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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.
Bucky wasn’t sure how long he’d stood outside of the bodega place, talking quietly to a sobbing Peter whose hands had been flaking red with the dried blood of the stranger he’d saved, twisted into his jacket so forcefully that he might have expected his fingers to tear clean through at any second. He’d ignored the prying and curious eyes of those who’d passed them by as they stood together on that curb, though he’d wanted nothing more than to shoot every single one of them a glare that was more a result of defensiveness than hostility. But, of course, he didn’t — he couldn’t . Because he’d been so focused on desperately trying to hold together the boy who was breaking down so completely in his arms, as though all of his strength would somehow stitch and mend him into the kid Bucky had become so familiar with.
Because it was Peter who had needed his full, unabating attention, and he’d wanted nothing more than to give it all to him.
Once the boy had turned to sniffling and choked deep breaths in an attempt to slow the falling of tears, Bucky had decided on what they’d do. Peter had rid pillion behind Bucky on his motorcycle as they sped carefully through the Queens traffic in the direction of the Parker residence, thankfully far less heavy in the more residential areas beyond the main streets, though still congested enough with school and work commutes for them to weave around. The kid still had a tight grip on him from behind where his arms had wrapped around his torso, keeping him steady yet still providing himself some comfort while Bucky focused on getting them from Point A to Point B. He’d ridden carefully, trying to minimise the road rage of fellow drivers while still trying to get Peter somewhere he’d feel safer as quickly as possible. After just a few minutes of this, they’d pulled into the apartment complex’s parking lot, with Bucky draping an arm around the kid’s shoulders and keeping him close as they’d made their way through the building, his metal hand meanwhile clutching the straps of his school bag after insisting on carrying it for him.
The boy was achingly silent as they walked now, and whenever Bucky stole a glance down at him, his face was almost unnervingly blank. It’s an expression that is familiar to him from what he recalls of his time during the war — a look worn by those returning to camp without the ones close to them who had once left at their side, knowing that their grief cannot consume them while there are still battles to be waged.
He doesn’t comment, merely steeling his jaw and keeping them close as they move down the hallway, until finally Peter comes to a stop outside a closed doorway, pulling a key from his pocket. Bucky stands patiently behind him, his hand never leaving the kid’s shoulder, following him in once the door swings open before them.
The moment they step inside, he’s overwhelmed by the warmth of the apartment. It’s not hot — it’s the middle of winter, it’s far from hot — but as they make their way into where the living room and kitchen come into view, Bucky is flooded with contentment, his chest and shoulders becoming noticeably lighter. The apartment is full of evidence of its occupancy — a coffee mug left on the coffee table, dishes that have been left to dry in a rack beside the sink, a couple of blankets that have been left disorderly on the couch, a woman’s jacket folded over the back of one of the single-seaters. Even despite the various attempts to bring life and colour to Bucky’s apartment over the last month, it’s incomparable to the energy and homely atmosphere of the Parker residence. Even the light that’s cast through the living room windows takes on a new sense of comfort.
He doesn’t even notice when his breath falters from its rhythm, slightly deeper where he tries to expel that unfamiliar fluttery void as he looks to where the boy is stock-still beside him. Peter doesn’t seem to notice him, though, his eyes gazing forward at the wall, unseeing. Bucky wishes more than anything that he would cry instead of being stuck like this.
“Peter?” A slight flinch; with guilt crushing him despite, he tries again. “Can you look at me?” When their eyes meet, Bucky has to force himself to not react at the numbness he finds there, forcibly maintaining the reassurances in his gaze. “Let’s get you cleaned up, okay? Bathroom?”
Peter moves without a word, leading him down the open hallway and into the windowless, white-walled room. He continues to the sink, and finally Bucky lets his hand fall away as he stops, unsure. The boy hesitates as soon as the contact drops, glancing back for a moment as if to make sure he was still standing there in the doorway and wasn’t a mere figment of his imagination.
“Do you want help?”
It’s a question that he’s become used to asking, though it’s far more carefully formulated than most would first believe. After many weeks in which Bucky had watched the kid occasionally tend to his own injuries on his apartment floor, he’d come to learn that Peter takes questions far more literally than most. ‘Do you need help?’ and ‘Do you want help?’ were worthy of two entirely different responses, as Peter often believed that what he wanted and what he needed were two matters entirely separate from one another. Bucky had since learned to adapt to this, shifting his own language to leave no room for doubt in Peter’s mind of any intentions he has behind his words.
