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The last sunrays of July paint the rooms of the house in shades of gold, casting rays across pristine wooden floors and obscuring the view of the dozens of photo frames lining the freshly painted walls.
With little effort, Peter balances a dozen cardboard boxes in his arms, relying on his senses to guide him from the front door, through the hallway, to the large open-plan kitchen in all its floral and mahogany glory. Each of the boxes in Peter’s hands are filled to the brim with various essentials for the day: plastic cutlery, bags of chips, dips, non-alcoholic beverages for those staying sober — including himself. As much as he’d love to take a shot for courage today, he’s already worried about possible incoming disasters and he can’t risk being one of said catastrophes. Not today, at least.
The boxes weigh a ton but he doesn’t break a sweat, despite the heat and his terrible choice to wear thick sweatpants and one of Bucky’s old long-sleeve flannels. His nicer clothes are in a bag in the kitchen. He didn’t want to get one of his nicest shirts accidentally covered in mustard or something before the events of later but he didn’t really think the weather through, already having too much on his mind. He only stumbles slightly to get through doorways, watching out for strewn toys spread across the freshly polished wooden floor.
He hops around a rogue stuffed animal, a few inches away from sending the potato chips flying.
“Steady on there, Spidey,” Sam laughs from behind him, hidden behind his own stack of boxes filled with fresh bread, meats, and sauces. It’s barely half of what Peter is carrying, he notes to himself with a smirk.
“Jerk,” Peter mutters with no bite in his tone, rolling his eyes. “I’m good. Need some help, old man?”
Sam snorts. "'Old man' ain't an insult comin' from you, kid. Your boyfriend is literally a fossil," he quips, carrying his own supplies to the far edge of the spacious kitchen and places them on the floor by the marble top kitchen counter.
Peter rolls his eyes again. It’s been five years, and Sam still insists on calling him a kid — as if he’s not twenty-seven next month.
He gets out of Sam’s way, too much on his mind today to even attempt to joke around with his boyfriend’s best friend. He’s grateful that Sam is doing him a favor and is on grill duty, it gives Peter one less thing to worry about. Well, grateful is one way to word it, and it’s the way he’ll word it if anyone asks. Sam had pretty much insisted on doing it from the moment the day was planned, looking murderous at the suggestion that anyone else even attempt to touch the ribs.
In Peter’s defense, Sam has never actually tried his cooking. And he’s gotten better at it. Kind of.
He’d graduated from not being anywhere near meal prep to being allowed partial input and permission to prepare meals in dire circumstances four years ago. One nasty injury Bucky had gotten at work had him laid out in bed for a week straight — and takeout everyday is no way to heal. Peter, getting overly protective, had insisted that he have only home-made meals. Peter had, therefore, taken it upon himself to cook for the week whilst nursing Bucky back to health, changing his bandages, and helping him wash without tearing his stitches. Despite his lack of appetite and pain, Bucky hadn’t complained once about the food. He’d even smiled and petted Peter’s hair whilst complimenting him for not burning everything on the plate.
The hours Peter had spent until daybreak cooking and re-doing basic meals until they were good enough were a secret he would take to the grave, along with Rebecca, who had caught him at the front door lugging in enough ingredients to feed a family of ten and had helped him out just a few times whilst Bucky was knocked out. He now has an arsenal of around ten meals he can make that are edible, but it’s still nothing compared to Sam’s barbeque. He’ll give the old man that.
He squints at the onslaught of sunlight as he steps out of the open patio doors and into the garden. Rebecca and her husband have done an incredible job, just another thing he’s grateful for, having already arranged the tables, barbeque set, seating and large space in the middle with speakers. Without guests, and even though he’s visited Rebecca and her husband’s new house a handful of times since they moved two months ago, the garden looks uncharacteristically huge. Peter’s heart hammers against his ribs, taking in the vacant seats and he dumps the boxes down with a sigh, hunting around for the cans of soda he should have put in the fridge. God, he can barely think straight.
"Hey."
A hand falls on his shoulder and Peter jumps out of his skin, almost dropping a bag of plastic forks onto the grass. He peeks over his shoulder, breathing a sigh of relief at the friendly albeit concerned smile that greets him.
"Oh, hey Becca," he says, laughing it off. "Sam hasn't burnt down your new house yet?"
Rebecca tuts as if to scold him but grins anyway. He's always gotten on well with Rebecca, her taking him under her wing instantly and finding a repertoire with her in bullying Sam, one of Peter's favourite hobbies. Just because he's Captain America doesn't mean he's not a target.
