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Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.
Each ring of the alarm clock shoots daggers into Peter’s ears. Consciousness drifts through his mind but he keeps his eyes steadily shut, bracing himself against his harsh senses.
So. Today is going to be one of those days.
Ever since the spider bite, there have been days when it all gets to be too much. Hearing and seeing all isn't everything it's cracked up to be. Sure, it's pretty handy when trying to track down where some mugger’s run off to, but in general? These powers are more of a hindrance than anything.
Logically, Peter is aware that in order for that infuriating alarm to shut off, he needs to open his eyes, reach over his bedside table, and click the button on the clock. But Peter is having a really tough time thinking logically right now, and all he knows is that that damn beeping has to stop.
The drilling gets more and more exasperating, until his stiff limbs finally loosen up enough and he manages to pathetically crawl across his bed, stick out a trembling hand, and smash it against his clock. He dents it. He’ll fix that later.
Peter braces himself for a moment. And then he plants his palms on his sheets and pushes himself up from his bed, the throbbing in his head steadily increasing.
Today is getting off to a great start.
So great.
So, so great.
He doesn’t dare look in the mirror, but he knows that if he did, he would find heavy bags under his eyes. It doesn’t matter, though; the same people will be there for him and the same people will taunt him whether they’re there or not.
(Friendship is a constant in his life, but so is Flash.)
With a barely audible groan, Peter pulls the softest sweater he owns over his head and lets it swamp his skinny arms. It had been Ben’s, but Peter doesn’t need to think about that right now.
Peter also doesn’t need to think about how goddamn bright the bathroom is and does Rufus four floors down always bark this loudly?
Of course, at this moment, Peter’s phone decides to ring. The vibrations stab at Peter’s sensitive skin, and he hisses as he attempts to accept the call – anything to get it to stop.
“Hey, kid,” comes Tony’s voice. It's much louder than Peter would like it to be. True, he always enjoys listening his mentor, but Peter hasn’t really comprehended the fact that it is, in fact, his mentor’s voice because it’s just so loud -
"Pete?”
“I - I – I'm here,” Peter manages, his voice cracking in his dry throat.
“Is everything alright?”
Tony’s words get infinitely softer, the cadence of his voice drifting through Peter’s crummy phone speakers like a melody. Peter still can’t find it in himself to respond. His tongue is sticky and dry and his mouth tastes like sleep.
“Buddy?”
Squeezing his eyes shut tightly, Peter lowers the volume on his phone. It's fine, totally fine. All fine. He loves Tony, and he can have a conversation with the – wait. Wait. He didn’t - that isn’t what he meant – love - it's -
Anyway!
He’s worked through worse. He can have a conversation with Tony, just to soothe the man’s nerves.
“I’m fine, Mr. Stark. A little sleepy.”
There’s a pause. “Are you sure, bud? If you don’t feel up to it, then you shouldn’t go to school.”
Well, that isn’t an option, is it? Peter has a math test today. A math test he probably should have spent more time studying for. That isn’t the point, though; the point is that he’s going to have to work through the pain and take one measly test.
He'd gone to school a few hours after getting shot that one time, he can deal with this. But, uh, he also probably shouldn’t mention that incident to Mr. Stark.
“I’m sure,” Peter automatically responds. He opens his medicine cabinet and grabs the bottle of Advil. It probably won't work on him, what with his super-metabolism, but it’s worth a shot. Anything's worth a shot at this point.
Tony sighs over the line. “Okay, kiddo. Call me -”
“If I need anything. Yep.”
Normally, Peter’s heart melts whenever Tony says those words – which is actually quite often – but right now, he really would appreciate as much silence as he can get.
“Okay. Talk later.”
“Bye,” Peter mutters, and then immediately hangs up and slumps against the wall.
He doesn’t even have the energy to absorb the fact that he’s just hung up on Tony Stark. His head is pounding, his skin prickling, and he feels like he's half dead.
Screwing open the Advil container, Peter dumps a few chalky pills into the palm of his hand, throws them into his throat, and gulps them down. No matter how many he takes, the drugs probably won't be enough for any long-lasting relief, but he just needs a little help to get him through the morning. The hour. The minute.
He pockets the bottle, too, so that he can take another booster before the test.
Slowly, the thick coat of pain around his skull begins melting away with the Advil, and he lets out a heavy sigh of relief. He takes a couple seconds to breathe in, breathe out, and practice mindfulness and meditation and shit. And then he throws himself up from the floor and dashes over to the kitchen. There’s no telling how long this blissful sort-of-peace will last, so he's got to hurry through his morning routine. And then when he's finished, Peter decides to walk to Midtown once he's finished, hoping that the fresh air will do him some good.
(It doesn’t.)
The clock is ticking and Peter hasn’t eaten anything all day and he can feel every thread on his denim jeans and it hurts. And there is a pencil in his hand and his finger had been scratching it into his test but now it doesn’t even feel like it’s his finger and it hurts.
Everyone else is writing, but what are they writing and why isn't Peter writing? And, really, can't everyone just stop writing for one fucking second?
Peter can’t do this anymore.