His hands still where they shakily reach out for the faucet, before finally he gives a shake of his head, shivering slightly.
He’s already stepping back into the hall as he speaks. “Okay, you clean up, I’ll be right back.”
“Please don’t go.” Bucky turns around quickly at the outright fear in those words, landing on Peter who’s staring at him with equal panic. Some shame creeps into his eyes as he seems to realise the way in which he’d spoken, before he mutters quietly, barely a whisper. “Please.”
The knife that’s remained lodged in Bucky’s heart ever since he picked up that phone call twists painfully in his chest. He gives the most calming smile he can offer.
“I promise you I’m not going anywhere, kid. We need to get you into some new clothes, so I’m just going to grab you some from your room, alright?”
A few seconds in which Peter looks down at his clothes, for the first time seeing the specks of blood on his shirt and jacket and the fabric over his knees down to his shins where he clearly had knelt in blood. This seems to convince him that he’s not lying when he glances back up to him, nodding as he tears his eyes away, flips on the faucet and shoves his hands under the stream of water. Bucky watches as he begins to slowly scrub away at the blood, the water turning red as it hits the basin and washes down the drain. He finally walks away, moving fast in the direction of the other doors in the hallway. Glancing through the open doorways, he first finds the room that must belong to his aunt, Peter’s room being the last door that he slips into. He doesn’t even take the time to look around properly, eyes landing on the chest of drawers beside the bed and beneath the window. He goes instantly for the larger drawers, more likely to be where shirts and pants are kept, before opening his closet and grabbing the first hoodie he sees.
By the time he’s returning to the bathroom and setting the clothes on the vanity, Peter’s eyes have taken on a frantic look to them as his attempts to rid himself of the blood are noticeably faster; more urgent. He watches for all of ten seconds from the doorway, noticing now that the water is no longer running red, before Bucky can’t help but step forward and gently grab him by his wrists.
“Kid, stop, you’re going to scrape all of your skin off at this rate.” He pulls them from the stream, Peter allowing him to do so with another look of shame as his body shakes and his breaths come fast and short. “The blood’s gone, it’s fine now. You’re okay.”
Looking down at them, they’re covered in red lines where his nails have broken skin. Bucky lets go, turning off the running sink before grabbing the hand towel that hangs from the rack attached to the sink cabinet, passing it to Peter who uses it, all the while suppressing his winces. When he hands it back, Bucky pushes the clothes closer to the boy.
“Change into these and I’ll be just outside the door. If you need help, just ask, okay?”
Peter looks at him, seeming to think something over, before he looks at the pile of clothes.
“Okay… Yeah.”
Bucky steps back, grabbing the doorknob and giving him one final once-over before swinging it softly closed. He leans against the wall opposing it, crossing his arms over his chest with a quiet sigh as he listens. There’s the sounds of shuffling as he moves around inside, and then silence. His eyes stare at the door, ears straining as his concern mounts, before he hears his voice quietly come from within.
“Bucky?”
“Yeah, Peter?” He keeps his tone carefully even despite the fear that has become prevalent in the kid’s voice again.
“Can you…” A pause, several seconds passing in silence as he waits. “Can you just talk? About something— anything. I…”
“Sure,” he interrupts, knowing that letting him talk more would likely only end up with him working himself up even more. He thinks, considering this and speaking slowly. “My therapist and I discussed the benefits of getting myself an animal recently. Said it might be good for emotional support, even if I’ve been doing better over the last couple of months. Talked about dogs, but we both thought that a cat would be more suitable for my space and circumstances. Not sure if I’m ready for one yet, or if it’s even the best idea considering…” He hesitates, bypasses the idea for now and trudges on. “Maybe one day. I’m not sure yet. I’ve never had a pet before so I’d need to prepare a lot in advance; know exactly what I’m getting into and how to handle those responsibilities. Might offer to pet sit for some of my neighbours so I have some experience around animals beforehand.”
He doesn’t bring up that he’s been doing better recently because of Peter’s presence in his life. He doesn’t mention that despite this he still has to deal with the unforgiving nightmares, or the feeling of dread whenever one of his old trigger words is dropped in casual conversation, regardless of language. He doesn’t voice his fear of holding something so small and fragile, capable of breaking at the smallest malfunction of his prosthetic despite that it’s of Wakandan make.
Bucky leaves all of this out, because these are the issues he and Raynor confront in their own time. Instead, he says:
“No clue what I’d name it... I’ve never named anything before. I’m sure it’d be more than happy to get all the attention you’d surely be giving it, though.”