There are a few Congratulations! banners strung up around the yard on fences, a few balloons tied the doors leading onto the patio. It's simple, not overwhelming, but Peter is still shaking with worry.
"Are you sure he won't hate it?" he asks for the umpteenth time, chewing his lip nervously. "I can cancel and he'll never even have to know."
She frowns at him, giving his shoulder a squeeze. "Don’t be silly. That man will never hate anythin' you do."
Peter grimaces. "He told me not to make a big deal of it but he deserves a big deal. I just want to make him happy, you know?"
Rebecca's eyes trace over Peter's anxious face, drifting down to the tense way he's holding himself. She's already dressed for the day, a floral summer dress flows down to her knees and she's wearing the earrings her husband got her for her last birthday. He can't cancel now, he knows everything is arranged and will be — has to be — perfect. But the nerves are winning and he feels as though he's about to burst out of his skin.
"Peter," Rebecca says, gently. "He's happy. You've always known what he needed before he did himself and that's still true. Besides," she adds with a shrug, "there's not that many of us here. He won't be overwhelmed."
Peter bites his lip, nodding. "I invited May and my friends, though. Won't he find it a bit suspicious?"
"Find what suspicious, Parker?"
Peter jumps at the sudden new voice, almost falling backwards into the table. Nerves definitely do have a tight hold on him today, he hadn't even noticed MJ arriving. Even if she is silent and stealthy by nature, getting around his spider senses is an impressive feat.
He shakes his head, barely catching his breath. "Nothing,” he says, voice cracking. “Why are you so early? I'm not even done setting up."
She shrugs, folding her arms over her chest. She's wearing a denim jacket over a summer dress, her hair pulled into a ponytail and her hair cascading down her back in warm ringlets. He feels significantly less nervous with her there, but her judgemental gaze still makes him want to cower.
“I got a ride,” she says simply, offering no further details, and then turns to Rebecca, smiling and engaging in small talk about how nice it is to see each other again. Peter zones out, back to the task at hand. He’s not trying to be rude, he just really has to concentrate to make things perfect.
A minute later, they’re both staring at Peter, Rebecca frowning kindly and MJ looking unimpressed at the stacks of boxes he still hasn’t done much with.
“Peter, dear,” Rebecca says, laying a hand on his arm, “go ask Sam if he needs any help.”
Peter crinkles his nose, craning his neck to stare at her. “In the kitchen? Me?”
MJ nods, biting her bottom lip to hide her grin. “Good point. Just… go be somewhere else. We got this.”
Peter huffs, standing straight. “I can—”
“No you can’t,” MJ says, holding a hand up. “You’re a ball of nerves so just let us deal with the essentials. You go bug Sam or take a nap or something.”
“Anything,” Rebecca adds, almost pleading, already swooping down to start unloading the rest of the first box. “You need to think about getting ready, too. You need to get Bucky in an hour.”
Shit.
Peter knew he’d forgotten something. He pats down his jeans, eyes widening in panic.
“Your keys are on the kitchen counter,” Rebecca says without looking up. “Gracie had them.”
He sighs in relief, falling forward and wrapping Rebecca up in a hug. She’s a few inches shorter than him and doesn’t put up much of an effort to shove him off, but still laughs at him all the same.
“Go, go,” she laughs, shooing him off. “You’re like a damn octopus sometimes.”
MJ gives him a glance, arms full of paper plates and cups. “Brush your hair, doofus.”
Peter opens his mouth and closes it, detangling himself from Rebecca. “You just got here, you shouldn’t—”
She rolls her eyes. “If he asks, you can give me extra credit. Make it worth my while.”
Peter squints. “As if you don’t show up once a week to steal our food. And he’s still upset about the jacket.”
“It’s been six years!”
“Five.”
She groans. “Five and a half, whatever. Consider that payment for my services today.”
Peter pulls a face at his best friend and begrudgingly makes his way to the kitchen. It smells amazing already, a number of spices he couldn’t name — but Bucky could — fill the air, both smoky and sweet. But he doesn’t pay Sam the compliment.
“No disasters yet,” Peter quips, leaning against the kitchen counter. He swipes up his car keys, shoving them in the back of his jeans before he can lose them again. He has a feeling he will. Sam doesn’t reply, too busy mixing something with his back to Peter. Something clatters to the floor and Sam spins, eyes wide, task at hand completely forgotten.
