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Bucky has never been a wise man. A wise man would never have lived as long as him; would have lay down and died rather than allowing himself to get wrapped up in all of the world’s blaring issues; would have given up on all of the running and hiding and fighting the moment it became clear how useless it was; would have turned and declared no whenever given the alternative of yes , especially when it posed risk to himself.
A wise man would also not walk towards the strange noises emanating from dark alleyways.
James Buchanan “Bucky” Barnes is not — and never will be — a wise man.
There are many things that can be found in alleyways in the dead of night, of which Bucky is perfectly aware. His mind lists raccoons, squirrels, stray animals, perhaps even the occasional inebriated citizen or member of the homeless population. With so many potentials there should be no reason for him to choose to investigate further, except that he’s only two buildings down from his apartment anyway, and he’s never been one to mind his own business.
Besides, whatever it was sounded like it impacted hard . The silence that had followed immediately after was almost as eerie as the sound itself, though none of the few others who he passed on the sidewalk seemed bothered regardless.
Even with his phone’s torchlight guiding him past the scores of trash cans that line either side of the alleyway, he keeps his footsteps careful and quiet — whether out of habit or caution he cannot say. He listens intently for the slightest shift of movement as the dark slithers at the edges of the white light, waiting until the second it can finally slip behind him and surround him completely. His eyes flit back and forth, searching for any sign of activity, only to finally land on one of the many dumpsters. Turning his light to it, the lid has entirely been bent beyond its intended extremity. The hard plastic is hanging uselessly into the dumpster itself rather than resting on its metal frame, and looking at its shape, it’s heavily distorted with a clear point of concentrated impact.
He’s just about to hang his head over and peek inside when the sound of a harsh breath has his head snapping to the side of the dumpster that faces deeper into the alleyway, just out of his line of sight.
For a moment he doesn’t move beyond tapping blindly at his screen to turn the torch off, allowing the dark to rush in and swallow him like a second skin. When no noise or movement comes in the seconds following, he slowly steps forward, moving himself further towards the opposite wall of the alleyway in case he needs the extra time to react to an attack. As he steps around and spots the hunched figure that’s leaned back against the dumpster, his eyes take their time to adjust to the darkness. It’s just as the figure lets out a low groan and seems to shift in a sign of oncoming consciousness that he catches sight of the way what little light reaches the space reflects sharply off of the metal that covers the entirety of their body. He just barely recognises the contrast of red, gold, and black adorning it before the two lenses on the mask come to life, emitting light that dully illuminates the space before promptly whipping around to lock onto him.
His body seems to twitch at the sight of Bucky standing over him, appearing to register his presence and being unsure whether to wait out his next move or fling himself as far away from him as possible. In the end, neither of them move, but Bucky lets out a sigh as all of the tension in his body eases away. Finally, only when it seems as though the kid has somehow managed to pass out again upright as he is, he speaks.
“You alright, Spider-Man?”
That snaps him right out of whatever trance he’d lodged himself in, giving a slight but forceful shake of his head to clear it. “You’re… Mr. Soldier?”
“Yeah, sure, we’ll go with Mr. Soldier. Does that make you Mr. Man?” Bucky can’t keep back a smirk that stretches unbidden onto his face.
The young hero doesn’t even seem to hear him, staring blankly before looking around him until he finds the back of the dumpster and the brick wall to his immediate right. Placing his hands on it, he appears to try and push himself to his feet, and Bucky is already rapidly stepping forward to catch him when he sways, crumpling with a pained noise. The only thing stopping him from hitting the concrete is the arms that catch beneath his own, supporting his weight entirely.
“Christ,” Bucky murmurs, awkwardly lowering them both until he’s squatting in front of the kid who’s seated and leaning against the side of the building. “Don’t get up, and you didn’t answer my question. Are you alright?”
The question had already pretty clearly been answered if the inability to stand upright was any indication, though he’d yet to hear any complete sentences from the hero yet. And then—
“Oh, you’re bleeding.”
Right there, just barely visible in what little light is spared by the soft glow of the suit’s mask’s lenses, blood flows in small rivulets from a spot where the metal appears to have been slashed clean through just below his ribs on the right side of his stomach. The extent of the injury is difficult to ascertain with the dark and bloody mess the wound has become, but if the way Spider-Man is stiff as a board trying not to move the skin and muscle in the area, it’s of some definite concern.
“I’m…” the hero begins and falters, strained and slurred. “... Karen?”
A female voice joins the alleyway then, and it takes all of a second before Bucky realises that it’s coming from the suit itself.
