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As much as Sam loves his family, he’s grateful when presented the opportunity to have some time away. Since filling the shoes of Captain America, everyone has had a lot of questions for him, many of which he’s not always entirely sure how to answer. Bucky sticking around had made it more bearable, always a constant presence at his side and offering his silent support. With every day that passed, it dawned on him just slightly more what the expectations of him would be and just how grand a role he was taking on. And yet, while the stress was sure to catch up with him eventually, it’s that same presence that keeps him grounded and confident despite.
After a few days spent in Louisiana, he finally concedes to attending the countless inevitable meetings concerning national security, and likely more than a handful of international powers, in order to revise his status on paper.
However, as Bucky points out with a light punch to the shoulder, all of the finer details can afford to wait just a bit longer. The first night the pair arrive back in New York, he offers to let him crash at his apartment in Brooklyn and recoup somewhere quiet for a while before tackling the bigger fish. The knowing look the other man hadn’t quite been able to hide in that instance had reflected back at Sam all of the obvious signs of exhaustion he’d slowly begun to exhibit over the last few days. After dealing with the Flag Smashers, that alone would take a toll on someone, and combining that with the tense position of one of the world’s most renowned hero monikers, Sam isn’t ashamed to admit that he’s moments away from slumping against the nearest wall at all times.
As the pair make it to the apartment door, he finds himself looking down instinctively as a bright red and blue catches his eye. The sight has him suppressing a snort — unsuccessfully so, if the way Bucky whips around to look at him confusedly is anything to go by. He follows Sam’s gaze, glancing down to see the red and blue clad figure of Spider-Man plastered onto a doormat with the words Swingin’ in! taking up the space beside him in a large comic book font.
“Wouldn’t have taken you for a big Spider-Man fan.”
Bucky lets out a sigh as he extracts his key from his pocket, though it’s clear that there’s no real annoyance behind it. “Friend gave it to me, or rather, planted it out here for me to find while I wasn’t around.”
“Oh, you have friends that aren’t me?” Sam snickers, pairing a shit-eating grin with a raised eyebrow. If he were anyone else, he’s sure Bucky would have wiped the floor with him without hesitation.
Bucky pushes open the door, letting them inside with an amused huff. “Surprise, I’m not as big of a social hermit as you imagined.”
Sam takes in the apartment, noticing its sparseness of furniture beyond the television cabinet, couch, and a small side table. “Man, you could use a rug in here; something to fill in some of the space.”
He gets a neutral shrug in response. “I’m not big on interior decorating.”
Sam tucks the information away for later, already considering what furniture could be added to the room to compliment the exposed brick feature wall behind the television. “Well, the houseplants are a nice touch... How did they even survive while you were gone all that time?”
Bucky moves for the small kitchen space, waving to him to sit down at one of the bar stools opposite the countertop. “Friend stopped in and watered them a couple of times.”
“Generous friend,” Sam points out, skeptical as he sits himself down.
The other man nods, but turns from where he’d had his head ducked into the fridge to give him a pointed look — nothing sharp about it, merely firm. “And able to be trusted. I know the guy, he wouldn’t hurt a fly.”
On purpose , Sam’s mind murmurs, surprising even him. He wouldn’t deny that he cares about his friend’s safety and security, but the outright protectiveness of it takes it just a step further. It’s wholly unexpected, leaving him floundering for an acceptable response before he settles on a single, slow nod. This seems to satisfy him as Bucky returns to the fridge, procuring two Miller Lites before sitting across from him and sliding one over.
He quickly forgets about the moment as they fall into easy conversation, both of them carefully avoiding any mention of work entirely if they can help it. They discuss their plans for the coming weeks, with Bucky returning to his usual routine of sessions with Dr. Raynor while Sam considers when he might next be able to visit his family.
At one point, as the sun begins to set while they silently occupy the space together, Bucky pulls out his phone, seeming to read something before tapping away. While Sam can applaud the man on his ability to have adapted to such a technologically advanced world after decades of limited exposure, he always finds himself on the verge of either laughter or a groan at how he types with the speed he’d expect of any elder. As he watches him now, the phone tilted deliberately towards him in a way that means Sam can’t get a glimpse at what he’s doing, he’s leaning towards the latter.
When he finally sets the phone down and meets Sam’s curious gaze, he gives no explanation, instead taking a swig of the rest of his beer, effectively draining the rest of the bottle of its contents. Sam rolls his eyes and does the same, placing the empty bottle aside before checking his watch.
“If it’s all good with you, I think I’m gonna turn in. Got any spare blankets laying around here somewhere?” He swivels the stool until he can slide off, stretching slightly as he does so.
“Yeah, I do. You won’t need them though, you’re taking the bed and I’m on the couch.” When Sam blinks at him from across the counter, mouth opening to reject the idea, Bucky beats him to it as he too drops out of his seat. “This isn’t a discussion, Sam. Besides, it’s one night, and you look dead on your feet.”
Sam can feel the way his expression drops. “Thanks. Appreciate the morale boost,” he replies, playful sarcasm practically staining the words. Bucky, however, stubbornly ignores his tone, though he doesn’t miss the small quirk of his mouth.
“No problem. Bedroom’s down the hall.”
Knowing that he won’t win if he attempts to fight the man on this, Sam relents with a sigh and a shake of his head. It’s then that his exhaustion practically doubles, and he knows that even if he wanted to, he couldn’t fight him on this.
