But even so, now that the shock and the anger had had time to abate, he still cared about the little punk. Bucky rolled the web shooter between his fingers, listening to the liquid within slosh back and forth.

His phone vibrated against the coffee table insistently. Eyes still on the canister between his fingers, he answered.

"Buck." Sam cut him off before he could even say hello, an urgency to his voice, "I can't get in contact with Peter."

Chapter Text

Time had passed in an amorphous blur. An intangible thing that slipped away like water through his fingers, only to stop abruptly and drag past millisecond by millisecond. If it weren't for the time and date showing on his phone, he would have lost track of time altogether. Two weeks of sitting alone, curtains drawn, the line between night and day almost indistinguishable. There was still enough food here to last another two to three weeks. Peter wasn't sure if he could make it that much longer. At least not with his sanity intact.

A track had been worn in the rug where he'd paced back and forth, playing out imaginary scenarios where he had done everything differently. Every different choice splintering into a new and better timeline. But he'd inevitably have to return to this branch of time, this empty apartment that he haunted with his all-consuming regret and guilt.

The only moments of connection and sanity he had were the calls from Sam that came in like a beacon of hope every two days. Their talks gradually extended beyond the perfunctory check-ins. Each call became slightly longer as Peter couldn't stem the flow of words, while Sam listened with patience and offered advice with a calm authority that was like a salve to his tormented mind.

Sam was supposed to call today. Peter checked the time on his phone again, It was a little after two in the morning. He should probably try to sleep a few hours.

Flicking off lights as he went, he headed to the bedroom. The bedside lamp cast a soft golden glow across the room as he flopped down onto the bed face first. He was still fully dressed and on top of the covers, but that was good enough. As his thoughts began to drift away, an irritating, loud rumbling sound dragged him back to consciousness. Face scrunched, he sat up and swung his feet to the floor, heading for the window. Streetlight peeked in through the gap in the curtains as he gently pulled it aside a fraction of an inch. There was a refrigerated truck idling on the street, the driver inside appeared to be fiddling with the GPS. Just a lost driver, nothing to be concerned about. The assurance fell flat. Ever since the second ambush, at Bucky's place, Peter felt like he hadn't been able to trust his spider senses. He could no longer reliably tell between a threat and an every day occurrence.

Hesitating for one moment more, he finally let the curtain fall back into place and turned back to the bed.

Glass shattered. The room filled with smoke. No, not smoke. Gas.

He pulled his t-shirt over his mouth and nose and ducked away from the window. Toxic fog filled the room, obscuring his sight as he scrambled toward the bed where he'd left his phone.  His limbs becoming more ungainly with every second that the gas infiltrated his lungs.

A crash from the front door.  The sound of splintering wood. Followed by heavy feet.

Peter tried to pull himself onto the bed, but his hands grasped weakly, arms too heavy. The room swam and spun around him. He blinked several times, trying to clear his vision. The floor rushed up to meet him and pain lit up the right side of his body as it hit the wooden floor.

A pair of black boots stomped across the room toward him. He groaned, rolling away and trying to get to his hands and knees. But only succeeded in gulping in another lung full of gas and choking on it until he retched.

The boots followed. Then, the man bent down, his face completely obscured by a gas mask.

"Gotcha, ya little insect," the muffled voice said just as the darkness at the corners of Peter's vision spread, overtaking everything and dragging him into nothingness.

****

"…never agreed to this…"

"You know we don't have a ch…"

"…can't let…get hurt…"

The men argued back and forth, voices distant and unclear, not just from the sedative gas, but also the loud rumbling that was vibrating through him. Peter had only just registered that he was freezing cold when the darkness overtook him again.

****

He groaned. A sudden burst of pain shooting through the right side of his face. His eyes wouldn't open.

No. Wait. That wasn't right. They were open, but something was covering them.

He tried to reach up and pull away the cloth across his face. But his hands wouldn't move. There was something cold and hard holding them in place.

The truck jostled on uneven road.

A shiver wracked through him. The cold air chilling him to the bone.

The sound of a radio came through vaguely from somewhere nearby.

"…WKMZ…all the hits…next up…"

Peter tried to concentrate, but his ears began to ring and he was pulled back into unconsciousness.

****

He hit the ground with a thud, the air expelling from his lungs in a pained huff. Right shoulder screaming from the impact. The carpet under him was rough and slightly sticky.