And it’s then that the door opens again, showing Peter fully changed with the slightest smile he’s ever seen on him in all of the weeks they’ve known each other. Seeing it fills Bucky with relief all the same.
“I like dogs, but cats are just as cool.”
Bucky huffs out a laugh, extending an arm that the kid happily tucks himself under. The two start back down the hallway towards the living room. “I know you like dogs — I hear about every dog you ever stop to pet in a day. I just don’t have the space or lifestyle for the size I’d prefer right now, and I’m not one for lap dogs anyway.”
“Just so you know, I’m always down to pet sit for you,” Peter supplies, and Bucky smiles to himself as he waves his other hand to the couch and takes off his jacket, motioning him to sit down while he throws the garment to land on the coffee table.
“You’ll be the first person I’ll call when I need one.”
Silence falls between them as Bucky moves to the kitchen, knowing that the kid isn’t taking his eyes off of him. He goes about pulling one of the clean glasses from the dish rack and finding it to be dry before filling it with water from the tap. Handing it off to Peter who gives him a grateful look, he’s amused when the boy drains the glass easily. Taking it back and refilling it before returning, he only sits carefully down beside him when Peter sets it on the table half-full. He leaves some distance between the two of them, enough that he thinks it would be comfortable for the boy while also being easily nudged.
“How are you feeling?” He asks, quiet and eyes searching. The kid’s gaze dips to the floor while he gives a vague hand gesture, thankfully bereft of most of the tension that he’d held previously. “I know you might not be up for it, but it’s typically good to try and verbalise what we’re feeling.”
Peter looks up at him for just an instant — face contorting into an assortment of emotions that flit by faster than he can analyse — before he slumps forward defeatedly and rubs his hands over his face. Once they drop away, there’s a war brewing plainly across his features. It’s a battle of that forced composure he’d sported as they entered the apartment and the sorrow he’d bore before collapsing against him the moment they’d met up with each other. In the end, it makes him look almost haunted, and it’s even more unsettling to watch.
“I’m…” Another flash of something across his face, gone before it’s ever really there. “I’m tired, Buck… I’m so tired .”
Bucky expects the tears before they even start, though he doesn’t move as they fall slowly, silent unlike before. He doesn’t even notice the use of the nickname — that nickname, the one he’d reserved for Steve’s use only — all of his attention focused on the slowly deteriorating state of the boy in front of him and how badly he wishes he could do something to erase the pain that causes it.
“There’s just… There’s never any time to breathe, but all I want to do some days is crawl into bed and stay there. But sometimes I have these like… these moments of clarity, and I realise that so many other people probably feel the same way, and for some of them, me being out there is the only way they can breathe a bit.”
And, not for the first time, Bucky is overwhelmed by the depths of his respect for the teenager who sits beside him; who carries the weight of a city on his shoulders as though it’s a burden that anyone would so willingly bear. His mind repeats a fond mantra of ‘this kid’ as that warmth brings with it a disparate mourning for the life that Peter has left behind for the sake of ‘the greater good’. Bitterly, he thinks that most are likely undeserving of that devotion and care, though he knows that if he were to voice this, the idea would only be vehemently rejected by the boy.
“So many people depend on me and I can’t let that go. I can’t just give up on that, y’know? It helps me keep going.”
“Peter…”
“I know it’s not—” a frustrated sigh, tears flowing with more fervour now “—it’s not great, and sometimes I wish life could be different, and sometimes I wish I could be a normal teenager who was sneaking out and partying instead of playing Pin the Knife on the Spider every night, but it’s all I know and I love it, I really do, it’s the kind of mark on the world that everyone wishes they could leave. It just… There’s so much— It’s all so much without…”
A break in his words that Bucky’s mind quickly fills the blanks of, and it’s in that exact second that he watches a mental sledgehammer come down and shatter all of the tenuous walls that Peter had built up around himself. He doesn’t even think — doesn’t even hesitate, shuffling over the few inches distance between them until he’s close enough to where he can turn Peter toward him and encompass him in his arms. The kid turns toward him instinctively, ducking his head in an attempt to hide the way his expression crumbles before it’s pressed against Bucky’s shoulder. He shifts, Peter following his movement, until they’re both leaned against the back of the couch.