“ Sh— ” he starts, cutting himself off immediately. He smacks a hand over his mouth.
Peter peers over the counter, spotting the sauce covered spoon splattered on the kitchen tiles. Beside it, a blonde head of curls reaches just above Sam’s knees.
Peter dives forward and around the counter, his mind screaming shit shit shit. He keeps his mouth clamped shut, quickly hoisting the little girl up into his arms with minimal effort. She grins, wrapping her small arms around his neck, completely unaware of the potential disaster she almost just caused. She has a speck of sauce on her cheek where her dimple dips in and Peter wipes it with his thumb.
“Gracie,” he cooes, balancing her on one hip. “What are you doing? Where’s your dad?”
She pulls away to stare at Peter. Instead of a response, she pats his cheek, giggling. She also gives him her signature pout that always works, but he can’t let it today.
Sam’s expression melts at the pair and he swoops down to grab the spoon. “I’ll play with you later,” Sam promises her, catching Peter’s incoming guilty panic, and ruffles her hair with his spare hand. “You stay with Uncle Peter until I’m done, okay?”
She gives Sam a big nod, a serious expression on her face. “O-kay,” she enunciates carefully.
Peter takes mock offense. “Oh, I see,” he says, plastering on a dramatic frown. “You only listen to Uncle Sam? I thought I was your favorite?”
Grace shakes her head, pointing towards Sam. “Snacks!”
Sam raises his eyebrows. “I’m your favorite ‘cause I give you snacks?”
She nods. Entirely serious.
Sam shrugs with a toothy grin. “I’ll take it, kiddo.”
Peter pulls a face at Grace and she giggles again, throwing her head back and god Peter’s heart could burst. He loves the kid. Sure, he’d been terrified to hold her for the first time and he literally couldn’t take his eyes off of her during their first time babysitting in case she vanished or combusted. And sure, maybe he’d created a sticky web barrier around her play area so that she wouldn’t escape when she started crawling. For safety. Clearly. Bucky had laughed at him but he said he found it cute. Sam had laughed at him, too, but at least Peter wasn’t the one who had burst into tears the first time he held her. So, he’ll let Sam be her favorite. Just for now.
“Alright,” Peter says, leading her away from the kitchen where all the sharp and dangerous things are. He leads her instead into the garden, heading back towards the two women laughing over a private joke Peter must have missed. “How about we play outside, does that sound good?”
Grace nods but stares forlornly over towards the doors leading to the kitchen.
“Hey trouble,” Rebecca calls when she spots them heading her way. She raises an eyebrow at Peter. “Where’s John?”
“He was on the phone when I got here,” MJ supplies, peering around to look at Grace leaning her head on Peter’s shoulder. “Hey little one,” she says, nodding towards the small child as if she’s an old friend.
Grace’s eyes go wide and she reaches a small hand out towards MJ, patting MJ’s shoulder with her tiny palm. “Princess!” she declares, all sadness for her Uncle Sam seemingly disappeared.
Peter snorts and MJ goes still. Grace grins, letting out a shrill scream and reaching out both of her arms towards MJ. MJ’s trademark disinterested expression slips.
“You wanna play with the princess?” Peter asks Grace, who is still beaming.
Grace nods frantically and MJ immediately looks panicked.
“What? Peter, no. I don’t know how to—”
Peter pouts. It never works on MJ, or Rebecca, or anyone except Bucky but he tries his best. “Please? I really gotta get ready and she’s an angel. She’ll just want to hold your hand and show you her toys.”
MJ takes a deep breath, looking between the pair with anxious glances.
“Fine. Just this once.”
She reaches out to take Grace anyway, a little awkwardly at first but she finds her balance, letting Grace stare in bewilderment at the yellow and pink flowers of her dress. Peter makes his escape before she can change her mind, yelling a quick thanks and dashing up to the guest bedroom to pull his clothes out of his bag. Getting dressed takes barely any time at all, he just pulls on a nice shirt and a jacket over his jeans and checks the pockets no less than ten times. He attempts to fix his hair into something semi-formal but a single stray curl won’t stay put and falls loose at the front. To make things worse, he sprays a little too much of his good cologne and ends up coughing for a solid minute. He can still taste it in his throat when he’s checking he hasn’t lost his keys again.
He checks in with Sam that there’s nothing more he needs help with and gets a thumbs up as he hums along to his Spotify playlist filling the kitchen. “Lookin’ sharp, kid.”
Peter grins, swiping a marshmallow from the snacks which are supposed to be for Grace. “Thanks, grandpa.”