“Seriously, thanks Bucky.”
Bucky gives him a slight smile, betraying the extent of his own weariness. “Thank me again and I’m kicking you out.”
Sam lets out a chuckle. “Why do I have a feeling you’re not lying right now?”
“Gotta keep you on your toes, Mr. America.”
Sam starts for the hallway, laughing all the while. As he passes the other man, he gives him a friendly half-shove half-pat to the shoulder. “Night, Buck.”
He closes the bedroom door behind him, once again taking in the total lack of decor around the space. Sam doesn’t dwell on it, rather focusing on changing into something more comfortable before walking mindlessly to the bed. He hardly notices how plush it still is despite the fact that Bucky should have been sleeping on it for several months now. While he slips off into sleep, said man lays across the couch staring at the ceiling.
While he’s long been used to sleeping on the floor, he hadn’t even attempted to do so while at the Wilson residence, knowing that either of the siblings would have had far too many words to say about it than it was worth. Even so, he’d found that for once it was easier — that the softness felt just the slightest bit more familiar; safer.
His couch, he's glad to find, is similar, as when he finally closes his eyes, sleep finds him in much the same way it had found him in Louisiana.
It’s the first time they’ve seen each other since Bucky returned, and the two of them are sitting on the couch — Peter with his back against the arm, cross-legged, and facing him with his mask retracted into the neckline of his suit. Bucky sits normally, his feet planted on the ground, head turned in his direction as he recounts all that unfolded in the week he’d been hopping around the world. He listens raptly as he talks about their attempts to track down the Flag Smashers, all the while omitting many details to do with Walker, Morgenthau, and Zemo. Whenever Peter asks a question, Bucky answers honestly.
He’s long since learned that lying to the kid is more often than not a wasted effort, and attempts to do so only result in him receiving a far from impressed glare.
Besides, there’s a kind of trust between them that has entwined them since that first dire phone call, and Bucky would rather not shake it lest its fragile foundations collapse with both of them still standing beneath them. Realistically, he knows that the relationship that has burgeoned between them had a one in a million chance of ever coming to light. If not for him being the one to wander by that alleyway; if he had been just a couple minutes earlier or later, or had elected to ignore the noises that had drawn his attention there, or had even decided against leaving the apartment that night at all, their lives would have never intersected in such a way. It’s unlikely that if they had met at any other instance, nothing would have become of it, and certainly not to the extent that it’s developed now.
It was the result of the slightest twist of fate, and not a day went by in the kid’s presence where he didn’t think about how their combined luck had so graciously allowed their paths to cross.
There’s still plenty that the both of them choose to keep close to their chests, but the mutual respect they hold for one another is safe in a way Bucky hasn’t been used to in quite some time. At very few points in his life has he been allowed to live as privately as he can now, and it’s Peter’s apparent regard for this despite their closeness that has allowed him to begin to mend what remains of him.
Perhaps one day they will have both moved on enough from their own grief to bear those scars openly without being reminded of their origins. For now, though, they are given the time to heal in their own form of escape; the one that they’ve likewise granted one another through casual conversation, shared dinners, and the occasional hug — the latter of which has become more commonplace with each passing day.
Of course, sometimes a push is in order from those that you trust every now and again, even if it’s unintended. For Bucky it’s simply been a waiting game for the right moment to come along and throw him a rope. Peter, unsurprisingly, ends up being the hand to set it loose.
“So, Mr. Wilson is Captain America now? Like, officially?”
He nods. “Had the meetings and signings and everything. He’s already got a lot on his plate and he won’t stop being all humble about it, but I think he’s come to terms with it.”
Peter is silent for a moment, seeming to consider this. “... Have you been okay with all of it?”
Bucky blanks, staring down at the kid dumbly. He must read something in his eyes, because he continues after just a few seconds in tense silence.
“I know we don’t talk about… before , and if you ask me to shut up right now I will, but I mean… I can’t imagine how hard it was for you of all people to see what John Walker did while he still had the title, and then for it to be given to someone else who’s close to you...” Peter is visibly nervous as he speaks, treading in the unfamiliar and fearing the worst, yet persevering all the same. “It’s a really personal position for you to be in after all that Mr. Rogers did. I guess I just want to make sure that… Are you okay?”
It’s the first time Peter has ever come close to mentioning Steve’s retirement — it’s the first time that Peter has ever even spoken his name . Even if he tiptoes around the subject as though every corner hides a landmine, Bucky understands exactly what he’s trying to get at.
He falls back into silence for a long while, his gaze turning to the floor. In his mind, a maelstrom rages; a violent mixture of guilt, hurt, anger, and emptiness twisting into a single icy spike that rests its tip at the centre of his chest. It sits there unassumingly, breaking skin and threatening to bleed him dry, awaiting the day it’s finally forced inward and the dam of all that he’s left unresolved breaks open to consume him completely.
Peter must mistake his stillness for a dismissal, because suddenly he’s standing with the most guilt-ridden expression he’s ever seen him wear. “I’m sorry, Mr. Barnes, it’s not my place… I— yeah, sorry—”
When the kid turns away in a hurry to the window, that shard of ice digs down just slightly more, and Bucky’s heart breaks as he calls out to him. “Peter, stay. It’s okay.”