His cries remain silent, though he shakes violently against him. Bucky hesitantly raises one hand — his right one, the one of flesh and blood — to the back of the boy’s head, waiting for a moment before he threads his fingers through his hair in an attempt at further comfort. It’s an act brought upon from one of just a few memories he’s managed to retain of his mother. He recalls her doing the same sometime when he was younger than Peter’s age now, having been coaxed from the fear of a night terror through quiet murmurs and gentle hands. The result now is a single heartbreaking sob, muffled against Bucky’s shirt, but nothing in the kid’s body language indicates the touch is unwelcome. He continues, mimicking the feather-light strokes that ghost across his own scalp as he closes his eyes.
It’s now — with nostalgia dragging his movements into patterns which are almost a result of muscle memory despite their unfamiliarity — that he realises the persistent warmth of the apartment has begun to unveil itself before him. He equates it to what can only be described as the feeling of family , and affection , and comfort .
The instant he makes this revelation, he wishes more than anything that he could carry these sensitivities with him forever.
But this frightens him in a way that he hasn’t quite grasped before.
Bucky has felt fear; more than his fair share of it over the course of his life. He felt it when he was a child, confronted with many things he had yet to understand. It had never been a stronger emotion up to that point than when he was drafted in the war, though it would continue to be challenged time and time again, and was just the first of many choices in his life that would never be in his own hands. Later, when HYDRA held him captive, and he had to sense as every memory slipped into the furthest reaches of the dark without a single hope of reclaiming them, he would feel that incomparable panic clawing up his throat alongside bile as the electricity coursed through him and his last thought would echo unanswered, ‘What was my name?’ .
It takes him far too long to realise why it is that this new kind of fear — much the same as the others in that they have all arisen as a result of the unknown — is so dissimilar.
His fears are typically born of the potential dangers to himself; the vile acts that have been forced upon him and the response that wills him to escape them. This apprehension, however, regards his own emotional attachment and the unpredictable nature of it; how that which is beyond his own control may result in another being hurt or led down a different path, and the devastating loss that this would inflict within himself in some way.
It’s new, terrifying, and what he knows to be yet another consequence of Steve’s retirement.
Because Steve had been this to him, once. Had inspired the same well of emotions that could be labeled any number of things, though more specifically ‘love’ if you had taken the time to identify them. It was different than it is now, subdued and stronger in equal parts, though the foundations remain the same. He had been able to reclaim those emotions when HYDRA had lost him, slowly dredging up memory after memory until there was only the uncertainty of time that remained. Then there’d been no uncertainty, only peace in the idea that that line drawn between him and his friend would live on despite the test of time.
And then the Blip happened, and suddenly time did seem to matter, because it pulled that line taut until it snapped with a twang and Steve was gone, disappearing through the machine and separating them by time in a whole new way.
And then family became betrayal , became abandonment , became apathy .
Family became Bucky, alone at the end of a short, short line.
But now, just a few short months later, he’s ended up here, with that feeling of family relentless in his chest and in his fingers that now haltingly ease through Peter’s hair and subconsciously rub circles into his back. Just Bucky had turned into Bucky and Peter and he hadn’t even noticed because he’d been so wrapped up in the feeling of it he hadn’t stepped back to realise he’d slipped back into the familiar.
For once, he doesn’t know what to do.
He sits there, his mind running through the same mental stream of ‘this is how it felt with Steve’ and ‘this will end again’ and ‘it will always end with me’ . Bucky doesn’t stop the embrace as Peter continues to cry against him, until finally the shaking stops and his breathing evens out. It doesn’t strike him for several more minutes, but eventually he’s met with the realisation that he’s fallen asleep.
The trust in such a simple act as this only serves to make the incessant hum in his head louder as he wonders how he’d been so blind.
He’s clueless as to how long he sits in the silence, unmoving, though he readjusts at one point so that Peter is laying against his side with Bucky’s left arm encircles him. The only clear indication of the passage of time is the dimming light beyond the window, flooding the apartment into a gradual darkness as the sun sinks lower and lower in the sky. That traitorous softness of the space lingers even still, and the turmoil within him continues its violent warpath. He doesn’t even consider getting up to turn on one of the lights, thinking it best that he avoids the risk of waking the kid from this rare moment of calm.
The apartment has descended into shadow by the time he hears the front door twist open, and he only turns to glance back to the entrance hall when a soft set of footsteps come to a sudden stop. He measuredly meets the surprised gaze of May Parker, her silhouette barely visible where her eyes reflect the street lights beyond the apartment windows. Comprehension finds itself in her gaze when she spots the tousled head of brown hair that peeks over the top of the couch where Peter remains tucked into his side. To Bucky’s surprise, in all of the hours they’ve been sitting together, he’s not even moved once.