And then he’s in the car — more specifically the car he rented just for today which oh god only makes things look a lot more suspicious but it’s too late now — and he tries not to panic that he hasn’t driven since their road trip down to New Orleans last Christmas. It’s almost an hour drive and he spends pretty much ninety-percent of it trying to think of what to say to Bucky and not draw suspicion. He makes it to Bucky’s university department building with ten minutes to spare and has to catch his breath. He checks his reflection and another curl has come loose, making him look more like his usual self. Resigned, he accepts his fate as a never-to-be hair stylist.
[4:51PM] Peter: i’m in the parking lot. white toyota next to the pick up
He’s checking his phone just in case something back at the house went disastrously wrong when the door opens and Bucky climbs in, throwing his bag in the back.
“God, who drives a pickup truck around a city?” Bucky grumbles, arm reaching forward and wrapping around Peter’s neck to pull him in for a kiss. He’d woken up earlier than Peter had this morning, leaving a cold, empty spot in bed and a plate of French toast in the kitchen. Today he’s wearing the sweater May got him for his birthday last year and he smells like their detergent, like fresh cotton and pine. He smells like home. He feels like home. Peter relaxes against Bucky’s lips, letting some of his pent-up energy drain out of him. He’s fine.
“Feel better?” Peter asks, pulling away, as if he’s not the one who really needed that.
Bucky frowns. “Not sure,” he mutters and leans back in. His slight stubble tickles Peter’s chin as their mouths slot together. Peter smiles naturally against his lips, letting Bucky be the one to pull away this time. “Yup. That oughta do it.”
“Wow. You’re so lame.” Peter reaches down to give Bucky’s hand a squeeze. He eyes the discarded bag in the back and his joking stops. “Are you sure this is how you want to do this?”
“Do what?” Bucky asks, intertwining their fingers. His thumb strokes across the back of Peter’s hand subconsciously. Peter deliberately keeps his eyes away from their interlocked fingers.
“Graduate,” Peter says. “Like this. You don’t want to go to your graduation ceremony? You really just want to get your diploma and be done with it?”
Bucky shrugs his free arm. “It’s in my bag,” he says. “It’s just a piece of paper.”
“That you worked your ass off for, Bucky.”
Bucky sighs, thumb brushing up and down Peter’s index finger. “I don’t want to celebrate with a thousand strangers and sit around all day for the ten seconds when my name is called. I don’t like havin’ all the eyes on me, ten seconds or not.” His eyes go soft. “Besides, a barbeque with you, my friends, and little Gracie? Sounds perfect.”
Peter feels a knot in his chest come loose. He can do this. Bucky doesn’t know. Peter turns the keys in the ignition and the engine roars to life. “If we make it there,” he says, releasing his hand to fall onto the gear shift. “I’m the one driving.”
“You’re a… good driver,” Bucky says, gentle smile not reaching his slightly panicked eyes.
Peter raises an eyebrow. “Then can I drive the next time we go to D.C.?”
Bucky grimaces but nods. “Sure you can. You know how. Someone more qualified than me said that legally you can.”
Peter cocks his head to one side. “What does that mean?”
“It’s just the breaking, you’re a little heavy handed and—”
“You can say no to me driving, Buck.”
“Okay,” Bucky says. “Then absolutely not. You’ll sit there and pass me snacks and like it.”
In the car, Bucky plays his favourite songs on his phone and sings along in an awful gravelly voice that has Peter’s ears screaming for salvation, but he beams, singing along in his own off-beat wails until the songs bleed together and then they’re just laughing.
It’s at a red light that Bucky turns to Peter, eyes narrowed and calculating. The last ballad has just faded out into nothingness and the gentle opening chords of the next are playing, not quite inviting a performance out of the pair just yet.
“What?” Peter asks, heat travelling up his neck.
“I’ve never seen you in that shirt before,” Bucky says, metal hand tracing up and down Peter’s bicep.
Peter gulps. “I just don’t wear it often. Unless it’s for work. That’s all.”
Bucky hums, looking down at his own sweater. It’s a nice sweater, material not too thick to be unsuitable for July but opaque enough to hide his arm whilst still clinging to his arms in a way that has Peter thanking the gods. “Should I change?”
“No!” Peter blurts out, almost missing the light turning green. “You look great. There’s not a theme or whatever.”
Bucky nods, clicking his tongue. He doesn’t seem convinced but Peter can’t push it. “Okay.”