He swivels where he stands, and they share a look before the boy seems convinced, moving back for the couch to sit in a similar position to that of Bucky — facing away and forward, a thoughtful act of attempted privacy. Bucky thinks for a moment, chewing on his own tongue and trying to shove past the walls that barricade every word that he wishes he could have said before Steve took that time machine back and then never returned to hear them. Surprisingly, they relent, allowing him the slightest bit of wiggle room.
“I hold a lot of resentment for what Steve did, even though it’s probably unfair and selfish of me. We were very close, and after I finally got out of HYDRA, finding him again was like finding family. When he left, he got to be happy with the one he had never stopped loving, but now I’ve not been able to stop thinking about all that he’d chosen to exchange to get that life — not limited to me. He’d found a new family here, in our present, but in the end it seemed like that just wasn’t enough to convince him to stay.” Bucky curses the small sting that has arisen behind his eyes, blinking it away and hoping it had gone unseen. “Of course I’d never stop loving him, and if undoing it all is what it took for him to finally find his peace, then if given the chance to change what happened, I wouldn’t have done anything differently. It doesn’t mean that I’m not hurt by what he did, but in the end, family should wish only the best for one another.”
He finally looks up from the floor then, turning his eyes to Peter’s whose shine with empathy right back at him, reflecting all of the pain Bucky has become familiar with over the years. Somehow, it brings him certainty as his thoughts march on, leash still tight but given their first ounce of freedom in months.
“And you’re right, I am in a really personal position, and honestly I’m kind of surprised with myself in how well I’ve held up after all of this as well. But I think what makes it easier is that Steve has never been Captain America to me, he’s always just been… well, Steve . Maybe being Captain America was what he was most known for, but I’d known him long before he got that serum. Walker was a total tool, and he couldn’t even begin to compare to the man Steve was, even despite the title and blonde hair and blue eyes.” When that draws a quiet laugh from the kid he allows a smile to slip past his guard, surprised again at how naturally it comes to him. “As for Sam, he’s… Sam is one of the best men I know, and I can’t think of anyone better to take up the mantle that Steve left behind. Sometimes he reminds me of Steve, and sometimes that hurts too, but in the end I know that Sam doesn’t want to be the next Steve Rogers. He was a part of Steve’s family here too.” Bucky thinks for a short moment, coming to another conclusion. “Honestly, I don’t care about any of the titles. What matters to me are the people behind them, like Steve, Sam, and you. Being a superhero just means that all of the best qualities of someone can be seen by more people all around the globe.” He gives Peter a serious look. “Even if we met and you weren’t Spider-Man, I’d still think of you exactly the same as I do now. The only difference is that you’ve got an alias as far as I’m concerned.”
Peter stares at him long-lastingly, seemingly taken aback by the sincerity in what he’d said. Finally, quiet and choked, he utters, “So you’re okay?”
Bucky extends out an arm, setting it on the kid’s far shoulder so that it loops around him in an illusion of a half-hug, offering a genuine smile. “I’m okay.”
A conversation passes between them in a single moment of eye contact, indecipherable even to himself. He was starting to put some faith into the theory that one of Peter’s abilities includes mind-reading, which makes it all the more fun when Bucky manages to catch him off guard, just as he intends to do so now.
“Would you want to meet him? Sam, I mean.”
Peter’s eyes blow wide, mouth dropping open slightly before he catches it, snapping it shut again while he averts his gaze. Bucky has to stop himself from letting out a laugh as he visibly regains his composure, a thousand thoughts racing through his mind and mirrored in his expression, shifting from fearful to excited, then back again to downright terrified. When he finally turns back to him, it’s with a fair composition of both of these feelings.
“Do you think he’ll try and kill me?”
Bucky does laugh at that, earning him an unimpressed frown as Peter playfully bats the hand still settled on his shoulder away. “Why would he hate you?”
“You remember Germany! I have a feeling I wounded his pride, and I’ll be honest, he didn’t seem like the kind of person to let go of a grudge very easily.”
“I do remember Germany,” Bucky agrees, still unable to completely stamp down the laughter that wishes to bubble from his chest. “I’m pretty sure both of our prides were shattered when you took us out, but something to know about Sam is that he can act mad, but rarely does he actually get mad. If he’s mad at someone, it’s because they’ve done something to personally spite him. Germany wasn’t exactly personal.”
Peter lets out a long sigh, filled with relief. He stands, Bucky following the motion. “Okay, yeah, I’ll meet him then. As long as he’s okay with it… and warn me if he’ll be here beforehand.”
Bucky gives a lazy salute. “Scout’s honour.”
“You were a boy scout?”
“Nope.” Peter snickers, already headed for the window. He’s in the middle of sliding it open when he suddenly turns around.
“Oh, May told me this is the last warning for you to stop by for dinner at ours one night, by the way.”
Bucky raises an eyebrow. “Did she phrase it like that?”
Peter smiles wide, eyes alight with humor. “It was more along the lines of ‘if he doesn’t come around soon, then I’m going to go over there and drag him back here myself’.”
“Yeah, that definitely sounds more like her. Terrifying woman.” At Peter’s answering dramatically solemn nod Bucky waves a hand to him in a shooing motion. “Tell her I’ll check my schedule, and give her my number while you’re at it so we don’t have to keep doing this back-and-forth. Have fun on your patrol, Spider Monkey.”
Peter is already slinging away, a shout of “Not a monkey!” echoing through the empty street.