“Spider-Man has sustained a moderate slash wound on the torso with a depth of roughly one-and-a-half centimeters at its most extreme spanning roughly nine centimeters in length. Other injuries include a mild to moderate concussion, bruising on the right-hand ribs, as well as a sprained right wrist. Blood sugar level is also below eighty, approaching seventy milligrams per deciliter. It’s advised that he receives treatment as quickly as possible.”
Bucky blinks, digesting all of the information that has been spat into his lap, before finally swearing as he raises a hand to tap gently at the side of the kid’s mask. It takes several attempts before he’s certain that the eyes behind it are actually focused on him.
“Alright, are you listening, Spider-Man? I’m gonna move you up to my apartment so we can stop you from bleeding all over this alleyway.” He glances around for a moment; God, he’s out of his depth here. “Can you walk? I’ll help you but if you can at least help me some of the way it’ll mean you can lay down sooner.” Aren’t you not meant to sleep immediately after being concussed? Isn’t that a thing? He’s absolutely the last person who should be dealing with this.
When the kid nods slowly after a long moment, clearly doing his best to process what’s going on, Bucky works quickly on securing an arm around his shoulders and heaving the both of them up. At the kid’s answering grunt in pain he does his best to slow his movements, grimacing as he starts them both forward, practically carrying them both to the mouth of the alleyway and out into the open street. Upon looking around there’s thankfully no one to see the odd sight of an ex-assassin hauling Queens’ well-loved vigilante bleeding and stumbling along beside him before they disappear into a nearby building. The lobby is also blessedly empty, as is the elevator, but with each second that passes he can feel how Spider-Man leans more and more on him for support. By the time he’s unlocking and shoving open the door into his apartment, it’s taking all of his effort to keep the kid in a semblance of an upright position.
Once he’s deposited the kid on the couch he’s instantly moving towards the bathroom and opening the cupboards, grabbing the sole belonging he’s bothered to store there along with a couple of spare towels before moving away. Emerging back into the living room with the first aid kit, the same female voice from before begins again.
“Spider-Man has lost consciousness, but this will be fine until the knife wound is tended to. He will need to be woken again shortly in order to raise his blood sugar to a decent level.”
“Good to know.” Guess you can sleep on a concussion. “... Spider-Man heals fast, right? Does he need stitches?”
“Due to his reduced food intake in the last twenty-four hours his healing factor is significantly less effective. Until he has received nourishment, stitches are necessary to stop the bleeding and begin the healing process.”
Bucky eases the kid up from where he’s laying, placing a pillow under his head before turning his attention to the wound itself. As he uses one of the towels to wipe away as much of the blood without disturbing the wound too much, he continues his questioning.
“Is he wearing anything beneath the suit? This will be easier without it in the way.” At that, the suit instantaneously begins to peel back into itself until he’s suddenly staring at the same face he vaguely remembers those few months back at the final battle against the Mad Titan. “Alright then. Okay.”
He’s wearing casual clothing, though the light grey shirt is sliced through and stained in deep red. He raises the hem so it’s sitting just above the wound before dabbing at it again. Clear now is that the wound could certainly be a lot worse; if it were any deeper it may have posed more risk of complications. However, most unpleasant is the length of it as it almost perfectly follows the line of his ribs.
Bucky quickly gets to work cleaning the wound, and the voice — Karen, based on the name the kid mentioned earlier — remains quiet. The stitches aren’t perfect, and he mentally apologises to the teen for any added discomfort it will inevitably cause him, but when he ultimately ties it and it holds, he sits back from where he’s been kneeled on the floor with a sigh.
By the time he’s cleaned himself up and left the bloodied towels on the bathroom floor for him to deal with later, Karen has reminded him to get the kid’s glucose levels up. A minute later and he’s gently shaking him by the shoulder, trying not to jostle his abundance of injuries. It takes progressively forceful attempts before finally he stirs, scrunching his brow until his eyes open to stare at the ceiling of the dim room. His gaze turns to the man that stands over him then, and before the confusion can fully settle in and inspire panic, Bucky is already interrupting his thoughts as he holds up two soda cans.
“Coca Cola or Pepsi?”
The kid stares at him for a minute, clearly taken aback even as his muddled mind works overtime to puzzle together his immediate surroundings. Bucky remains patiently quiet until, finally… “Coca Cola…?”
He places the can into the teen’s uninjured hand, all the while ignoring the searching look this earns him. “Drink, then try and change into the shirt above you on the armrest... Let me know if you need help. After that you can sleep; blanket’s on the floor beside you.” Turning on his heel he starts eagerly for the kitchen as an approximation of escape, already lifting the opened leftover Pepsi can and taking a sip. He stops for a moment, thinking, turning back around to find the kid still staring after him. “Karen’s with you if you want to ask what’s been going on, by the way.”