"You don't have to be so rough." A man's voice said in a quiet admonishment.

"Boss just said to bring him in alive, didn't say we had to give him the royal treatment." Another voice answered indignantly.  He knew that voice.  Wechter.  "He's caused us enough trouble, a little roughing up is the least he deserves."

The first man sighed heavily.

“Fine, you deal with him, then.”  Wechter said.

A set of heavy footsteps moved away from him and then a door slammed. Another heavy sigh, this time closer to him.

The dark cloth over his head was yanked away. Peter blinked furiously, trying to adjust his eyes to the fluorescent lighting above him. A man was silhouetted against the light, his features dark and unclear.

"Are you okay?" He asked, pulling Peter up into a sitting position and leaning him against the wall.

Peter took in the man's appearance - brown eyes, sandy brown hair with a little grey at the temples, slender build. He was older than the photos, but it was unmistakably William Sandler. In person he looked even less like his brutish, imposing older brother.

Peter nodded in response to his question, which sent his head spinning. He leaned to the side and retched, the muscles in his abdomen contracting sharply as he struggled to breathe through it. A small trash can was pushed under his face, but the feeling passed.

"You'll probably feel a bit nauseated as the sedatives wear off. Sorry about that. Boss’ orders, didn't want to risk you getting shot again. Sorry about that, too, I guess."

"Right, sure," Peter croaked sarcastically as he straightened himself up and looked around the room. 

It was an office space in what looked to be some type of industrial building. A factory or warehouse, if he had to take a guess. He could hear the distinctive beeping of a reversing truck below. The one he came here in, or another? There was a thick layer of dust covering everything. Some roof tiles had fallen in due to water damage and sat in a misshapen heap on top of the desk. There was a window and door that led to the hall, and a window behind him that must lead outside. Both windows were covered with old newspapers.

Sandler was crouching in front of him now, brow creased. Peter was surprised to see genuine concern in his eyes. His confusion must have been apparent, as Sandler pressed his lips together and rubbed his temples.

"I'm not a bad guy, I swear. I was just trying to-" His mouth snapped shut, perhaps aware that he was about to share too much.

Peter's mind was already racing ahead. Maybe Sandler was being genuine. It was possible that he was dragged into this by his brother, like their mother had suggested. And maybe that was a weak point that Peter could exploit to gain his freedom and bring Wechter down.

His hands were still cuffed - heavy, solid things that spanned from his wrists to halfway up his forearms. A quick inspection and he deduced that they were locked with powerful magnets. He tested them, flexing his arms and trying to pull them away from each other, but they didn't budge. There was rope wound tightly around his ankles too. It was entwined with a shiny thread of what he guessed was vibranium based on the way it reflected the light and had no give to it.

"I'm afraid that you won't be able to free yourself. The cuffs and rope are made specifically for someone with your enhanced strength." Sandler actually sounded somewhat apologetic about it. He grabbed Peter under the arms and hefted him into a steel chair that was bolted to the floor, then began winding another length of reinforced rope around his chest. When the man got to his feet, he looked up at Peter warily. Peter briefly considered kicking him, but quickly discarded the thought. With his hands and torso immobilized and a warehouse that was potentially full of gun welding thugs, there wasn't much point. It would be better to keep Sandler on side.

"I'm not going to try anything, do what you have to," Peter said quietly.

Sandler set to work, quickly untying his ankles and then securing them to the legs of the chair.

"I'll bring you some food and water soon," Sandler said as he tied off the last knot and shuffled across the room. He stopped before exiting and switched on a small radio, tuned to static. Sandler offered him a weak smile, "Can't have you listening in with that super hearing of yours."

Then, the door was shut behind him, the lock clicking into place. Peter could see the vague shape of the man, a dark shadow against the paper covered glass, as Sandler moved back down the hallway.

****

Bucky stood at the shattered window, the early morning sun refracting off the broken shards of glass. The gas canister in his vibranium hand creaked as he held it in a crushing grip.

Sam appeared at his shoulder.

"There's nothing except for his backpack and phone."

Bucky swallowed down the anxiety that was rising like bile in his throat.

They'd already scoured the surveillance cameras of course. The truck was unmarked and had no plates. Bucky had watched as they carried Peter's limp form out to the waiting truck and tossed him into the back. It looked like he was restrained. They wouldn't have to restrain him if he was already dead, he reasoned. Bucky sent a silent prayer to a deity he wasn't even sure existed, that he was right.