“My friend is planning on swinging by for a bit. That fine with you?” He does his best not to let his self-satisfaction of his own pun shine through, instead continuing to stare down at where Peter had replied to his message notifying him that Sam was visiting. The response itself contained entirely too many exclamation points than what he felt was necessary, but it was something he had grown accustomed to in text form communication with the kid.
Sam levels him with a confused stare before curiosity takes its place. “You sure this guy ain’t some kind of murderous freak hellbent on revenge?”
Bucky rolls his eyes. “I’ve known him for a while now — a couple of months, actually. He’s not going to all Kill Bill on me… Or you, for that matter.”
Apparently that’s enough to get the man to relent, because they fall quickly back into conversation, resulting in Sam pulling out his phone to show him several photos he’d taken with his nephews the prior week. The other man is in the middle of inviting Bucky to visit them in Louisiana again in the near future when his phone chimes again. Bringing it out, he sees that the kid has sent two emojis — a spider next to a window.
“He’s here.” Bucky states calmly, standing up with a slight stretch.
Sam follows him up, leaving some space between them before he stops short, perplexed.
“Why are you…”
Bucky opens the window without a word, not even startling when there’s the sound of impact on the metal fire escape. Peter has dropped completely into view, fully donned in his Spider-Man suit and crouched just outside the open window, a plastic bag stacked with boxes dangling from one hand.
“Hey Buck, I brought Thai! Oh, and nice to meet you Mr. Captain Falcon, sir!”
Bucky turns around to look at Sam, and he’s more than a little too happy to see the complete shock and confusion on the man’s face.
“Sam, meet my friend, Mr. Man.”
“Oh please, call me Spider. Mr. Man was my father.”
The joy slips away quickly at the easy dismissal of his attempted jab, and Bucky shoots the young hero a withering look. The lenses of his mask shift slightly, indicating what he can only imagine to be a prideful smile concealed beneath.
“How about we lower it a notch to Man Jr. then? I think that’s far more suitable considering… y’know.” He’s only pleased when the scornful gaze is reversed back onto him, raising an eyebrow in a way he knows would inspire a heated debate if not for the current onlooker. Speaking of which…
He turns to look at the other man, of which stands unmoving in the middle of the room a few feet away. His gaze bounces between them for a moment, attempting to put together a puzzle without the box top to guide him to the complete picture. Finally at both of their expectant stares, he gives a slow, almost disbelieving shake of his head, a slight smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“I guess the doormat makes sense now.”
“Gotta rep the brand!” Peter exclaims as he slides through the window, feet falling on the floor to land beside Bucky and hand off the bag of food. “Besides, he’s practically a superfan, right?” When Peter glances up at him, it’s to see him staring at Sam with a long-suffering look in his eyes. Bucky desperately wishes he could shove his head through a wall when he spots the hint of glee in the other man’s gaze.
Peter steps toward Sam, an arm outstretched. When the man takes it, the kid leans forward slightly, using his other hand to unsubtly cover where his mouth remains hidden by his mask and loudly whisper, “It’s okay, he’s in denial.”
Sam looks positively delighted . Bucky adds another regret to his extensive mental list; he's long expected it to only grow with every passing day.
“Pleasure to meet you, Spider-Man. Call me Sam.”
Peter glances over his shoulder at Bucky for just a moment, who then drops the world-weary expression in favour of an encouraging one. When he turns back around, his posture takes on some true confidence — the lack of which he’s come to understand is typically guarded behind all of his jesting.
“Peter Parker.” Their hands fall away. “It’s so cool to meet you for real. I uh… I hope there’s no hard feelings after... uh…”
Sam takes pity on the kid as he stops him with a chuckle. “Germany? None at all, kid. You never answered my question though.” When Peter stares blankly at him, mask lenses unmoving, Sam once again provides it for him. “... The webs? Please tell me they don’t come out of you.”
Peter physically recoils then, leaning back with a noise of disgust. “God, no, of course not, ew. It comes out of the webshooters in my suit,” he holds up an arm to expose the underside of his wrist. “I designed the formula myself when I first started out and have been improving it over the years.”
“Impressive,” Sam quirks a brow, clearly genuine as he says it. “I guess I should have suspected you were a science nerd when you first started asking what my wings were made out of. You were right about the carbon-fibre, by the way.”
Even with the mask obscuring his expression, Bucky is sure the kid is beside himself with joy as Sam leads them all back to the couch, the two falling into a cycle of excited questions and extensive answers concerning the man’s tech. Bucky remains quiet, though he shoves a box and a fork into each of their hands while they’re distracted and settles down on the other side of Peter with his own food. He listens to the two as the kid begins to speculate about potential upgrades to the wingsuit, Sam all the while hardly able to keep up as words leave his mouth at a rapid pace. Bucky merely smiles into his food, ignoring the frantic looks he can feel the other man shooting at him.
It’s difficult to ignore the similarities he has to Stark when the kid gets like this. Even if he’d hardly known the man, his genius was world-renowned, accrediting him no end of recognitions and awards for his achievements over the years he owned Stark Industries. That same intelligence is reflected in Peter, and it’s no wonder the two connected on such a deep level. Even the way the kid speaks sometimes — in the way he forms his sentences and works through a thought aloud, how he applies tone and emphasises certain words — is reminiscent of what little he’s able to recall of the man’s speech patterns.