He glances at his can, then gingerly turns to look at the shirt behind him, before finally turning his gaze back on Bucky. “I... Thank you, Mr. Barnes.”
It’s Bucky’s turn to be taken aback, blinking down at the boy before giving a sharp nod and turning to retreat once again. “Sure kid.” Guess there’s no more Mr. Soldier.
His motions are aimless as he wanders around the kitchen, avoiding the living room but still nearby in case the young hero needs him in some way. Eventually, not long after changing into the shirt Bucky had left for him, he hears him settle back into the couch cushions and drift off easily once again. It urges a breath out of him that he hadn’t realised he’d been holding, and when he finally slips his phone from his pocket and glances at the lock screen he’s surprised to find that it only reads 2:17AM.
He checks in with Karen after fifteen minutes have passed, and he’s thankful to hear that the kid’s glucose levels have improved and are no longer of concern until the morning. On her advisal he sets a plate of what little assorted fruit he keeps in the apartment by the couch before finally pulling out one of the kitchen barstools and slumping into it heavily.
Night strolls are a distraction — a chance to take in the city without the concern of crowds and traffic and light and noise . It’s quiet, save for the few brave enough to face the less central New York streets when night falls, and even then they keep to themselves, never sparing a glance to other passersby.
Figures that the night the ghosts that flit in and out of the edge of his vision became especially prevalent he’d end up heaving around an armful of a bloody and beaten spider-themed superhero only to house the damn guy. The shades are still there, though the drumming white noise they brought is almost to the point of becoming unnoticeable.
Bucky doesn’t even notice when his head sinks to his arms on the marble countertop, his mind switching off in its entirety for the first time since that day those fated words had been driven from his psyche for good. He sleeps, and he does not dream.
When he awakes some hours later, light is already pouring through the windows, and he may have forgotten what had happened the previous night if not for the state of the couch. The red fleece blanket he’d offered the kid is kicked to one end, and the plate of fruit he’d set out has been picked clean save for a single pear. It’s only then that he realises the kid himself is nowhere to be seen, though it doesn’t take him long to piece it together when he notices the window that’s been left open by an inch.
Bucky hardly spares a moment getting to work putting everything back into order, though he can’t help the trace of amusement that follows him through each room. Oddly enough, it’s the most lived-in he’s seen the space since he first set foot in it.
Bucky, perhaps foolishly, had thought that would simply be the end of it. Life goes on as usual following the incident, though he finds himself keeping an eye on the news for any mention of the hero — even going as far as to keep tabs on the various social media accounts that regularly update when and where he’s spotted throughout the evening. He’s relieved when the kid maintains a consistent presence in his activities, since it at least means he’s not landed himself in another alleyway somewhere. When he recounts what’s unfolded since his last session to Dr. Raynor just two days after the surprise spider sleepover, she merely notes something down with a bemused look before they return to the usual song and dance of probing questions and consequent emotional avoidance.
It takes three days for the monotony to end, shattered at the simple sound of a short rap on his window that leads out to the fire escape straight ahead of him from where he’s been sitting on the hardwood living room floor. He’s snapping to attention at a moment’s notice, filing through where each weapon is hidden in the closest rooms — bat in the couch cushions, tactical knife strapped to the bottom of the kitchen cutlery drawer, another knife in the cupboard below the bathroom sink that’s strapped to the back of the exposed piping.
When he catches sight of further movement in the window, too dark during nightfall to properly make out, he leaves no time to think as he pushes himself to his feet, the television remote in hand. He adjusts his grip as he silently approaches, craning his neck in an attempt to get a look at where the person behind the noise may be hiding. He takes an even breath and then raises one hand to the window frame, every sense alert as the latch flips and he slowly pushes it open no more than an inch. His voice is steady as he speaks.
“It would be really nice if the intruder outside my window were to escort themself to the nearest police station rather than make me drag them down there myself.”
Shuffling quickly follows, and as a figure drops suddenly in front of the window, Bucky is already throwing it open the rest of the way while he pulls back his other arm — still clutching the television remote.
“Wait—!”
He swings down, but where he’d expected impact, the motion comes to a sudden and complete stop. Blinking, he notices the hand that has darted out to wrap around his metal wrist, and following the arm to the body, his eyes meet a familiar pair of blue glowing lenses.
“... Spider-Man?”
“What’s up, Mr. Barnes! … Were you trying to hit me with that T.V. remote?”
He quickly withdraws his arm, the kid’s hold on him sliding away easily as he does. Bucky stares at the hero, exasperated, then lets out a low breath as he allows the tension to slide away.