Peter’s cheeks are burning. “Did I overdress?”
Bucky shakes his head, lips twitching at the corners. “Looks good on you,” he says. “Just keep Gracie and her juice pops away from it.”
Peter breathes. It’s all fine. He doesn’t know. “Nah. I’ll direct her towards Sam.”
“Like you’ll need to. He’s her favorite.”
The food is cooking by the time they arrive, an array of wonderful and tempting smells filling the garden along with gentle music and laughter. There’s still enough sunlight to paint them all in vibrant colors with the uncomfortable summer heat long gone, leaving room for a comfortable light breeze interrupting the warm evening.
They step into the garden, everything in perfect shape. Sam is manning the grill, of course, and Gracie jumps into Bucky’s arms as soon as she spots him.
“Uncle Bucky!” she squeals. “I got a new doll!”
Bucky’s jaw drops, eyes crinkling as he takes his role as uncle entirely too seriously. He hoists her up effortlessly, both staring at each other as though they are discussing the global economic crash or something equally as serious.
“You do?” he says, adding some disbelief to his voice. “You promise to introduce me to them later?”
Gracie nods. “Her name is Pickle.”
Bucky nods in return, a thoughtful expression passing over his features. “Of course it is. Great choice.”
As much as Peter adores his boyfriend interacting with kids and seeing his faux terrifying assassin persona disintegrate, revealing a ray of sunshine beneath, he should find his friends. On the other side of the garden, he finds May deep in conversation with MJ, both of them holding glasses of bubbling champagne between their fingers. Ned stands by them, too, nodding as they chat and holding his own beer.
May casts Peter a quick look at his hair, at the curls that have broken free and frame his face. He looks like he did in his early twenties again, boy-ish and unkempt in a way that somehow Bucky found endearing. He’s about to apologize for not greeting her as soon as she arrived when her mouth opens.
MJ beats May to it. “It was always going to be a lost cause.”
Peter blinks, mouth snapping shut. He tilts his head to one side. “Huh?”
May nods, resigned in a joking way. “Your hair, honey,” she says, a gentle smile on her face. Peter feels both twenty-six and twelve again under her gaze. It’s strange and warm and reassuring. He reaches his hands up, trying to fix it but MJ swats his hand away.
“That bad?” he asks.
May shakes her head. “It’s very Peter. You look great.” And without letting him breathe, she asks, “How are you feeling?”
Peter pauses, waiting for her to elaborate but she doesn’t. He hasn’t told her anything. He hasn’t told MJ anything. But MJ always knows. Does Bucky know? God, he needs a drink. No he doesn’t. In his mind, he slams the door.
“Me? Yeah! I’m. Uh. Good. Why wouldn’t I be good, Aunt May?”
Her glasses exaggerate her unimpressed look but she doesn’t budge. She takes a sip of champagne, casting Ned a look. “We’ll see.”
He’s about to ask her to elaborate when a warm, solid presence drapes across his back. “May,” Bucky says, all of his century-old manners slipping in. His hand is outstretched. “Great to see you again.”
She returns the smile, clasping his hand in her own. “Bucky,” she says, voice soft and fond. “Congratulations. You deserve every success and happiness.”
MJ and Ned repeat their congratulations, much to Bucky’s horror. His face stays calm but Peter can see the red tips of his ears.
“Thanks,” he mutters, clearing this throat.
“Wow,” MJ says, face blank. “Learn to take a compliment, dude.”
Peter grins at him, his own eyes wrinkling at the corners and a small huff slipping out.
“Shut it,” Bucky mutters, giving Peter his own disapproving look that quickly slips into glee, nudging Peter in the ribs with his metal elbow. Peter lifts up his own hand, aiming for the back of Bucky’s head when he’s interrupted by a clearing throat.
Rebecca is stood in the middle of the yard, her role obviously not forgotten unlike Peter’s. The conversations fall silent, Sam’s conversation with Gracie balanced on his hip turning to quick hushes. She rests her head on his shoulder, watching her mom and waiting.
“Sorry!” Rebecca says, holding up a flute of champagne. Someone turns the music down but Peter doesn’t see who. He’s gone rigid. “Just a quick word or two and y’all can enjoy the rest of your evenin’ in peace!”
Bucky squeezes Peter’s hand and he remembers to take a breath. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Bucky staring at his friend, a blank expression on his face.