He's lifted cars, faced a sleep-deprived Tony Stark, and stole Captain America's shield, but he simply cannot do this anymore.
“Gah!” Peter screams. His fists bang against the desk, tears pool in his eyes.
“Mr. Parker -”
The loud, angry words grate on his senses. For lack of a better alternative, Peter desperately claws at his ears. His mind is jumbled into a mishmash of incoherent thoughts; his skull feels as though it’s cracking in two. Somehow, the little bit of self-preservation instincts that he does have instruct his fingers to open up the iMessage app and tap out a text.
And then the noises are closing in and closing in, and Peter's shrinking in and shrinking in, and all he can do is cry and hope it all ends soon enough.
“Hey, Steve,” Bucky says. He fingers his cell phone anxiously. “Is this one of those, uh, keyboard smashes?”
Steve glances at Bucky from over his newspaper. A pair of reading glasses that he probably doesn't need post-serum are balancing precariously on the tip of his nose. They're purple, +1.25. He folds them off, holds out an expectant hand, sets the Times down. Bucky gives him the phone.
“Huh,” Steve responds.
The full, unabridged text from Peter reads: mdndhdisha??gfgh,mnsjkjkhkdsdsgj!,,mjkhgahgdtvhdfsh!kjlfyuehbcbfaf/alhdgad.
“This is – I guess?”
“Why did he send it?” Something in Bucky’s programming – no, not programming, that word can never be the same for him again – tells him that Peter is hurt and that he needs help. And if Peter needs help, Bucky will give it to him.
“I... don’t know. He’s in school right now. Maybe it’s a wrong number text?”
“Maybe.”
The men anxiously make eye contact, a silent acknowledgement of their mutual understanding that it is probably not just a wrong number text.
“We should ask Tony. He’s close with Pete.”
“I think they had a fight.”
“What? Why?”
“He's been moping around all day, like a sad puppy. He only does that when something's happened with Peter.”
"That’s... observant.”
“You tend to learn a few things when you’re an international assassin.”
Steve shuts his jaw quickly. The sound of teeth hitting teeth clacks sharply against the uncomfortable silence. They still haven't talked about Bucky’s experience with HYDRA. They don't plan to any time soon.
“We, uh, should probably check with him anyway. Just – just in case.”
Nodding, Bucky stands up. He stubbornly refuses to make eye contact with Steve. And then he heads over to Tony's lab.
“Terminator, Capsicle,” Tony greets the pair without sparing them a glance. His eyes firmly glued to a hologram projection of what appears to be an Iron Man suit plan. He then flicks one file away, before closing it altogether. Clasping his hands, Tony turns Steve and Bucky. “What do you want?”
Steve awkwardly clears his throat. “Peter... sent Bucky a weird text. It’s probably nothing, but he doesn’t usually text us during school hours, and we – we just wanted to check with you.”
Concern flashes across Tony’s features, but he quickly masks it with a sniff, and casually walks over to grab a bottle of water. “What do I know? I’m not the kid’s dad.”
(Yeah, Bucky thinks, a fight.)
“You’re the closest to him, out of everyone...” Steve trails off, glancing helplessly at Bucky. “Can you call him? Check that he’s okay?”
Tony shrugs. “I called him earlier. Seemed fine.”
“Stark,” Bucky says. There's a dangerous warning in his voice.
“What do you want me to say? He didn’t want to talk to me -”
“Jesus,” Steve mutters to himself. And then, to Tony: “Peter always wants to talk to you. Something must be off.”
Tony stiffens a bit at this, turning the idea over in his mind, cautious of letting the hope get to him. He finally relents and says, “Okay. Maybe.”
Enough is enough.
“I’m going over there,” Bucky says. He turns on his heel and blows through the double lab doors.
“Wow. Guess the kid really brings out the Mama Bear in everyone, huh, Cap?”
Steve chuckles humorlessly, what-ifs flashing behind his eyes, and then he heads after Bucky.
Peter. Peter. Peter.
Bucky ignores all of the side-eyes and whispered is that the Winter Soldier?s he hears in the halls of Midtown. It doesn't matter what they think of him. Hell, at this specific moment it doesn’t matter that he had been a terrorist who claimed hundreds of innocent lives -
Peter. Peter. Peter.
Of course, Bucky knows Peter’s schedule by heart. Memorizing things is a habit. It can mean the difference between life and death.
(Bucky had memorized Peter’s schedule the moment he got it.)
He's storming through the school and doling out stony glares towards anyone who dares look at him for a few moments too long. And then, suddenly, he starts to hear whispers of excitement rather than of fear.
Sure enough, right there behind him, is Steve.
Of course.
(Nothing against Steve – no way – it’s just... Bucky wishes that Steve would trust him enough to do things on his own. He had managed just fine in the '40s. What had changed?)
(Everything.)
“Buck, you can’t break into a high school.”
“I can do what I want.”
Steve makes a strangled noise in the back of his throat. “No - no, Bucky, y-you can’t do certain things, like break the law -”
No going back now, Steve, huh? So how about you shut the hell up?