He never should have left him here alone.

"Do we have any other leads?" Sam asked him.

Bucky shook his head, jaw flexing, as he pried his fingers out of the twisted metal of the canister.

"I can go back over everything I've already done. There has to be something I've missed. There has to be a record of these guys somewhere - property records, census data, bank accounts, something." He ran a hand through his hair. He felt like pulling it.  Mrs Sandler had been moved the day after Peter visited her, and there was no trace of her left either.

Sam clapped him on the shoulder.

"We'll find something, Buck. We'll get him back."

Sam sounded so sure that Bucky almost laughed. These guys were as good as ghosts, ephemeral, slipping through his fingers like smoke. They turned up out of nowhere, and disappeared back there as easy as breathing. The chances of finding them, without Peter somehow finding a way to escape, were slim to none.

The only other option they had though, was giving up. And Bucky wasn't going to admit defeat.

Bucky turned away from the window, "Thanks for being here, Sam."

"Of course, man."

The way Sam said it, like it was a given, like they were family again, made a lump form in Bucky's throat.

****

While Peter sat alone in the dingy office space, he assessed his situation. There was no way to release the cuffs, but he could still move his elbows, wrists and fingers, so that gave him some dexterity. The chair was reinforced steel, and had been recently bolted into the floor, as evidenced by the wood shavings stuck to the tacky carpet around the bolts. He couldn't move his feet, but could move his thighs and knees from side to side.  The effects of the sedative were burning off fast with his super-paced metabolism, his head clearing more with each passing minute.  The nausea was thankfully receding as well.  

Peter twisted his head as much as he could to try to see the window behind him.  There was a small corner at the bottom where the newspaper had peeled away, and he zeroed in on it, focusing his vision on the small triangle of space.  The light outside was just starting to turn the pale grey of dawn, that moment just before the sun crested the horizon.  It had been just after two AM when he was taken, and he would estimate that he’d been here for about an hour.  So wherever he was must be within about a two hour drive from Queens.  The radio in the truck had been tuned into a local radio station, WKMZ, if he recalled correctly.  That information wasn’t useful to him right now, but it might become important later, if he could find a way to contact someone.  There was no antenna on this radio, so even if could somehow reach it, he wouldn’t be able to find a local station to give him a clue to his whereabouts.

A cold pit dropped into his stomach.  Even if he could contact Bucky or Sam, tell them where he was, would they come for him?  He tried to reassure himself.  Of course they would.  But after what he’d done, he wouldn’t blame them if they didn’t.

It was hard to hear over the static, but he picked up on footsteps approaching, and quickly schooled his face to look disinterested in his surroundings.  The door opened a moment later to Sandler holding a water bottle and a sandwich wrapped in saran wrap.  Before the door closed again behind him, Peter picked up on the sound of voices below, laughing and talking.  It sounded like four, maybe five, men.  He tucked that information away for later too.

Sandler handed him the water first, and Peter fumbled with the cap.  Trying to unscrew it with both of his hands restrained was a little tricky, but when Sandler offered to take it, he shook his head and managed to finally loosen it.  He lifted it to his parched lips with both hands, thankful that at least his arms hadn’t been completely tied down.  The water was cool and sweet and soothed his scratchy throat.

“Here,” Sandler swapped the bottle for half of the unwrapped sandwich.  Peter eyed it cautiously, giving it a sniff.  Sandler held up the other half to show him “It’s just a gas station sandwich, promise it’s not poisoned.  The boss wants you alive, so you don’t have to worry about that.”

Peter took a bite of the sandwich, it was a little soggy, but overall not bad considering he’d been living on rice and canned beans for the last couple of weeks.  

“I thought your brother was the boss?”  Peter said as he swallowed his mouthful of food, and then took another bite.

Sandler’s lips made a thin line, and he shook his head.

“What does your boss want with me?”  Peter asked, stuffing the last corner of bread into his mouth.

“I can’t tell you that.”

“Is that because you don’t know?”

Sandler didn’t answer, just handed Peter the other half of the sandwich and tossed the wrapper into the trash can.

“You don’t have to do this, William.  Your mother thinks that you were dragged into this by your brother.  If that’s true, then I can help you.  My friends will be coming for me, they have connections, they can make a deal with you.”