“A toast,” Rebecca calls out and Peter is being passed two flutes of champagne by Ned — thank god for Ned. “Buck, darlin’, I’m so proud of you,'' Rebecca says loudly, looking over at Bucky. Around her, everyone has gathered, waiting patiently. The fairy lights around the fence illuminate the background, blending in with the quickly warming orange sky. “I’m gonna shut up since there’s only one person you can tolerate complimentin’ you without rollin’ your eyes, and it ain’t me.”
Bucky rolls his eyes, smirking, and Rebecca laughs.
“Fine, fine,” she laughs, raising her glass. “To Bucky.”
“To Bucky,” everyone except the man in question repeats, raising their glasses themselves and taking a sip. Peter’s not thinking, nerves itching the tips of his fingers but he’s pleasantly surprised that his own glass contains apple juice — thank god for Ned, again. Rebecca smiles and Peter hands his glass back to Ned. He takes a step forward, coming into the middle. Rebecca steps back towards John and Sam. Bucky pauses, eyebrows furrowing slightly.
“As the only one you’ll take a compliment from, I guess that’s my cue to make a speech too, right?” Peter jokes, his itchy-nervous hand balled into a loose fist. He can feel everyone’s eyes on him, the heat brushing the back of his neck, the words like tar on his tongue. And then Bucky smiles at him and tar turns to honey. He can do this.
"Six years ago," Peter begins, a lump in his throat. He holds his trembling hands by his sides, focusing only on Bucky instead of the small crowd.
"Six years ago," Peter says again, louder this time, "I went out for my best friend's birthday. I got stupid drunk, like all twenty-one year olds do, and that dumb, blurry night was the night I—" He swallows, throat dry. "It was the night I saw you and I just knew I’d found what I was looking for," he says, meeting Bucky’s gaze. Bucky's smile has dropped, his brows slightly furrowed as he tries to get his footing on what exactly is going on. Clearly, he was expecting a speech about his long nights writing essays. It’s too late now, Peter has already started and he can’t rethink the whole thing like he’s been doing for months. With the realisation of finality, he takes a deep breath. "Six years ago, I discovered what it meant to love someone. Unconditionally. I fell for you completely before I realized I was falling. I was yours before I knew I’d given myself away."
Behind them, Sam has Gracie balanced on one hip, shushing her with gentle whispers. Rebecca has a death-grip on her husband's arm, holding her breath. May stands a few feet away from them, champagne a few inches from her lips, watching with intent.
Peter lets out a shaky laugh. "Five years ago, you asked me to move in with you. I was trying to move out on my own, working sixty-hour weeks just to scrape a deposit together for a studio, but deep down I think we always knew it wouldn’t happen. You started college, I moved in and here we are today celebrating your graduation together. I'm so proud of you, Bucky. God, I can’t put it into words how happy I am to see how great you did. I always knew you’d do amazing. All of your late nights in the library, your insane coffee consumption, all of it paid off."
Bucky laughs, glancing at the floor. His cheeks are flushed red and he scratches the stubble along his jaw. "Way to call me out in public. I get it. Slow down on the espresso.”
Peter grins, biting his lip. "I’d make you a thousand espressos if it meant you’d be half as happy as you have been. Your confidence in yourself as you kept smashing it test after test, assignment after assignment... God. I love you so much. You’re incredible, Bucky."
Bucky cocks his head to one side, calculating. He looks back towards Sam who gives him a shrug, and Peter carries on.
"Four years ago," he continues, "we took our first trip to Europe together. Yeah, I almost destroyed our reality — sorry again, everyone — but, and I know this sounds cheesy, don’t you dare laugh.” He sends a pointed look towards Bucky, but he just stands there, face open and curious. “All of that made me realize that there's no place, on this planet or any others, that I want to be without you." He inhales, his eyes prickling with unexpected tears. He really had thought he’d be able to get through at least most of this but here he is at the beginning and already close to tears.
"Three years ago," he chokes out, and a betrayal tear rolls down his cheek, "we moved out to our first apartment that was ours. You insisted I get one with my own office, I insisted you get one with a kitchen so you can live your Food Network fantasies," Peter laughs, wiping at the rapid succession of falling tears. "In the end, you use my office to read your books and fall asleep while I work, and I use the kitchen to make you romantic cups of hot chocolate and toasted sandwiches. It's the best I can do but you treat them like a five-star meal every time," he says, voice going shaky. "W-we just fit. I don’t know if I’d be half the person I am today without you."
When he looks up, Bucky's eyes are brimmed with unshed tears, loyal and unwaveringly locked on Peter. Peter can see MJ tearing up out of the corner of his eye. Bucky mouths Peter's name, a soft smile ghosting his lips.