With each of these realisations, he’s brought yet another kind of guilt. His notebook had been filled with all of the names he could still make amends with — the ones left alive to mourn the people he had taken from them, those who had been undeserving of a power he’d had the hand in giving to them, others who he had taken power away from despite the good it had allowed them to do. It was full of the names who could still be given some semblance of closure.
Whether they got their closure or not, however, does not entirely matter. Bucky will live the rest of his life knowing he caused numerous people insurmountable pain. Most will forever hate him for what he’s done, and for that he cannot blame them.
However, when he looks at the kid, he remembers all of that unmistakable rage and grief that had been in Stark’s eyes that day in Siberia after he’d learned the truth of his parents’ deaths. He can only wonder how he would have felt about their killer’s newfound presence in his protege’s life. Even if Bucky was reformed; had rid himself of the brand HYDRA had planted within his mind, he’s fairly certain that the man would have continued to resent him until the very end — he likely did , in fact, and Christ if that doesn’t feel like another ghost who’ll follow him, even if he’s aware that his death wasn’t his fault.
(But if Steve hadn’t tried to protect him; if he hadn’t caused the Avengers break-up; if they had all been a team and fought Thanos together rather than splintered across the goddamned galaxy, then maybe it would have worked the first time, and Stark would have never had to use the Stones to take the Mad Titan down with him.)
All he can do is think of that scared kid whose voice had trembled over the phone as he’d asked for Bucky to come find him. He thinks of the kid who had trusted him to pick up the pieces and stitch them together and make him feel like the world would soon right itself. He thinks of the bloodied hands that had clung to the front of his leather jacket, shoulders shaking with the force of heart-wrenching sobs and a tear-streaked face buried against his chest. He thinks of innocent heartache in the hands of a harsh and uncaring world.
He thinks, and thinks, and thinks, and comes out the other end of it all with a single, fragile hope, that maybe their interests have aligned, even while one of them now lies beyond the grave.
He hopes that Stark would want Peter to be happy just as much as he does and would accept that, despite their past, Bucky has become one of the driving forces to bring this interest into fruition. And even then, he can hope that he will one day make it up to him in protecting that which he had loved.
When Peter eventually stands to leave, he and Sam are just finishing up talking after almost an hour. Bucky had tuned out for a good deal of it, knowing that the other man was likely getting an earful about all things Star Wars and science and the science of Star Wars and any of the kid’s other special interests. Occasionally he was called upon to provide input — mostly in the form of agreeing with something the kid had said — but for the most part he’d been left to his food. The two shake hands now, nodding with visible matching grins where Peter has retracted his mask just enough to eat, hiding his face just like he had that first night he and Bucky had eaten together.
“So it’s a deal — next time we’re both around you’re teaching me how to use the wingsuit, and in exchange I’ll teach you how to use my webshooters.”
It takes all of five seconds for Bucky’s mind to race and catch up with this supposed ‘deal’.
“No. No! No! No deal. No spiders are allowed to fly, and no birds are allowed to have webs.”
There’s a simultaneous outburst of laughter, followed by Sam exclaiming “Oh so now you’re listening to us!” and Peter shouting “Some spiders do fly sometimes, you know!”
“I don’t care if some spiders fly, I care about whether you can fly, and frankly I wouldn’t trust you not to slam yourself headfirst into a brick wall at the first given opportunity. The webs are enough, kid.”
“Fine…” Peter turns dejectedly to Sam, visibly amping up his disappointment. “Deal’s off. If I don’t get to fly, you don’t get to swing.”
“Seems reasonable. It’s fine, we can just wait until he’s not around one day; he can’t stop the fun forever.” Sam meets his eyes then, only for a flicker of surprise and something like fear to flit through his expression before it’s schooled back into a reassuring grin. “Jesus— I’m kidding, Bucky! I won’t take the kid flying, I swear. I’m perfectly reasonable and trustworthy. Please never look at me like that again, that was terrifying. Genuinely feared for my life for a second there.”
Bucky shrugs, standing up and grabbing the few boxes of uneaten Thai food to put away in the fridge. “Just don’t do anything stupid and get the kid killed or I’ll have to track you down to kill you too.”
“Oh don’t worry,” Peter pipes up, “I would just come back as a vengeful ghost if he somehow managed to get me killed. I’d knock down his picture frames and everything — maybe even rattle the doorknobs a bit. It’d be a whole party.”
“First off,” he starts, kicking the fridge closed and walking back into the living room area, “you’re not allowed to die, ever, not until you’re as old as me, which is too old. Second, if you ever come back as a ghost and need to enact revenge, you come to me and we can plan it out together.”
The lenses on Peter’s mask blow wide. “Oh my God. I could totally be Danny Phantom.”
Bucky stares at him, glancing just for an instant at Sam who’s sporting a similarly puzzled expression. “Who’s…?”
The question is never given voice, because suddenly Peter is standing at full attention, going completely still. He knows this is him listening to something Karen must be saying to him within the suit, waiting as the lenses shift into what would likely be an expression of focus.
“I’ve gotta go — car chase in progress — but it’s been fun! Nice meeting you Mr. Wilson!” He surprises Bucky when he bounds over and slips an arm around him in an embrace, instinctively causing him to do the same before he quickly pulls away. He’s already halfway out of the window when he gives a final “See you tomorrow night, Buck!” before slinging out of sight and into the dark.