Her voice is soft as she addresses him. “You must be Mr. Barnes.”
With a quick glance at Peter to ensure he doesn’t stir, he brings his own voice to just above a whisper. “And you must be Ms. Parker.”
The woman considers him for a bit, eyes flitting across his face before giving him an understanding smile and starting for the kitchen, flipping on one of the small table lamps as she does. Itt bathes the space in golden light, illuminating yet not overwhelmingly so. Peter doesn’t even react.
“How do you enjoy your tea?”
Bucky blinks confusedly, processing the query, before he manages an answer. “Do you have any green tea, by chance?”
“Of course. No sugar?” With a shake of his head, May gets to work in the kitchen behind them, making the least amount of noise possible. He winces whenever a mug or teaspoon makes a particularly sharp noise, or when the rumble of boiling water reaches a crescendo, but remarkably, the boy still isn’t roused. When the woman finally rounds the couch, setting a cup on the coffee table before them in front of Bucky before passing and sitting slowly on the other side of where Peter remains attached to his side, her own cup in hand. She glances down at where half of the kid’s face is visible, pressed against his shoulder, a fond smile gracing her face.
“When he’s knocked out like this he’s practically dead to the world. You’d have to shove him onto the floor before he’d wake up.” Bucky glances down to look at him again, suddenly conscious of how his metal arm is still wrapped protectively around the boy. He loosens his hold just a bit as he flounders for something to say, knowing that the woman is expecting a response.
“He fell asleep here... I didn’t get the chance to ask him if he wanted to go to his room instead.”
May’s smile is genuine, though there’s a strange glint in her eye that he can’t quite figure out. “I think the fact that he fell asleep here is all the answer you need to that question.”
Bucky’s chest seizes as he recalls family , the security of it when you’re surrounded by the feeling, and how that brings down those shields that protect you. The voice in him that longs for it and the voice that wants no part of it remain locked in their unseen war, one begging please, let him feel this too and the other screaming not again, not again .
When he doesn’t speak again, too focused on trying to drown the mental row into blessed silence, May gives a quiet sigh.
“Well, what brings you here? I’m glad to finally meet the man that Peter has been talking about for the past month, but I can’t imagine this was just you paying a visit.”
At that, Bucky nods slowly, leaning slowly forward enough without shifting the kid too much in order to grab the mug that had been placed before him. He takes a small sip before resting it against his knee — Jasmine, he notes — and focuses on the wooden top of the coffee table while he collects his thoughts.
“He called me not long after he finished school earlier today. I knew something was wrong straight away — if he ever needs to contact me, he does it exclusively through text, and this was the first time he’d actually called. When I answered, he’d told me that he’d tried to stop a mugging out of the Spider-Man suit, but apparently the offender shot and seriously injured the victim when he spooked.” He doesn’t have to look up to see the grave expression on May’s face, he can practically feel it where her eyes take in his own. His volume only gets quieter the more he speaks. “Said he’d stayed around to try and keep the victim alive until she was seen to by the paramedics. He ran, and that’s when he called me. I rode over and picked him up and brought him back here.”
Finally he lifts his gaze to meet the May’s, whose own are filled with a grief he can’t bear to look at for more than a few seconds. He drops it to look at Peter’s face again. Something about the boy just brings his attention back without fail every time.
“He’s… He’s struggling,” he says, a mere whisper between them. With that simple statement, he knows that its relevance is not limited to today’s events. He’s certain that the woman understands this as well, as she gives a weary nod. “I wish there were some way to convince him to stop, even if just for a while.”
“I often find myself thinking the same.” May’s tone is almost thoughtful. “He’s stubborn, just like Ben was.”
It’s a simple sentence, and yet it holds so much information that he rushes to take in.
Peter had another figure in his life, likely closely related to May herself based on the note of affection in her words, as filled with grief as they are. That grief, he suspects, is connected to her use of past tense in reference to this so-called ‘Ben’, and he makes the regretful presumption that his absence is tied into one form of tragedy or another.
Something about his expression as he thinks must clue her into his lack of knowledge as she continues. “Ben was my husband. He died sometime back — before the Blip. Robbery went wrong, and Peter was there when he…” She doesn’t finish, but Bucky’s mind provides the rest. He didn’t know it was possible to mourn for someone even more, but he does so now for the kid that he squeezes ever so slightly tighter for an instant.