He doesn’t mean that. But the sentiment stands. The constant babysitting is unnecessary, ridiculous even. And sometimes it just feels like he's being handled again. Deprived of identity and free choice.
There's no time to dwell on this, though. The pair reaches the classroom where Peter has fifth-period math on Wednesdays. Muffled whimpers bounce through the thin walls, and Bucky sees red.
Blood red.
He bursts the door open without a second thought, shoving his hip bone into its center. It opens easily enough, and then Bucky's systematically scanning the room for one Peter Benjamin Parker. The kid isn't difficult to find. He's crouched beneath a desk, hands tightly clasped around his ears, dual streams of tears running down his cheeks. And all Bucky can think is why?
“Pete,” Bucky breathes.
He squats down beside Peter. After going through this motion, Bucky has to be honest - he isn’t entirely sure what to do next. How do you comfort someone who... who what?
Yeah, first order of business determined: he has to figure out what ails Peter. But before Bucky can begin the process of deciphering this puzzle, Steve's on Peter's other side, and he's placing a pair of thick earbuds in Peter's ears.
The boy slumps instantly. He's still trembling violently, and the tears don't stop cascading, but there's a definite improvement.
And then, with a soft oh, it dawns on Bucky.
Peter's having a sensory overload.
Bucky gets those, too. He’s gotten them ever since HYDRA fucked him up. Got them at HYDRA, too, which was a pain in the ass in and of itself. The point is that Bucky can fix those. Not fix them, per se, but - but offer some semblance of comfort. At the very least, he can relate to the pain.
“Hey, uh, buddy,” Bucky begins. He awkwardly sets his palm on Peter’s arm and pats it reassuringly. Then, to Steve: “Got any sunglasses?”
Steve blinks out of a trance. He's been staring softly at Bucky for a little while, in that goddamn sugar-sweet way he does.
“I’ll go run out and grab some. You stay with him.”
And then, true to his word, Steve walks out of the classroom. Leaving Bucky alone. With a hurt child. With a hurt Peter.
Suddenly, Bucky becomes acutely aware of the fact that a dozen or so eyes are boring directly into him and Peter. So with a scowl, and perhaps a few mumbled curses, Bucky picks the kid up and marches out of the room. Privacy really is dead, huh?
The hallway isn’t empty enough for Bucky’s liking. He has a mental debate - featuring his crippling guilt complex - and then hesitantly brushes a few bangs away from Peter's forehead. The kid hums happily, and so Bucky does it again.
There's a supply closet a couple paces away. It looks big enough, and there's no one in there. A rarity in this school, it seems like. Ignoring the hissing whispers that echo against the floor tile, Bucky pushes open the door and then closes it behind him.
Right. Time to survey the damage.
Peter’s eyes are still tightly shut. His body is still stiff, but laxer than it had been earlier. And then the skin around his ears are rubbed red and raw, even bleeding in places, from how fiercely he'd been scraping at it. Beside all of that, though, he's in much better condition.
“Pete,” Bucky whispers. He starts squeezing the kid's hand on a tempo. That's the kind of thing he's always done for himself - it's grounding, soothing. “How can I help you?”
Peter doesn’t respond right away. When he finally does, his voice is wet and grainy. “K-Keep squeezing.”
“Okay,” Bucky says. “Anything else?”
“Light...”
Of course. God, he really is an idiot.
Without stopping the rhythmic hand motion, Bucky reaches over to the light switch and flicks it off. Tension melts off of Peter shoulders and Bucky relaxes, himself.
“You are okay, Peter,” he whispers. It's a selfish attempt to fill the silence. Bucky doesn't like silence. “You are okay.”
But then Peter's lips curl upwards, and Bucky doesn't feel as bad anymore. The soft comforts continue.
They stay like that for a while.
Steve returns in a few minutes. He comes bearing some flimsy pair of sunglasses he probably found at a dollar store, but immediately exits with a dopey smile on his face when he catches sight of the scene.
(Bucky ignores this and focuses on Peter.)
“I’m okay now, I think,” Peter finally says. It's been anywhere from ten minutes to an hour. He shifts his position to face Bucky. “S-Sorry about that. And, uh, thanks for helping.”
Bucky nods. “Of course.”
“Er - s-so I really needed to take that math test...”
“Your health is more important than an exam, Peter.”
“Yeah, but -”
Bucky glares at the kid. He's very good at glares. Got top marks at Bad Guy Academy. And this one immediately shuts Peter up.
“No buts.”
“...Okay.” Then, “I - I really do have to take it though, I’m going to go set a make-up date -”
Bucky grabs Peter’s arm.
“Stay. Recover. I'll deal with it.”
Peter nods shakily. He's either too scared or too tired to disobey, and it's probably both.
(True to his word, Bucky does deal with it. The next day, Peter receives a completed copy of the test, complete with an 100% at the top. Flabbergasted, he shows the pages to Bucky, who simply smiles and says into his coffee: “Good job, kid.”)
(It hadn’t been very difficult. Besides, Peter would have aced the test, anyway.)
(And it’s not like Bucky had killed anyone.)
(Or maimed them.)
(Threatening is fine, as long as he hadn’t actually intended to do any harm, right?)