He watches him go before turning back and blinking blankly at the knowing grin on Sam’s face. When he doesn’t speak, the other man scoffs and shakes his head, sitting back down and slumping into the couch cushions.
“The great Bucky Barnes got attached to the teenage superhero that saves kittens from trees and helps old ladies cross the street. My day— no, my year — has just been made.”
Bucky doesn’t deny it — he knows he’s attached. He’d do anything for the kid in a heartbeat, even if it meant he had to drop off the radar again. He doesn’t need to hold up this reputation of heartlessness, because it’s only in recent years (excluding the Blip, of course) that he’s been able to identify just how untrue that is to him.
Because the truth is that he loves, and he loves fiercely. Perhaps it’s to make up for all the time he’d spent as the Winter Soldier, in which the complete lack of emotion had been as familiar as the cold of the cryostasis chamber. Regardless, with that love there comes heartbreak, and frustration, and grief. In that love he finds the names of his friends, both new and old to him, embroidered in its edges in fine red thread. He finds Steve , and Ayo , and Sam , and Peter . Behind those names are a slew of emotions and memories, sentimentality lassoing them and bringing them to his level to be reminisced upon and given new meaning time and time again.
So he doesn’t deny it, because he’s done with lies, and now that he’s had a true taste of the life that’s been waiting for him all this time, he’s ready to feel everything without imposed limits.
“I’m not making fun of you, Buck,” the other man says, having read his silence for discomfort, “I think this is a good thing, really.” Sam pauses for a second, seemingly recalling something, before he gives a sincere smile. “You’re good for him, and I think he’s good for you too.”
Bucky nods. “Yeah… He’s a good kid.”
“Good heart. Kind heart.”
They’re silent for a long period while neither of them looking at the other, both trapped in their own thoughts. It’s Bucky that finally breaks it, letting out an amused huff and drawing his attention.
“You’re attached too, aren’t you?”
There’s no hesitation. “Totally, no doubt about it. He’s exactly like my nephews but older, so it’d be impossible and also probably criminal for me not to get attached.”
“I’m pretty sure he must have his own undocumented aura or something. It’s like no matter who you are, he has the ability to naturally charm you into being his friend.”
Sam considers this for a moment. “Isn’t that just being likeable?”
He also falters, taking the time to walk back over to the couch and sit beside the man. “... Peter’s likeable, but… I don’t know, it’s like he makes a mark on your soul before either of you even manage to get a word out.”
“Parker Effect,” Sam elects. “I’m dubbing it now and it shall be so.”
“Parker Effect,” he repeats. It feels like they’ve just made a great scientific discovery.
A routine begins to become apparent after some time. Sam has grown used to stopping by Bucky’s apartment whenever his work brings him to New York, and in kind he invites the other man to visit him and his family in Louisiana every few weeks. He’s also becoming more and more used to seeing Peter appear through the window randomly throughout the night, tapping at the window in a way that had only spooked him the first time, with Bucky laughing at the way he’d jumped to his feet and had snapped the shield from its casing before calming him and explaining the situation. Peter had been especially apologetic for scaring him, but Sam had merely handed him the shield to distract him, eliciting a gasp and a consequent intense evaluation of its make. He’d promised Peter he’d let him throw it around sometime, earning him earnest and excited gratitude. It’s also the first time he sees the kid without his mask on, allowing him to see the genuine emotion behind every word.
His own perception of the boy changes over the weeks. The most he’d known of him was that he was a small-time hero in Queens; loved by his community, though not seeming to make any deliberate attempts to bring up his renown. In Germany, he hadn’t thought of him as much of a threat until he’d successfully taken down himself and Bucky, and even then, it had made him more of an annoyance than anything.
Then later, when he would turn on the television and see him holding together ferries, putting a potential supervillain behind bars, and being talked up on the news by those that he had saved, his opinion grew considerably positive. He’d known he was capable from the very start, but to see the effect he was having on the city put him and his actions under a new lens.
And then Thanos happened, and he’d finally seen who was under the mask all that time.
He’d been slightly angry, to know that a child had been brought into such a grand series of conflicts. He was angry that he’d been close enough to the action to watch the man who he had clearly become close with die — a man who he would later find out figured out time travel purely for the kid's sake.
But mostly he had felt sickening dread, acidic as it slid down his throat and found a home in his heart. He’d watched as the boy had crouched before Stark’s body, shaking and desperately shoving down the wails that had threatened to tear from him out of embarrassment. Even as all of the adrenaline had faded, leaving him and the rest of the group silent and limbless, he’d noticed how the boy refused to leave the sides of Rhodey and Pepper where the prior carried his best friend’s body from the scarred lands, coated in a fine layer of dust. It’s a kind of grief he’s far too familiar with, and one he knows is inevitable in the line of work.
And yet Peter is young, almost a young adult sure, but far too young to have been subjected to the kinds of desolation that he’s already had to face.
Sam knows that talking him out of this life is a fruitless effort. He sees the determination in the way that he holds himself, the way he snaps from the bantery and care-free Peter to the focused and steadfast Spider-Man in an instant; the way he talks about what he does behind the mask with such resolve and purpose. He wishes more than anything that he could remove it all from his life and make him live like the kid he is for just a bit longer.
It takes several more nights with Peter to realise that that’s what Bucky is already doing — has been doing.