“What are you doing here, kid?” Because he isn’t quite over the irritation of the hero getting the drop on him as easily as he did that first time in Germany. “Also, hasn’t anyone told you it’s unsettling to creep around outside people’s windows in the middle of the night?”
At least the kid has the decency to look sheepish at that — or as sheepish as once can while their every facial feature is covered. “Sorry, I just swung over here and windows are usually more convenient for me.” Holding up the arm he hadn’t used to stop Bucky’s attack, he shows a white plastic bag. “I brought food, though!”
“... Okay. Any particular reason?”
“I kind of ran out so I wouldn’t worry my aunt before I could thank you for helping me after I got stabbed and all, and I’ve felt guilty about it since but May made me stay home for a while because of the concussion so she wouldn’t even let me come and apologise for that, but I’m healed enough now that I convinced her to let me patrol so I came here straight away but I thought some takeout might help make it up to you for how rude that was of me.”
Bucky doesn’t interrupt the flood of words, instead bracing himself as the kid finally sucks in a breath only to continue.
“I didn’t know what kind of food you’d like so I just got a bit of everything, but if there’s anything you don’t want then I could take it back— no, wait, that’s rude of me too, of course you can keep the food if you want, I’m sure you’d be able to think of something to do with it! Anyway, yeah, I’m sorry, thank you for helping me out, uh… Here—” he places the bag down on the windowsill between them “—I’ll just head back now. I hope you enjoy it, and your night, and… Yeah.” Just as the hero stands stiffly and spinning to the railing of the fire escape, Bucky peeks into the bag. Before he can think better of it, the words are already out of his mouth.
“Hold it, Spider-Man.” The kid practically jolts to a stop, turning to look at him uncertainly. “I’m not about to turn down the offer of free food, but there’s no way I’m going to be able to eat all of this on my own.” He glances between the bag of takeout containers and the hero who has yet to move an inch. Internally he’s ripping his hair out at what he’s about to do, but all his body manages is a slight twitch of his fingers where they’re holding the plastic. “Come in, and close the window behind you. It’s cold out.”
He moves away from the window, picking up the bag as he does, headed to round the kitchen counter. A part of him is satisfied when he hears the soft sound of the kid stepping into the apartment and the consequent dull scrape of wood as the window slides down into place.
Bucky flips the light on as he begins to lay out the assortment of boxes, each labeled with a different store and description of contents. Opening his cutlery drawer and procuring two sets of knives and forks, he offers a pair to the kid before grabbing blindly for one of the boxes and pulling up a bar stool for himself. “Sit down and dig in; after the state you were in last time I saw you, I’m going to assume right and say that you could use some food in you.”
The young hero doesn’t hesitate to comply, dragging up the chair on the other side of the countertop before likewise grabbing a box. Bucky doesn’t comment when the only part of his mask to recede is the area below his nose — even if there’s no secret identity to be had between the two of them, he can understand the comfort he might find in keeping the mask on.
Silence settles over the two of them, and over the next few minutes it only becomes increasingly uncomfortable as the kid seems to glance around the room or up at Bucky between every bite. Typically it wouldn’t have bothered him, but the fidgety nature of the boy in front of him is almost painfully infectious. Finally, for both of their sakes, he elects to interrupt it before it’s rooted too deeply into his nerves.
“So,” he starts, prodding his fork back into his container of chicken balti, “am I allowed to know how you ended up in that alleyway or should I consider that one a timeless mystery?”
Spider-Man visibly stares at him for a moment before he seems to shake himself and think. “I mean, the concussion kind of messed with my head a bit, but Karen said that I apparently passed out mid-swing and then hit my head when I landed in a dumpster.”
Bucky gives him a searching look as a theory meanwhile begins to gather. “Was the passing out related to the stab wound or the blood sugar?”
An unsure noise in response, interrupted by the AI’s voice chiming in. “The loss of consciousness was in fact related to the low glucose levels.” Spider-Man visibly flusters as he quickly takes another two bites of his beef chow mein.
Bucky nods, keeping his expression neutral as he not-so-subtly shifts a couple of the takeout boxes closer towards the teen. He pushes his hunch aside for the time being. “The stab wound been causing you any trouble? I’m surprised you’re swinging around on it already.”
Spider-Man hurries through his mouthful, nodding through each chew before replying. “It’s been fine! Thank you so much, seriously. It’s practically already healed. If you hadn’t done those stitches it probably would’ve taken a lot longer to heal; I’m not the best at stitching myself up. It at least would’ve been a lot more painful to go out there if I’d done them myself.”
“You still would’ve gone out if you weren’t healing properly?” Bucky doesn’t even realise he’s asked the question until it’s already out — something that’s seemingly become a pattern for the night. He clamps his mouth shut as he observes the way the kid shifts slightly in his seat under his gaze.