Sandler huffed a small laugh out of his nose and shook his head.

“Your friends won’t find you.  And there won’t be anyone else who’s looking.  Boss says there’s no record of your existence, but we do know that aside from the Winter Soldier and Captain America, there’s no one who’ll even know that you’re gone.”  Even though the words were said gently, they still hit Peter like a punch to the gut, stealing his breath.  It was true.  If he disappeared for good tomorrow, there would only be two people on earth who even noticed.  He swallowed thickly.

“And what about you?  You don’t seem to exist on paper either.  No property, no records, nothing since you left Stark Industries.  How did you do it?”

Sandler shrugged, "Friends in high places I guess.”

Peter wondered what exactly that meant, but before he could ask any more questions, Sandler spoke again.

“The trash can is here, if you need to be sick, or need to uhhh…use the bathroom,” he said as he moved the small receptacle onto Peter’s lap.  Peter's face scrunched and he looked at the man with obvious disgust.

Sandler just shrugged again.  “Sorry, can’t risk untying you.  You’re a slippery little sucker.”

Peter closed his eyes and breathed deeply.

“I’ll be back later on with some lunch.”

The door clicked shut behind him, lock snapping into place.

Peter looked down at the trash can in his lap and groaned at the indignity.  A small shimmer caught his eye.  A piece of sharp metal lay at the bottom of the trash can.  Huh.  It wouldn't do anything to the cuffs or rope, but it could still be useful.  He looked around the room once more, craning his neck to search every inch for anything that might be able to help him get out of this predicament.  He couldn’t count on winning Sandler over, he needed a back up plan.

He studied the window behind him again.  It was one fixed piece, no way to open it.  Maybe he could smash it, make a run for it?  But as he narrowed in on the small section where the paper was missing, he could now see that he was too high up to jump.  Climbing down these cuffs on wasn’t an option.  And while he’d survive the fall, there was decent chance he’d break one, if not both, of his ankles.  The only door led to where Wechter’s men were, and he couldn’t take them all on while he was restrained.  The ceiling was a no-go, already falling in without any weight on it.    Damn it.

Looking around again, he spotted something in the corner of the room.  An old landline phone jack.  If the lines outside were still connected…  He scoured the room once more, eyes raking over every inch, hoping that he’d somehow missed seeing an old telephone laying discarded somewhere.  He came up empty.  The static from the radio continued its monotonous droning from the window ledge near the door.  The radio.  With the metal shard, he could unscrew the cover and with any luck be able to rig the internal mechanisms and use the numbered buttons and tuning knobs along the top to create a phone patch.  

The only problem was, the phone was across the room and he was tied to a chair that was bolted to the floor.  The wooden floor that maybe wasn’t in the best shape given the water damage in this room.

Using all of his strength, Peter threw himself backwards.  The chair creaked, but hardly moved.  There wasn’t much give to really put his weight or full strength into it, but after what felt like the best part of an hour the chair was starting to rock back and forth a little.  The bolts were beginning to grind away at the weathered floor.  Footsteps came down the corridor toward him again.  He went still, covering the disturbed flooring with his feet as best he could, as the door swung open.

****

“Okay, thanks anyway, man.”  Sam hung up the phone and shook his head, giving Bucky an apologetic look over the desk between them.  They had chosen Sam’s Manhattan apartment as their base of operations, to avoid questions from the rest of the Thunderbolts.  

“Thanks for trying,” Bucky said, visibly deflating at yet another dead end.  Sam had called in all of the favours he had, contacted every high ranking friend.  And nothing.  Not a single trace of Wechter or Sandler was left in any system.  They’d been wiped clean from existence. 

“They can’t have wiped databases themselves,” Bucky mused.  “They have to have help from someone with a high level clearance.”

Sam nodded thoughtfully.  But the fact remained that they had no leads on who that might be.  Another dead end in a series of dead ends.  Bucky leaned his elbows on his desk and pressed his palms to his tired eyes, breathing out slowly through his nose.

“When was the last time you slept?”  Sam asked.

Bucky shrugged.  “Night before last.  Caught a few hours.”

“You really should-”

“No,” Bucky cut him off.  “I’m fine.”  He straightened up and met Sam’s gaze.  “Really,” he said unconvincingly.