"Two years ago," Peter says, unable to stop the tears from falling now. He was so confident he could do this, and he will, tears be damned. "Y-you saved my life, almost getting yourself killed because of some rogue alien whose name I was bleeding too much to remember. I don't remember you saving me, either, but the world does. The nurse at Stark Tower came in when you were sleeping, asked me if I’d seen it yet. She looked at you like you hung the moon, she squeezed my finger and told me how lucky I was. I already knew that but I, for once, had no idea what she was talking about. But everyone films everything these days, right?”
Bucky stares, eyes watery. Something flickers in his eyes.
Peter smiles softly, wiping his cheek again. “I watched it whilst I was in the infirmary with you sleeping by my side. Y-you still had the bandage wrapped around your entire arm, from your shoulder to your fingertips, but it didn’t stop you holding my hand. You didn’t let go. Not once. And then in the video, I... I saw you tear apart a fallen building with your bare hands and pull me out of the ashes. I saw you crying, screaming my name and coming out of the rubble, blood pouring down your face but you were cradling my head, talking to me even though I was unconscious. You kept telling me you’d save me, that we’d be okay. You didn’t stop talking to me even when Sam was applying emergency first aid, you just kept wiping at the blood, telling me you loved me."
Bucky speaks this time, voice cracking. "You never told me you saw that.”
Peter shakes his head, determined. "I loved you before I saw it. But I watched it so many times before you woke up. Your love for me was there in real time for me to see through the world’s eyes. I-I didn't know anyone could ever love me that much. I didn't know that I could ever love someone this much. Sorry, Aunt May," he adds, earning a laugh from the crowd behind him that was otherwise silent in expectancy.
Bucky laughs, too, a tear rolling down his cheek. He doesn't brush it away, not taking any focus away from Peter. The sunlight catches in Bucky’s hair, painting him gold against the pinks of the evening sky.
Peter sucks in a breath. "One year ago—” he continues and face collapses as he sobs, unable to stop the overwhelming emotions overcoming him. "W-we both got food poisoning from the new sushi place on the corner — jeez, I’m a mess. It’s no universal disaster or near death experience but we were wiped for those 24-hours. I felt like death but all I wanted to do was take care of you. In sickness and in health, I guess.”
Bucky’s breath hitches. He opens his mouth but no sound comes out. Peter takes a deep breath, hand reaching for his jacket pocket.
“Bucky…” he says, slowly. The name comes out as a whisper, barely audible to anyone but themselves. “Do you remember what you told me the day you asked me to move in with you?”
Bucky shakes his head.
Peter laughs, wet with tears but his eyes crinkling. He shakes his head gently. “I’d saved half a deposit and you told me to save it. Buy something else. As soon as you said that I knew what I was going to do. We’d been together barely six-months but something in me just knew that this is what I’d do.”
Slowly, Peter pulls out the red velvet box from his pocket. Bucky shakes his head, grinning as Peter steps towards him and drops down to one knee.
“Oh wow,” Bucky says, grinning as a fat tear rolls down his cheeks. “Way to out-romance me, Parker.”
Peter rolls his eyes, a laugh churning in his chest.
“James Buchanan Barnes. I’ve been yours since the day I met you and I want to be yours for all of the days I have left. Which could be thousands, could be three. I don’t care as long as they’re with you. Every time I look at you… I just know you’re my person, my soulmate. I didn’t even think they existed until I found mine in you. You are everything I ever wanted and needed.” Peter opens the box, letting the simple black and gold band glimmer against the velvet. “Best friend, person, partner, soulmate. Can I finally add husband to the list?”
Bucky’s shoulders shake, tears cascading down his cheeks. But his eyes are bright, smile warm with the promise of a lifetime and he grins through the tears. “If I didn’t know any better I’d say you’re trying to propose to me. Not very subtle of you.”
Peter sucks in a breath between his teeth. “James Buchanan Barnes, I swear to god if you leave me hanging when I’m trying to marry you, I swear—”
Bucky laughs, his voice choking and then all the tears fall. “Peter Benjamin Parker,” he says, voice barely a whisper. “I’d be honoured.”
Peter doesn’t register the whoops and cheers behind him. He’s sliding the ring onto Bucky’s finger and then he’s lifted off of his feet and off of the ground, laughing and pressing kisses to Bucky’s lips.