“Everything’s kind of…” He stops, seeming to search for words. Bucky is patient as he does so, merely returning to his food in the meantime. “It’s not been that long since… since the Blip. Still so much has to be put back into order and readjusted to account for the reappearance of what, like four billion people? Everyone’s been so busy getting things like the economy and governmental powers back up and running that it’s like everyone’s forgetting the people themselves.” He twirls his fork absentmindedly between his fingers. “People are really desperate right now, and that sudden lack of stability in their lives is driving some of them to do some really dangerous things. It doesn’t help that the waitlists for every therapy office and psychiatrist in New York are about three or four years long right now. Police already have their hands full, and besides, I wouldn’t trust them to handle some of the people I’ve had to take on without immediately resorting to extreme violence and getting someone hurt or killed. Right now I’m the closest thing the immediate community has to a support structure. That’s also kind of how I ended up branching out to patrolling Brooklyn rather than just Queens; the more area I can cover, the more people might be able to put trust in their situation, I guess.”
Bucky’s first thought is he reminds me of Steve . He shoves it firmly aside at the instant swell of emotion it drags up.
His second is: “And yet the Daily Bugle acts like you go around pushing over old ladies for fun.”
It elicits a surprised snort from the young hero, bringing a sliver of humor to Bucky’s chest in kind. The two of them tuck into the food again, finishing off their respective containers before promptly reaching for the next. They’re already halfway through before Spider-Man finally asks a question of his own.
“Is it true King T’Challa gave you that arm?” At Bucky’s answering nod the boy leans eagerly forward. “It’s made out of vibranium right? God, that’s so cool. I mean, I thought your last one was cool too! But— Nevermind, how strong is it? How much can you lift with it?”
As they eat through the rest of their food, Bucky provides all the answers he can. The hero appears to properly come out of his shell as he rambles on about the capabilities of vibranium. He doesn’t understand half of what he’s saying, especially as he moves on to talking about aspects of his own suit, but Bucky listens all the same. When he runs out of steam, he would merely ask him a question about something he’d said that he didn’t understand, promptly reigniting the rush of words.
“Oh shi— uh, no . I’ve been here a while. Uh…” the kid looks from where he’s pulled out his phone and back up to Bucky. “I’m so sorry for taking time out of your night Mr. Barnes, sir. I really should get to patrolling, but thank you again, really—”
Bucky holds up a hand as he begins to slide from his seat, stopping him. “Hold up. You didn’t ‘take time out of my night’ because I offered in the first place. Now hand me your phone for a second.” The kid hesitates for just a short while before handing it off slowly into his waiting palm. Bucky quickly opens his contacts list, ignoring the way the hero is trying to stand taller to see what he’s doing with it. He shoves it back towards him after a few seconds of tapping at the screen. “My personal number is in there now. If you ever need anything, feel free to ask or just drop by the apartment. If you’re going to be out there every night then you might as well have an insomniac on your side in case of emergency.”
The kid is quiet, staring down at the new contact entry. Bucky watches as his breath hitches for a split second, almost imperceptible if not for his attentiveness. Before he can begin to question it, he’s already composing himself, taking another few seconds to raise his head and meet his eyes.
“Thank you, Mr. Barnes.” His voice is almost startlingly serious — a far cry from the anxiousness and stumbling words he’s become used to over the course of the impromptu dinner.
“It’s nothing.” He slips from his own seat, already rounding the counter towards the fire escape window as the kid falls into step behind him. “You can stop thanking me now, by the way. I would have been the biggest jackass of the century if I’d have left Queens’ beloved spider-hero in an alleyway.”
“I… Sure, okay. Oh! Uh, before I go, I should properly introduce myself. I’m Peter Parker.” He reaches a suited hand out. Bucky meets it with his own.
“Call me Bucky, kid. Or Mr. Soldier — I got a good kick out of that one.”
Bucky can practically see the exact second that embarrassment sets in, though it’s instantly deflected as he turns away to open and climb through the window. “If I said that when I was concussed then I don’t remember it, so no one will believe you if you ever bring it up! Just saying.”
Oh, this little asshole . “Yeah whatever, just don’t be a stranger, Mr. Man .”
“What was that?” Spider-Man throws himself from the fire escape, a string of web shooting ahead of him as he starts off down the street. “I can’t hear you, I’m too busy swinging away!”
He gives a short shake of his head and sighs, pulling the window back down. Bucky debates whether to flip the lock down or not for an instance, deciding finally to leave it unlocked. Just in case , he tells himself. No one ever uses the fire escape anyway.