They’d been at it all day, not even stopping to eat, just shovelling greasy takeout meals into their mouths as they continued to search for any kind of lead.  It was heading into dusk now, and Bucky knew that Sam was going to try to talk him into giving it a rest for the night, getting some sleep, eating a proper meal.  But he couldn’t do that.  Not when it was his fault Peter had been taken.

Sam was studying his face, assessing.  

“It wasn’t your fault, Buck.”

Bucky looked at him, face set into a disbelieving scowl.

“That safehouse should have been untraceable.  He hadn’t stepped foot outside, hell, he hadn’t even opened a curtain, in two weeks.  There was no way they should have been able to find him.”

“But they did.  And I was the one who cut him off and left him there defenceless.”  Bucky spat back.  He wasn’t angry at Sam.  He was angry at himself.

Sam sighed and rubbed his jaw.

“He’s not a defenceless child.  He’s a young adult with super powers.  He’s fought freaking aliens in space, Buck.  What happened isn’t on you.  You had good reason for the distance.”

Bucky chewed his lip and just shrugged again, sliding down in his seat and resting his elbows on the arms of the chair.

“I think whoever helped these guys disappear also helped them find the safehouse.  It’s the only thing that makes sense,”  Sam continued.

That thought had occurred to Bucky already, leaving an uneasy feeling in his gut.  He didn’t like the thought that someone was able to track him, watch him, know his secrets, without him even knowing.  It shouldn’t be possible.

Every hour that passed without progress made the small light of hope in his chest dim a little more.  By the end of tonight, he was pretty certain that there would be nothing left of it to tide him over til morning.

His mobile phone vibrated against the desk, probably another one of his contacts calling back with another disappointing non-update.  The number was one he didn’t recognise.  That was odd.  He swiped to answer.

****

Sandler bustled through the door with another bottle of water and a wrapped sandwich.  He dragged a cardboard file box across the room and set it on its end next to Peter’s chair, then placed the items on top.  

“Can you reach those?”  Sandler asked him.

Peter frowned, but twisted his arms as much as he could to the side and was able to grasp them both with his fingertips.  

“Good…good.  Okay.  I have to go.”

“Wait!”  Peter called as Sandler was about to leave the room.  

The man turned back, one hand still on the doorknob.  His hair was mussed and there were fine lines of worry radiating from the corners of his eyes.  A coffee stain made a dark splotch down one side of his rumpled shirt.

“When will your boss be here?  I assume that’s why you’re holding me here, right?  So they can come get me or whatever?”

Sandler looked like he was about to say something, then snapped his mouth shut.  Finally, he said, “Tomorrow, maybe.  I’ll be back later.  Just…sit tight.”

Peter rolled his eyes as Sandler left the room.  Sit tight.  As if he could do much else.

However, the fact that his lunch had been delivered hours early and Sandler most likely wouldn’t return until dinner meant that Peter had more time to loosen the chair and get to the radio.  And the way the man looked stressed would hopefully mean that they’d all be too distracted to worry about him, thinking he was securely restrained in a locked room.

Peter counted to a thousand before resuming his efforts, hoping that Sandler was too far away now to hear anything.  Hours of perseverance later, his spine bruised and body aching, he finally felt it.  The bolts in the chair released with a quiet crack and the chair tipped backward.  Peter braced for impact, and the chair hit the ground with a thud, the metal spindles digging into his back as he landed.

He held his breath, listening, waiting.  But no one came.  

Peter writhed around, pushing down with his legs until finally he felt the rope slip over the end of the chair leg and one foot was free.  He used it to help push down the rope on the other leg until it, too, slipped free.  With his legs now free, he pushed against the ground on either side and wriggled his shoulders until he had pushed himself far enough up that the ropes around his chest slipped up over the back of the chair.

Tempted as he was to lay there and revel in his success for a moment, he rolled over and pushed himself up to standing.  The ropes around his ankles and torso were still attached, but a little looser now that he wasn’t strapped to the chair.  He stepped across to the window that faced outside, and peeled back a small section of paper, taking a quick glance to see if there were any identifying landmarks outside that might help give away his location.  Nothing but some scrubby trees and a pile of debris.  

He moved quickly back to the trash can and dumped its contents out on the floor, snatching up the shard of metal and then scurrying over to the phone jack.  With the screws undone and the jack opened, he used the metal to strip the insulation around the wires and touched them together.  A small spark was emitted, the forty-eight volt charge sending a gentle tingling into his fingertips.  Peter breathed a sigh of relief.  The line was still connected.