He notices in the meals Bucky orders to the apartment, always far more than any of them could possibly eat combined. He notices it when Peter one day brings with him his school bag, asking Bucky about a period of history prior to the Second World War as he pulls out a notebook and begins writing down every response. He notices when Bucky is sure to bring up the topics that are grounded in their everyday lives after discussing hero matters, allowing the kid to think about the normal rather than obsessing more than he already does on all of the hardship and harshness in his life.
And sometimes there’s overlap, like when he sees Peter crawl in through the window with a stab wound for the first time, Bucky swiftly rushing forward — kicking the first aid kit out into the open where it had been nestled against the television cabinet — and helping the kid stitch and bandage himself back together again with the occasional helpful bit of input from the AI in his suit. But even then, it’s all distractions and careful contact to encourage the boy through the pained winces and hissing, forcing another leftover box of takeout into his hands once all the blood has been gently wiped away and the exhaustion begins to crack through his bright demeanour.
No matter what, Bucky is always there, and it makes Sam prouder than he’s willing to admit to see just how deep this connection between the two runs.
But he’s there until he isn’t, and suddenly it falls on Sam to take up his role instead.
He’s alone in the apartment, the T.V. glowing bright in the dark room where he’s sprawled himself out on the couch. Bucky had left for the night, saying that he was going to be cat sitting for one of his neighbours and that Peter also knew he wouldn’t be around. Sam had meanwhile been left to his own devices where he was on the verge of falling asleep to the sound of whatever sitcom rerun happened to be playing at the time.
And then there was the groaning of metal and the fire escape window being thrown open with force, followed by the distinct sound of heavy impact on the hardwood floor.
Sam had blearily jumped into a sitting position, eyes whipping to land on the figure that had fallen into the room and landed in a heap beneath the windowsill. In the dark he catches the glint of metal, and then a symmetrical pair of glowing blue slits of light blink open, casting long shadows across the floor until they’re being swept up the sides of the walls, and then he realises—
“Peter?”
The eyes widen, whipping around to land on him as Sam gets to his feet. This only seems to make matters worse, however, as the kid launches himself backwards and slams himself into the brick wall so hard that Sam worries he may have cracked it. He instantly stops in place, slowly lowering himself into a crouch and observing the situation.
Even over the sound of a laugh track that plays from the television, he can hear the way he draws in panicked breaths — far too fast and short to be doing him any good. He can see the shake in his arms and hands as he pushes himself away as much as he possibly can, curling further and further into himself in a feeble attempt to hide.
His heart breaks all at once at the sight, but he forces the pieces back together as he figures out how best to approach this.
“Peter, it’s Sam, you’re safe.” He keeps his voice quiet, knowing that the kid can hear him regardless. Putting his hands out for him to see in a display of reassurance, he waits for the words to sink in. “You’re safe here.”
It works the slightest bit, his defensiveness dropping away to be replaced by an attempt at self-assurance as his arms wrap around himself and he lowers his head until it’s tucked into his knees. It’s a start, and also an opening.
“Can I get closer, Peter?”
A single, instantaneous nod. Sam moves slowly, scooting himself across the floor until he’s beside him against the wall rather than in front of him — no good could come out of making him feel trapped right now. He doesn’t reach out just yet, instead making his presence beside him known as he looks for anything that may indicate potential injuries.
“Karen? Karen, is he injured?”
A single second passes before the voice speaks from the external speakers. “No injuries detected, though Peter is currently experiencing a panic attack.”
A wave of relief passes through him. “Thanks. Okay, Peter? You’re safe here. I’m going to touch your shoulder, and then I’m going to ask Karen to retract your mask so you can breathe better.” He’s patient, maintaining his calm until there’s another sharp nod of understanding. He slowly sets his palm against the back of Peter’s shoulder, waiting to make sure it doesn’t worsen his state before he gives an affirmative nod. “Karen.”
The mask retracts like sand running off of his skin, exposing him to the dark. Sam can see how his eyes are screwed shut, tears slowly trailing down his cheeks as he gasps for every breath. Thankfully they already appear to be slowing down slightly, but the full-body shaking has yet to stop. Sam runs through all of the methods he recalls using while he was a counselor, finally settling on the one form of grounding he hopes will work best here.
“Peter, right now you’re sitting in the living room of Bucky’s apartment. It’s just past 12AM and you’re sitting with me— Sam — to your immediate left. My hand is on your shoulder. It’s mostly a clear sky tonight, but there’s some clouds, and it’s a bit warmer because Summer is coming…”
He repeats this like a mantra, over and over again as the kid’s breathing begins to even out bit by bit over the following minutes. As time passes, Peter also leans slightly more into his hand, seemingly finding the contact to be a comfort.
When his eyes finally slip open, his breathing has slowed significantly and has almost returned to a steady rhythm. They sit in silence then, Sam waiting for the kid to choose how to proceed once he feels ready to do so. Peter almost visibly deflates as the last of the adrenaline leaves him, exhaustion prevalent in how his head and shoulders slump forward. He’s unsure how long passes before the kid sits himself up a bit straighter, rubbing at his face with the heels of his hands and making an effort to rid himself of the last bouts of tremors that persist.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Wilson. That was… God.”
“You don’t have to apologise, Peter. I’m glad I was able to be here for you.”