Later, with a single blanket pulled over him as he lays sleepless on his floor with nothing but the many lights of Brooklyn beyond his apartment walls to cast a dull glow on his ceiling, he opens his eyes to the sound of a chime. Turning his phone on to look at the lock screen, where he may have expected to see another futile attempt from Wilson to get a response out of Bucky, he instead is met with an unknown number. Opening the message, he takes in the single image he finds there.
It’s a shot of New York’s cityscape from high above, the many lights acting as a backdrop where Spider-Man himself is in the centre of the image, holding a peace sign up to the camera.
Bucky sends two simple emojis — a spider and a highrise building — before placing it aside once again and closing his eyes.
Over the next few weeks, Bucky sees a lot more of the hero than he would have anticipated. Though he’s never as beat up as he was that first time, occasionally Peter will climb in through his window with one injury or another, asking if he can use his first aid kit. After the first two times, Bucky gives up even putting it away, storing it beside the television cabinet for him to use at will. He never asks for help with fixing himself up, even when the injury has him straining his arms to reach it properly. However, Bucky also never intervenes, unwilling to push the fine boundaries that have fallen into place between them.
He’s also gotten used to ordering more whenever he gets food delivered to the apartment. Sometimes he gets lucky and Peter will show up on those nights, but more often than not he’ll stash away whatever he doesn’t eat into the fridge, ready to be heated up the next time the kid finds his way in. Good thing that, because the hero has never declined the offer of food, and Bucky learns to recognise if he’s still hungry when he’s finished a serving and simply not asking for more or if he genuinely has eaten enough.
He comes to a conclusion after some time spent with the boy: the issue isn’t necessarily the food, or even the eating. Rather, it’s something he’s all too familiar with — how grief can skew your list of priorities, or distract you from the things that your body is trying to tell you it needs altogether. Peter’s metabolism is already far faster than the average human’s, and combine that with skipping meals, it’s not difficult to piece together how he managed to pass out during his patrol. However, it’s not his place, and he knows that the most he can do is try and prevent it from happening again on his side of things and hope that he’s getting more hands-on support elsewhere.
Conversation also becomes routine, either over microwave heated Chinese food or as Peter distracts himself from whatever pain he’s causing himself while he tries to tend to his wounds. It always starts with the kid recounting all that has unfolded since last they saw each other, spanning his time as both civilian and superhero. Bucky listens and learns about him over the weeks, filing every scrap of information away into the most recent mental cabinet drawer labeled Spider-Man . He learns that his guardian is his aunt, May, though he never mentions other family members. The kid has two best friends, Ned and Michelle — the latter of which goes by MJ — who all go to the same high-end STEM school in Midtown, Queens. Predictably, he likes science, and he’s a member of his school’s academic decathlon team.
He finds that Peter especially enjoys speaking about the people he loves in his life, never failing to bring up anecdote after anecdote of moments he’s shared with any one of them. Discussion of his superhero activities always revolves around recent work — muggings and theft and apparently even crime families.
A list of subjects to be avoided also begins to take shape, however. He gleans from how the kid will go out of his way to not mention Thanos or the Battle of Earth that they’re not easy for him to talk about. For the better , he thinks, I don’t think I’m ready to talk about that with a random kid yet either . He safely assumes that asking about any potential parents is out of the question entirely, and most certainly does not think about asking about Stark.
He doesn’t know much of the pair, but he’d seen Peter’s reaction after the man had used the gauntlet, and then even later his complete avoidance of everyone at his consequent funeral. Something tells him he’ll never understand entirely what kind of relationship they had, especially when the image he can’t erase of the man just cannot feasibly match up with the kid that has somehow wound up getting him to say more in a single night than he has in all of his sessions with Raynor combined.
(Raynor, of course, has been having a field day with the knowledge of Spider-Man’s continued presence in his life. Every session now starts with Peter, of all things. Surprisingly, he doesn’t find it nearly as hard to speak about the kid than the nightmares, of which remain, yet have begun to seem far less larger-than-life than they once did.)
Occasionally Peter will ask Bucky about his life as well. There are many details he omits, primarily surrounding the notebook that’s always tucked close in a back pocket and his ongoing efforts to make amends with his past, but there are some that he’s transparent about. He tells him about his pardon from the federal government concerning his time as the Winter Soldier, as well as the court-mandated therapy sessions he attends that are “supposed to ensure he’s not going to go all John Wick the next minute someone breathes wrong around him, or something.”
Thankfully, Peter appears to have his own understanding of topics that are better left untouched. He never asks about his time in HYDRA, doesn’t bring up the fact that he very clearly chooses to sleep on the floor, and seems to pick up on his refusal to bring up Steve.