Now, onto the radio.  He approached it cautiously, hearing attuned to detect any nearby movement.  If he switched the sound off abruptly, the sudden change in noise might alert someone, so he forced himself to turn the volume down slowly, counting to a hundred.  He waited again, breath trapped in his lungs, as he listened.  But there were no sounds of movement in the corridor outside.   

Before he moved away, he took a moment to gently peel back a corner of newspaper on this window to peer outside the office.  It turned out that it wasn’t a corridor outside this room.  It was a raised walkway, looking out over a large warehouse.  He shifted around to see from different angles, taking in as much as he could.  

Three large trucks were visible below, lined up along the opposite end of the space.  The back of one swung open, and a man climbed out.  Before the door swung shut again, Peter caught a glimpse inside.  It looked like a lab.  This was how they’d been avoiding detection.  No one would even think twice seeing one of these trucks parked on the side of a road, or in a carpark.  It was actually kind of genius.  Evil genius, but smart nonetheless.

Focusing back on his task, Peter took the radio over to the phone jack.  With the casing unscrewed and the radio’s guts now exposed, he set about stripping the insulated wires.  The audio leads twisted easily onto the phone jack’s screws.  Green to green, red to red.  Then he crossed the remaining pair to the phone line’s forty-eight volt DC hold, tricking the phone jack into thinking the receiver was off-hook.  He slowly turned up the volume knob and was rewarded with a dial tone.  A few little tweaks and rearranging of components and the on/off button was effectively transformed into a push-to-talk switch.  Now, he just had to rig the numbered buttons along the top to push the signals out.  He looked around for something sticky to hold the nodes in the right places.  

Shit.  There was nothing. He stood, looking down at the contents of the trash can on the floor.  The saran wrap.  He could melt it with the electrical charge from the phone jack.  Once everything was in place, Peter took a deep steadying breath.  Bucky would be able to hear him, but he wouldn’t be able to hear Bucky.  He just prayed that he would answer.  With a trembling finger, he pushed the first digit of Bucky’s phone number.  The radio emitted a corresponding beep. Relief washed through him.  He completed the number and a faint ringing came through the speaker. 

“Pick up, pick up, please pick up,”  Peter breathed.

Bucky answered on the fourth ring.  Peter pushed the talk button and began speaking immediately, rushing to get everything out as quickly as possible before he was caught.

****

Bucky answered, putting the phone on speaker and holding it up between him and Sam.

“Bucky, it’s Peter.”  His voice was hushed.

“Peter, where-”

“You should be able to hear me, god I hope you can hear me.  But I can’t hear you.  Listen, Wechter and Sandler have me held in a warehouse.  It’s about two hours drive from Queens, but I don’t know where.  There was a local radio station on the drive, WKMZ, that should give you an idea of the direction.  This warehouse is big enough for three large trucks to be pulled inside out of sight.  That’s how they’re staying under the radar, the trucks are their labs.  I think there are about five or six of their guys here.  What else…uh, there’s nothing to the west side of this factory that I can see except some trees and a dumping ground with old tires and some building rubble.  I’m being held in an office space on the first floor.  Oh, and they have a boss, someone above Wechter.  They’re coming for me tomorrow…  I have to go before I get caught.  I can’t get out on my own, my wrists are bound with these big-ass magnetic cuffs, and I have no webs, so I can’t fight my way out and there’s no safe way for me to escape.  I hope…I hope that’s enough for you to find me.  Please find me…”

The line went dead.  Bucky and Sam continued staring at the phone as if Peter might somehow magically appear from it.

Bucky met Sam’s eyes and dropped the phone onto the desk with a thud, before frantically pulling up a map of New York state on his laptop screen.  

“Check where that radio station broadcasts,” he ordered Sam.

“Already on it,” Sam replied as he hammered away at his keyboard. 

****

Movements hurried but precise, Peter reassembled the phone jack, then the radio.  He placed it back on the window ledge next to the door, slowly turning the static back up.  Next, he scooped up the trash from the floor and put it back in the trash can, and set the chair upright.  Sitting in the chair, he slid the legs back through the ropes still looped around his ankles, and then pushed the bolts back into their loosened holes, brushing away the wood splinters and dust to make it less obvious.  Next came the hardest part, arching his back and shimming as best he could to slide the ropes around his torso over the back of the chair.  Much wriggling and writhing later, he was once again the model prisoner, sitting carefully restrained in his seat.