He doesn’t need the champagne to feel drunk, he has Bucky whispering against his ear as he’s put back down to the ground, “Guess I’ve got you forever, huh?”
Peter grins, fingers fitting into the spaces between Bucky’s like a glove. “You already knew that.”
Bucky’s face is streaked with tears, eyes bright and lips in a constant grin. “I was countin’ on it.”
It’s past midnight when they get home.
“Hey Pete?” Bucky calls out as Peter is unbuttoning his shirt. Bucky was right, and there’s a small pink handprint on the sleeve.
“Mm?” Peter calls back, emptying his pockets. He leaves his phone, keys, and empty box on their nightstand. The apartment is gently lit by a lamp in each room, inviting and warm as the sky finally turns dark outside. There’s no answer from Bucky so Peter leaves their room, peering into the hallway and finding nothing. He finds Bucky in the living room, sitting on the sofa with his hands in his lap.
“C’mere,” Bucky says, gesturing with his head to the empty seat next to him.
“Something wrong?” Peter asks, eyes landing on the ring on Bucky’s finger. “Is the ring the wrong size?”
Bucky shakes his head, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “Got somethin’ I need to tell you.”
Peter sits down, legs brushing Bucky’s. “It better not be anything serious, I just promised you the rest of my life, dude.”
Bucky shakes his head again. “Hold out your hand.”
Peter raises an eyebrow. “I’ve fallen for that one before.”
Bucky tuts, hitting their knees together. “Hand out, jerk.”
Peter rolls his eyes but complies, holding his open palm out to his boyfriend. Bucky lifts one of his clamped fists, the one not wearing the ring and opens it gently atop of Peter’s hand. Peter’s hallucinating, he’s sure of it. A simple silver and black band sits in his palm, a small diamond in the middle.
“You—”
“Peter,” Bucky says, leaning forward and using his free hand to cup Peter’s face. His thumb strokes against Peter’s jawline gently. “I’ve had this damn ring for a year. Longer, even. Kept tryin’ to think of the right time, thinkin’ it had to be perfect. I was plannin’ on your birthday but you beat me to the punch.”
“My birthday?”
Bucky gives an easy shrug. “Well, ever since the building collapse, I knew I was gonna do it. The thought that I could have lost you and I hadn’t gotten around to it fuckin’ killed me, Pete. I know we don’t need to, that it doesn’t change anythin’, but god, I wanted to. I told Sam when you were in that damn ambulance that we’re barely gettin’ started, I couldn’t lose you. Felt like I needed to do more to let you know how I felt.”
Peter’s breath catches in his throat. “You didn’t have to.”
Bucky doesn’t need to ask, he picks up the ring and slides it onto Peter’s finger. He stares at it with adoration. “It’s been on the tip of my tongue for almost two years but then everythin’ was so good between us already, I got nervous that I would disturb that. I wanted to be sure you were ready. But we both know you’re better with words than me.”
Peter stares at their hands, the two rings sitting on their fingers. The fact that he hadn’t needed to say yes, that Bucky knew — even if it was because they’re technically engaged but who cares? — feels right. “Did you want to be the one who did it?”
“I just want you to know that the answer always would have always been yes. You didn’t need to be nervous. You coulda asked me when we were doin’ groceries and I would have been over the moon. I’m sorry I kept you waitin’. Peter, I really want to marry you. Really fuckin’ bad. Sam’s been on my case tryin’ to get me to spit it out for months. I was wonderin’ why he’d gone quiet.”
Peter grins, settling back into Bucky’s arms. He rests his head on Bucky’s shoulder, letting the cool metal through the shirt cool his burning face down. “Guess I’m not subtle.”
“Me neither, you saw the video.”
Peter presses a kiss to Bucky’s jaw and Bucky relaxes, eyes fluttering shut. “I’m yours, Barnes. In this life and whatever comes after it.”
Bucky smirks, eyes still shut. “Countin’ on that, too. Even if the rest of your life is three days.” He opens one eye. “Which I’d really appreciate if that weren’t the case, I don’t need to be cleanin’ Spidey off the sidewalk.”
“But you love to clean.”
“Peter.”
“I’ll try my best. Just for you.”
Bucky opens his other eye. “You better.”
“Duh. Did you miss my whole speech earlier? I didn’t write it down. Something about you being the love of my life.”
Bucky pokes Peter in the ribs and the last sound Peter remembers before he’s flung over Bucky's shoulder into their room is his laughter ringing throughout the empty rooms and the sound of his fiancé’s clothes hitting the floor.