He doesn’t offer the condolences that many would think to extend to the partner turned widow. Bucky knows how little one comes to care for them, knowing that not a single simple I’m sorry could ever flip the world back into the lens that once belonged to your normal. Truthfully, not a thing can truly be done in these cases, except to learn how to live without that loss of light and love to guide your way.
“I suppose he had to face old trauma today, then.” It’s not a question, but he receives an answering nod regardless.
“Can’t say I’m surprised he crashed like this.”
And then there’s silence, for a time. The two of them sipping from their tea, Bucky savouring the sweetness of his own cup, clinging to the taste that coats his tongue like a life-line. It’s only once they’ve both set their respective empty cups down on the coffee table that May turns to him again.
“I’d like to know a bit about you for myself, Mr. Barnes. Peter has told me a lot, though his knowledge only goes as far as you let him see.” Their eyes finally meet again, and Bucky sees nothing but calm intrigue. “Not everything… I just want to understand.”
And Bucky, after a moment more of searching, though finding nothing to dissuade him from doing so, begins to speak.
That knowing look in May’s eye tells him that she’s done more than enough research to know exactly what kind of life he’s led — what titles once belonged to him that now lay abandoned and buried. So he winds them back, right to the start, because if he’s going to tell his story, he might as well do it once and have it out there. He begins first with what little he remembers of his life before the war, of his family, of how he met Steve, of their favourite haunts and the more obscure details that still raise muted sentimentality. Bucky hesitates to talk about being drafted, but inevitably goes into detail about when he sees her imploring look. He talks about how he’d hidden the fact that he’d been drafted from Steve, lying and saying that he’d enlisted instead, a fact that was now only held between the two of them, and a lie that would hang forever in the Smithsonian’s Captain America exhibit.
After that point, he finds it almost easier to talk about all that follows, knowing that the first of his misfortunes is out. He continues with the capture by HYDRA as a prisoner of war, and the eventual experimentations they would do upon him, then The Howling Commandos, the many missions they’d embarked upon, and the mission that had ended it all. He excludes more than a few details as he begins speaking of the Winter Soldier Program, as much for his own sake than it is for May’s, but he goes as long as he can before his throat refuses to let him speak more of it. A reassuring hand on his shoulder is all it takes for him to skip forward over the decades, instead speaking of how he’d begun to remember after the incident in DC, and even mentioning the notebook that had housed every one of his memories.
He talks about being framed for the Vienna bombing, his capture, and the chaotic series of events that had followed, ending with him being granted asylum within Wakanda to be deprogrammed of his trigger words. He doesn’t talk about Thanos, or the feeling of his body turning to ash and nothingness, or the Battle of Earth and the losses they all endured. May doesn’t question it when he skips to discussing the terms of his government pardon, the mandatory psych-evaluations he now undergoes, the apartment he’d been given and the small fund that’s provided to him every month.
Once he begins talking about how he met Peter — how he’d hauled him into his apartment and stitched him up and done what he could to help him — it becomes as easy as breathing to recount every moment they’ve shared thus far. He finds himself able to meet May’s eyes more often when he’s not already busy observing the kid, her gaze full of all of the amusement and affection that haunts him now.
As he makes his way through the timeline of his life, he ignores the twin parts of himself that quarrel unceasingly. They simmer beneath his skin throughout it all, and it takes every ounce of his strength not to let his confliction show.
He should leave, and yet can’t make himself get up and do so, because he wants this, and yet it’s easier to run before it turns out with him to be the only one wanting, in the end.
“I’m really glad he’s been eating more when he’s with you. It’s been… hard,” May says once his words finally slow. “I work long hours. I’m first to leave in the mornings most days and occasionally last to get home. He does say that he eats, but I’m not always so sure he’s being completely honest.” Her eyes are downcast, and for the first time Bucky sees the age and exhaustion that lines her face.
“He handles loss about as well as the rest of us. With his parents, he was very young — young enough to not remember well now, and as awful as it sounds, I’m thankful that he doesn’t.” Bucky nods understandingly, though she presses on. “Ben was… Neither of us were alright, but I became distant around that time, and to this day it’s one of my biggest regrets. I became a ghost, and I was so blinded by my own grief that Peter took it upon himself to pick up some of the slack like making sure the bills went through, or by going out and buying our groceries every week. I never noticed him doing it, either. It wasn’t that he seemed to be trying to hide it. I just truly didn’t realise what he’d been doing until it was months later and I felt like I could finally begin to breathe again. Not only that, but he’d also started his nightly superhero stint, and I’d been none the wiser.” Remorse visibly swallows May, unmitigated and clear as day, though she doesn’t falter.