A deep pit of betrayal, so unfair and yet fracturing him in half every time he merely thinks about his friend, thinks about what he did, why he left —
Beyond that, there’s no limit to his questions, and Bucky will rattle off the answers without much in the way of hesitation. While he’s never known how to interact with kids, Peter leans far more into his maturity than what he’s used to seeing in teenagers. It shows in the way he structures each sentence; in the way he approaches a new topic — whether he understands it or not; in his eyes, which are wise beyond their years in a way that’s reminiscent of all the men he once fought alongside during the war. It makes him wonder just to what extent do the people who aren’t familiar with the boy in his everyday life underestimate him, when every innocent question he asks always seems to lead to something more , such as the one he’s just been posed.
“You’re not really one for decorating, huh?”
The pair are once again sat at the kitchen countertop, both of them tucking into the Subway sandwiches Bucky had delivered to the apartment not long before Peter had crawled in — no injury; it had also become a common occurrence that the kid would show up purely for the sake of stopping in a couple of times a week, always alerting Bucky over text of his plan to visit beforehand.
He shrugs, still staring down at his sandwich. “Guess not. I’m used to having to constantly be on the move. Removes the motivation to make it look nice.”
Peter seems to ponder this for a moment, his brow dipping thoughtfully where he’s completely retracted the mask into the neckline of his suit. After the first week the hero had long grown comfortable being unmasked around Bucky — a choice that he would never admit brought a sense of comfort and contentment to him as well.
“Are you still running?”
The question causes Bucky to stop chewing altogether, raising his gaze to meet the kid’s own. He’s surprised to find that he’s almost unreadable, face neutral as he pulls down the branded wrapping paper around his sandwich. He finishes his mouthful slowly, looking for any hint at what the kid is trying to get at.
“What?”
Peter seems to find something in his expression that he hadn’t managed to keep hidden, because something flickers through his eyes faster than Bucky can identify it.
“Well, it’s just that if you’re not on the run anymore, I don’t think it’s too late to start giving your place some more… character?” He shrugs then, nonchalant. “Who knows, it might help.”
Help what? Bucky first wonders, wishing more than ever he could read peoples minds. After a few more seconds, what Peter said really sinks in, settling an idea that he’s understood ever since his pardon, yet somehow not quite come to terms with.
He isn’t running anymore; he doesn’t have to treat every second spent without an armed force behind his door as a blessing.
… Huh.
“Maybe I should.”
Peter smiles at that in a way that’s far too self-satisfied for Bucky’s liking, but before he can say anything about it, the boy is shoving the last part of his sandwich into his mouth and moving to stand. “Patrol time! Thanks for the food, Mr. Barnes!”
He barely gets the chance to yell after him “I’ve told you to call me Bucky, Parker!” before he’s already out of the window, the telltale creaking of metal the only indication that he’s already launched himself from the fire escape to tackle the rest of New York for the night.
When he wakes up the next morning, it’s to the sight of a small potted plant sitting on his windowsill. The tag in its soil reads peace lily , and among its green leaves he plucks out a torn bit of white paper.
Never too late to start! So why not here? – P
Over the next month, the Barnes residence begins to take new form. Bucky places the peace lily on the table beside the couch where it would get plenty of light, though none that would be direct enough to burn its leaves. He expects that to be the end of it, until Peter sees it for the first time, in which his smile turns proud and knowing, and yet plays painstakingly dumb about.
Within the first week of owning the peace lily, Bucky ends up in possession of three more houseplants and a matching pair of dinosaur salt and pepper shakers — “Two dinosaurs for the living fossil! You’re practically family! … Oh come on, I thought that one was clever.”
Within the second, the hero has decided to push his luck and gone as far as to leave a Spider-Man themed doormat in the hallway to his apartment which reads Swingin’ in! as well as provide him with two separate Spider-Man posters. He doesn’t put them up on the walls, but he stashes them away in the bedroom for safe-keeping.
By the time Bucky finally relents and purchases a couple of paintings to hang in the living room and kitchen, the punk has practically decorated the place for him. He crowds his kitchen window with the plants that require more light, while those that thrive in the shade sit on any flat surface he can make room on and in his west facing window sills.
It does help , he finally thinks as he sits alone on the armrest of the couch one day, taking in all that has been added to the space and comparing it to the mental image of where it had once started. He’s surprised by the effect it has, when he wakes up every day and doesn’t feel quite as trapped. Rather than an escape, it begins to feel something like the home he hasn’t had since he was just a child himself, a notion of which that nourishes a seed of warmth in him that he doesn’t quite recall the origins of. As each day goes by, that warmth begins to produce from it a soft flicker of flame.