The sky outside was dark by the time Sandler returned.  If possible he looked even more stressed and miserable than he did earlier.  He set another bottle of water and a hamburger on the box next to Peter then flopped down on the floor opposite him, back against the wall and head in his hands.

“Everything okay, Mister Sandler?”  Peter asked gently.

Sandler shook his head and huffed.

“Is your name really Parker, or is that just what you told my mother?”  The words were muffled by his hands as he pressed his palms to his eyes and rubbed.

Peter hesitated for a moment.

“You can call me Parker,” he settled on.  Not quite a lie, but not a direct answer either.  “You look stressed.  Criminal life not quite working out the way you’d hoped?”  Peter smiled at him, hoping that it came across as charming rather than offensive.

Sandler glared at him for a second, then a sardonic chuckle burst out of him.

“Yeah, it’s…it's worse than I thought it would be,” he admitted, his face dropping, highlighting the dark circles under his eyes.

“You wanna talk about it?”  Peter offered.

Sandler studied him for a long time before responding.  “It’s a long story.”

Peter shrugged as best he could while tied down.  

“It’s not like I’m going anywhere.”

Sandler shook his head, but a smile tugged up one corner of his mouth.  He didn’t say anything else.

“My offer still stands, you know.  If you want a way out, my friends can help you.”

“I’m not going to turn on my brother.  I owe him.  I’d never…I couldn’t do that to him.”  Sandler’s voice was sure, but weary.  He sighed and let his head fall back against the wall.

Peter just nodded.  The seconds stretched on into minutes before the man spoke again.

“You should really eat something, or drink some more water at least.”

Peter looked at the water bottle beside him.

“Nah, I don’t wanna have to use the trash can bathroom if I can help it.”

A flicker of guilt crossed Sandler’s face and he nodded.

“I’d let you use the bathroom, but I can’t risk you getting away again.  There’s too much at stake now.”  Sandler met his eyes, and Peter almost felt sorry for the guy.  There was so much conflict there, sadness, regret.

“What’s at stake?”  Peter asked, knowing that he wouldn’t get an answer, but aware that if he kept him talking, his exhausted mind might let something useful slip.

“You know I can’t tell you that.”  

“Sure.  Of course.  Don’t wanna get in trouble with the boss.”

The way Sandler’s jaw flexed at the mention piqued Peter’s interest.  That was a sore spot.  He pushed a little further.

“Your boss must be a really good guy if he convinced someone as smart as you to leave Stark Industries and work for him.”

To his horror, Sandler’s lip trembled and his eyes became glossy.  Was he going to cry?  Peter watched intently, waiting with bated breath to see what happened next.

“You wouldn’t understand.  I just wanted to help my family, but it made everything so much worse.  Hurt so many people.”

Peter stared at him, mouth agape, eyes wide and blinking.  Then a bubble of laughter erupted from between his lips.  At Sandler’s glare, he apologised.

“Sorry, I’m sorry,” he caught his breath.  “It’s just, I know exactly how that feels.”

Eye’s wary and a small crease in his brow, Sandler spoke, “You do?”

“Yeah, I really do.  It umm,”  Peter paused, chewing his lip as he sought the words.  “It ruined my whole life.  Hurt people.  It's hard to…forgive yourself for that.”

Sandler nodded, and let out a long shaky breath.

“How do you fix it?” Sandler shook his head, “God, I can’t believe I’m asking a kid half my age for advice.”

“I’ll choose not to take offence to that,” Peter quipped.  He sighed.  It was a question he’d spent the last two weeks obsessing over.  “I guess the only way to fix it is to learn from your mistakes and try to do better.”

Sandler nodded as if Peter had just imparted sacred wisdom, but then his mouth turned down and he frowned at his hands where they hung loosely between his knees.

“What if it’s too late for that?”

“You’re still alive right?”  At Sandler’s confused nod, Peter continued. “So it’s not too late.”

A raised eyebrow and half-hearted nod was all he offered in response, before pushing himself up off the floor and opening the door.  He flicked the overhead light off.

“Get some sleep, Parker.  Big day tomorrow.”

Peter hoped he wasn’t still here to find out what tomorrow was going to bring.