“And then just six months later, Tony showed up on our couch. Before I knew it, there was this energy about Peter whenever he talked about that man, and it was obvious there was no going back. I never quite understood their relationship, and part of me resented Tony for encouraging my kid into this life, but I knew they cared about each other more than either of them let on. I’m not sure if they ever labeled it, but I know that Peter saw Tony as a father, in some ways.”
There’s a lump in Bucky’s throat, and guilt stills his fingers that had absent-mindedly moved to thread through Peter’s hair once again as the woman spoke. He removes them as he realises this, settling his right hand back on his leg. When he meets May’s eyes again, he’s unsure how to begin to interpret the mixture of trepidation and endearment he finds there.
“When he died… I lost my Peter. When I saw him for the first time after we were both brought back… I’ve never seen him so distraught. It was even worse than Ben, but this time I could see just how much it broke him as well.” May is quiet, seemingly thinking. Bucky is still unsure why he’s being allowed to hear any of this; they met just over an hour ago. With the way they speak, however, it’s like it’s been forever. “Peter is kind, and because of that, he only sees the good in other people as well. It lets him get attached to people a lot more easily, and when he reaches that point, it’s impossible to pry him away without a fight — one you’re far more likely to lose, too. It makes him loyal, but it’s also dangerous, and so far has only ever seemed to end up with him being the one hurt.” The woman’s eyes become teary as she brings a hand up to pinch them closed.
“May…” Bucky raises an arm, unsure whether he should be trying to provide some kind of comfort. He’s waved off though, and she merely lowers her hand and gives him a thankful smile.
“There’s a point to me talking your ear off, just…” She almost visibly shakes herself off, taking a deep, composing breath. “I’m genuinely not sure if Peter could handle losing like that again, not after Ben and Tony. I don’t know how we managed to keep him together at all, frankly, and it terrifies me now that whenever he talks about you …” Her eyes shine with unshed tears as a disbelieving smile quirks the corners of her mouth. Bucky’s heart stutters as dread and hope shoot through his veins in equal measure. “It’s the same look . I don’t know how, but he’s still managing to trust, and to him… You’re part of his world now, and he loves you for it.”
“I know.” His mind screams .
“And, considering what I’ve seen here tonight, what you’ve said here tonight… I think you love him too.”
Bucky forces a breath in, forces it out again.
It’s all that he’s been struggling to come to terms with, strewn into a single sentence. He hates that it’s as simple as that. He loves that it’s as simple as that.
“But it scares you.”
And just like that, all that had been plaguing him had been aired, and he hadn’t even uttered a word. He’s become so transparent that he could be read like an open book; a case study of a man so out of his depth in every way imaginable.
In the ensuing silence, Bucky hangs his head. He only lifts it what feels like a millennia later when that hand finds his shoulder again. For once, he doesn’t bother to hide any of it — the love, the fear, the impossible depths of it all. He bears it for the woman who’s just poured her heart out to him in the effort to let him understand what she’s seen, who she is, what she’s done, what she is .
And in that moment, as he sees her doing the same, there’s a shared understanding that transcends language.
May Parker is a treasure , Bucky thinks.
“Peter has had an uncle. He’s had a father.” She says these like a statement, though with no lack of acknowledgement of their depth. “I don’t know what you’re going to be to him… I think it’s too soon to tell. But what I do know is that from the way the two of you act, it’s just another inevitability.”
Despite the emotion that constricts his throat, Bucky whispers past it. “I’m terrified.”
It’s an honest admission, and one that’s already been spoken for him, but it’s a relief to say it for himself nonetheless.
May nods, mostly to herself. “I think Peter is too.” Something shifts in the woman’s gaze, turning solemn. “You’re both alike. You’ve lost someone, Mr. Barnes, I can tell. Both of you are struggling, and yet you’ve found each other, and now you’re both afraid you’ll lose this.” When Bucky doesn’t outwardly react at her words, she continues. “Now more than ever you need each other. It’s been under two months and yet you both talk like you think the other has hung the moon. My words will never mean as much as the proof you’ll see if you give all of this the opportunity to do so,” she gestures between Peter and Bucky in turn, the latter still holding them close, “but from where I’m sitting, there’s not a chance of this ending… Peter would never let it. You don’t have to run from this.”