The only thing to pull his attention from marveling at the room is the knock at his window. He does not hesitate to answer the call.
Peter has never phoned Bucky before. They’ve only ever communicated by way of text, and even then it’s only in the evenings to let one or the other know if they have plans and have to skip patrol (in Peter’s case) or dinner (Bucky’s, though he’s always left the apartment window unlocked in case of emergency).
It’s the middle of the day, and Bucky is staring down at his phone where Peter’s contact is alight on the screen. Peter. Calling him.
He tries to remember back, struggling to recall if the kid gave any explanation of why he might have wanted to call him today. Nothing comes to mind though, and it only serves to exacerbate the stream of ever-concerning scenarios that are playing out behind his eyes. With dread pooling in the space below his heart, he answers on the fourth ring.
“Parker?”
“Mr— Bucky, can you come get me?”
The dread sinks deeper, deeper, deeper still at the shakiness in the kid’s voice, and he’s already starting for the bedroom to get his jacket that still has the keys to his motorcycle in its pocket. “Are you in Queens?”
“Yes.”
Bucky grimaces at the way his voice hitches, jogging back through the apartment the way he came towards the entrance as he shrugs the jacket on.
“Okay Peter, get Karen to send me your address, and stay on the phone with me if you can. Are you safe?”
“Yes.” Clipped reply again, but it’s far better than none at all. His phone pings, and bringing it away from his ear, he sees an address has already been sent from Peter’s phone. He copies it into his maps and sets it to give directions before he’s putting the phone on speaker. He’s already halfway out of the building and headed for the motorcycle in the resident parking area when he hears his voice again. He can’t make it out, too quiet for the phone to properly pick up.
“Peter?”
“... I think she’s dead.”
His blood runs cold. Instantly he’s thinking about the kid’s aunt, his friend, anyone he might have brought up in the past that he could have been with. The bike engine roars to life as he navigates his way to the main street. “Are you hurt, Peter?”
“No,” the reply comes, “but…”
“Kid, I’m on my way now, and you’re on speaker. Can you hear me?” His voice is almost a yell over the sound of the air rushing past him and the traffic he weaves himself in and out of. He ignores the copious car horns that he leaves in his wake
“Yeah.”
“Good, okay, now can you tell me what happened?”
He does, falteringly and shaky, but eventually the picture begins to take shape.
It was a mugging gone wrong — the victim was shot when he got spooked by Peter trying to step in as his civilian-self after he heard the altercation while walking back to his apartment from school. He had to wait with the victim to press down on the wound until paramedics arrived when another bystander heard the gunshot, investigated, and called it in. Peter had run off the moment she was being lifted into the ambulance out of sheer panic and distress, and hadn’t returned to his own apartment due to his aunt working longer hours in the afternoons. I really don’t want to be alone, I’m sorry. As more of the story was slowly unveiled to him, the more traffic laws Bucky broke to reach him.
While his navigator told him it would be a forty minute drive, he manages to cut that time in half, all the while the voice in his head chants too slow, not fast enough, goddamnit all. He does his best to encourage Peter to keep speaking, resorting to asking him about things that happened at school that day — asking about Ned and MJ and decathlon practice and homework, anything to get him to hold it together just long enough for him to get there.
And then eventually when he’s finally pulling up to the location his map had indicated, he lets out a breath at the sight of the kid sitting on the curb. He’s seated outside of a small bodega place, hand gripping his phone close to his chest when he looks up at the approaching rumble of his bike. Even from the street he can see that his hands are visibly stained red, and that ache tears through his chest in a single instant.
Bucky has just enough time to haphazardly pull into the empty space and put it in park when the boy is already clinging to him. He freezes instinctively, the sudden pressure around him unexpected in a variety of ways.
The two of them hadn’t even surpassed a handshake, let alone a hug … and yet, somehow, he finds that he doesn’t mind.
Shit , the voice speaks again, maybe Raynor had a point about this kid.
When he folds his own arms around the boy, they’re strong and protective. It’s this that marks the exact moment where the kid crumples completely against his chest, shoulders beginning to shake as silent sobs wrack his body.
Peter holds onto him, and Bucky doesn’t plan on letting him go.
They make a surprising pair — the ex-brainwashed assassin and the teenage superhero with his own share of horror stories — but not a single part of him thinks they aren’t better off for it.
Even later, when he’ll confront Wilson, witness the rise, fall, and reprise of the new Captain America, and eventually see the kid’s face plastered on every screen across the country, he’ll never stop thinking of the teenager as anything less than the lionheart he’s come to know the boy to be.
And on that day when the world turns on its most loyal hero — when the knock on his window rings through his apartment with such desperate urgency he fears it might shatter — he’ll always answer his call.