Peter draws out a huff of amusement in an attempt to return some normalcy to himself, even if it lacks the exuberance Sam has come to associate with him. He gives a short, quiet sigh, still seemingly recollecting himself and his mind.
Sam lets him sit for another short while before finally deciding they should work through what happened. “Do you get panic attacks often?”
Peter hums questioningly for a moment, then follows it with a look of understanding. “Not often, and usually they have a reason—” Sam mentally notes the ‘usually’ away for a later date “—but I’ve had them since I was pretty young, I think. It was definitely worse when I had to deal with asthma on top of everything else, though.”
“You had asthma?” he asks, not looking at him just yet, letting him regain his sense of security in his privacy.
“Yeah, before I got the powers and stuff. I definitely wouldn’t be able to do any of this if the bite hadn’t cleared that up… Wearing glasses in a mask probably wouldn’t have been that great either, to be honest.”
Sam lets out a surprised laugh. “Could always have gone the specialised goggles route.”
“True,” Peter agrees. “We could have matched.”
They lapse momentarily back into quiet, Peter leaning his head back to rest against the wall as he thinks.
“Do you know what triggered this attack?” Sams asks, more an offer than a request to share. He’s grateful when he’s met with a similar willingness to reach out.
“... This guy I was trying to take down had a gun and he managed to shoot it a few times. He missed, but uh… It just freaked me out. Bad history with guns.” After a brief pause he turns to Sam. “This isn’t like… Bucky knows about this, and so does my aunt. I usually come here when I get like this anyway, so you don’t need to worry. Not that I think you’re worried, I just— I wanted to make sure you knew…”
Sam ignores his attempt to withdraw from the topic, giving him a reassuring smile and pairing it with a small pat where his hand is still resting on his shoulder. “I’m glad they know, kid, and don’t think that I don’t worry about you too.” He thinks for a moment, mulling over his words. “I know it’s not been long since we were introduced, but you’re important to me, and it’s clear how important you are to Bucky as well. Both of us are willing to do anything to help you out, and that’s not an exaggeration. For Buck I know murder isn’t off the table.” Another small laugh, but Sam can see how his eyes shine.
“I’m not…” He stops, tries again. “I’ve had a lot of people come into my life, swear to me that they’ll stay, and then they’re just…” The tears spill over once again, and Peter doesn’t even move to stop them. “They never stay, and I don’t blame them for that, but what I hate the most is the promises that they make. My uncle, and then Tony —” his head drops then, hiding his face once again in his hands.
Sam hardly thinks it over before he’s moving. He shuffles closer until he can wrap an arm around the kid’s shoulders, gently drawing him in. Peter doesn’t fight it, allowing himself to be carefully repositioned until he’s rested against Sam’s side, tucked under his arm.
He doesn’t make a single noise as he cries this time, and he doesn’t even shake. This moment is just a needle point hole in the larger issue; a rivulet that runs parallel to the roaring rapids of untouched trauma. There’s more that lies unspoken — of which he can piece together — and yet will not be able to heal until finally given voice.
But tonight is not the night for that, and Sam knows that it will likely take many more months for the boy to be able to speak of them.
So, instead, he says:
“Promises can be unfair in the kinds of lives we lead, and I’m sorry you’ve had to witness that firsthand. But, Peter, I will say that we all care about you, more than words alone could possibly express. We’ll do all we can to be here for you. There’s no way we can know what will happen in the future, but try to trust that we’re in this together from now on. More than anything in the world, we want to see all of this through at your side.”
It’s not a promise — he’d be a fool to think of doing such a thing after what he just heard. Rather, it’s the closest he can get to one without the threat of grief bringing to ruin the foundations of what little trust he can still put in them.
Peter unfolds from around himself suddenly, arms coming up to instead wrap around Sam, chin resting against his shoulder.
Neither of them speak again, but they don’t need to. Sam knows Peter heard him, and in kind he hears the whispered, unspoken ‘thank you’ s that he embodies in the embrace.
A thought, sourceless and threatening to tear his heart from his chest as he carries the kid to the comfort of a bed when he had fallen asleep against him out of exhaustion.
Riley would have liked him.
It’s a couple of months after that night that finally, following weeks of back-and-forth with Peter’s aunt, Sam is able to convince her and Peter to take a week off of work and school to fly down with them to Louisiana. The woman had been hesitant, but he knew just how much she had come to trust him after the dinner Bucky had dragged him into at the Parker residence, and when he’d pointed out that they both could use the break, she’d finally booked time off. Bucky had insisted on coming along as well, which Sam definitely wouldn’t have been able to discourage even if he’d wanted to.
Upon seeing the four of them drive in together, Sarah had waited until Sam was alone — watching with a wide smile as Bucky introduced Peter and May to the nephews — before joining him at his side.
“Not a regular kid, I assume?”
Sam knows how she means it — that he’s not as average as the rest of them; that he’s been out there risking his life, same as him. What his mind drifts to, however, is the unyielding kindness, unbreakable despite its porcelain make and all of its weathered edges.
“Not at all.” Far from average in every sense of the word. “He’ll be the best of all of us.”
He’s not entirely sure what he must have done in his past life to earn it, but this kind of peace, he thinks, is rarely granted. Sam elects that they’ll have to do all they can to make up for the gift they’ve been given.
We’ll make this count , he tells himself as Peter and Bucky take turns lifting the boys in a playful contest of strength. He moves to join them.