The part of him — the one of yearning, optimism, love — stands victorious, and without the death grip on all that he once suppressed, it makes itself loud and clear.
He hardly notices it when tears of his own arise, shameless and proud, and they match the ones that trickle soundlessly down the May’s in kind. Peter, still blessedly curled between them, remains oblivious.
Bucky stews in this feeling, soaking it into his bones after being left in the cold for the last few months. He lets all of it run rampant, closing his eyes as his mind redefines it; shapes it into the image of Peter, and now extends that same feeling to begin to make sense of May as well.
“I’ll be there.” He says, a whisper filled with such profound resolve that it startles even him. “No matter what; always. I’m not leaving.”
May’s smile is sad when she looks back at him. “But you can’t promise that.”
He knows how she means it — that his line of work runs the same risk that Stark had to face, in the end. She looks at the example he made, knowing he likely tried to make a similar assurance, just as Bucky does now.
“No. I can’t promise that. I can’t know what will happen from here,” he agrees. He takes in the approving look he’s given for it before he barrels on. “But I know that I’ll do whatever I can to stay. Whatever it takes.” He falls quiet for a short while before he turns his gaze away. “And who knows. Maybe there’ll be a day when he decides that he doesn’t want me around anymore.”
May scoffs, though there’s humor behind it. “Mr. Barnes, that is an impossibility that you shouldn’t even consider. And, if push comes to shove, and for whatever reason he says that he really doesn’t want anything to do with you, he would be lying to himself. Maybe you haven’t noticed it yet, but the way he’s acted ever since you came into his life…” She pauses, her brow furrowing with a fond smile as if recalling a memory. With a minute shake of her head, it’s gone, and she’s looking at him again. “I’d give you my permission to force your way into his life and tell him yourself how much of an idiot he is if he were to ever push you away, and if you don’t, I will instead.”
The tears still slowly fall, though what they fall for is beyond him as he huffs out a laugh. “You’re a national treasure, Ms. Parker.”
“Oh come on, I think we’re past honorifics. Besides, you called me ‘May’ before and I didn’t correct you, so don’t backtrack on me now.” Her smile is infectious.
“Bucky, then,” he says, not a trace of hesitation. “You can just call me Bucky.”
May finally stands, grabbing their long-empty mugs from the coffee table. “Well, are you planning on driving home or are you going to be staying the night, Bucky?”
It’s then that he realises that perhaps he’d already sealed his future earlier that evening as he says almost breathlessly, “I promised Peter I would stay with him.”
The knowing smile May sends him as she rounds towards the kitchen without a word is all he needs to curl himself more protectively around the boy, readjusting them both into a comfortable long-term position before closing his eyes and sighing deeply in content. Warmth numbs any worry that persists, lurking at the back of his mind and likely to remain and rear its head at the next given opportunity. For now, however, its vicious song has been silenced, overwhelmed by the presence of the light that’s been carefully placed within his chest.
Love , he thinks, as he opens his eyes long enough to take the two blankets May hands him, throwing them over Peter and himself.
Love , he repeats, as he settles deeper into the couch and Peter almost seems to curl further against him, letting out a small sigh.
Family , the voice says, as the lights eventually go out and Bucky falls blissfully into sleep.
The following morning, when May and Bucky are putting together breakfast and Peter would walk in, confused delight clear on his face when he notices the latter’s presence, he would pace forward and give the man a tentative, appreciative hug. Bucky would return it as his chest expands with affection , and comfort , and family , and look over the top of the boy’s head to see the meaningful smile May sends his way.
He’d then drag Peter into helping him flip the copious numbers of pancakes he’s been preparing alongside the bacon that his aunt tends to. When May leaves for work and tells the kid she’s already called into the school to tell them he’s got the day off, Bucky averts his eyes at the teary look he’d give her, followed immediately by the woman planting a loving kiss on his temple before waving goodbye.
Bucky would stay the whole day with him, in which Peter would eagerly sit them down on the couch to watch the Star Wars series after discovering that the man had never indulged in them. He would listen as the kid makes comment after comment on behind-the-scenes trivia, or the parts that science can or cannot explain, and with each word spoken that sense of yearning is replaced ever more with the realisation that he can have this .
Family tentatively becomes Bucky, Peter, and even May, and suddenly he’s no longer alone. It turns out, he’s got a longer line than he once believed, and it’s one he plans to appreciate every moment of.