Archive of Our Own

Peter's heart felt like it was going to explode. His grip on the cool smooth exterior of the Tower was beginning to falter. Only two floors to go and he would be safely on the landing platform leading to the shared Avengers residence. Not that it had many residents left. The place had taken on a haunted quality since so many of the team hadn’t returned. Peter looked down and was hit with a rare wave of nausea and vertigo. Spider-Man wasn't supposed to get vertigo. He gasped for breath, no gulp of air felt like it was reaching deep enough into his lungs. ‘I’m going to die up here’ Peter thought. His forehead was pressed against the cool glass. He pulled back and looked at his own reflection, his vision blurring with tears. Spider-Man looked back at him but all Peter saw was a fraud. Spider-Man was brave, Peter was a coward. A sob lurched through his body between gasps, but somewhere inside him he found the willpower to keep climbing.

It had been a normal evening of patrolling. Since Peter had moved from Queens to the tower he had started to dissolve the neighbourhood borders of his ‘friendly neighbourhood Spider-Man’ shtick. But he still had a soft spot for Queens, would go back and swing around his old haunts, looking for cats to rescue out of trees or little old ladies to help across the street. Most Avengers business wasn’t a daily occurrence, thank God. Peter didn’t need any more world ending catastrophes in his job description. And good thing too, as the Avengers line up was looking pretty puny these days. Most of the team that remained had scattered, back to the other parts of their lives that were still intact. Away from the painful reminders of everyone they lost. Thor was off-world, probably doing cool alien shit Peter wanted nothing to do with. Dr Banner had his own lab and was focusing on his academic side, probably another PhD or two, even if he was green. Everyone else? Peter couldn't keep track. There were rooms for everyone at the tower, Tony had made sure of that from the beginning. Anytime they needed a place to stay they would be safe there, but most of them sat empty. Peter was one of only two permanent residents.

Steve stood in the shared kitchen of the tower, clad in his softest pyjama pants, slippers, and his favourite hoodie. The city glistened beyond the window, the last streaks of light just clutching to the horizon, not quite letting the inky night take hold. He was putting away clean dishes he had washed after cooking himself dinner. There was a dishwasher, of course there was, the best one money could buy no doubt. But Steve still liked to hand wash his dirty dishes. The satisfaction of completing every step, busy work to keep his hands and mind occupied, the anomaly of on demand hot water. As much as you like, any time of day, any time of year. These small novelties still awed Steve at times. He would just stand letting his soapy hands be covered in pleasant warm water. Close his eyes and let the heat sink into his bones. Other times he would furiously scrub at some burnt in food on a pan, focusing his mind on the singularity of the task. He had just dried and returned his last plate when his ears caught something. Just on the edge of his enhanced hearing.

Peter pulled himself over the railing and collapsed into a heap, head spinning. He still couldn't catch his breath, gasps he had no control over tore through his body. All strength sapped from his limbs. He lay in a shivering pile on the concrete. The wind whistled loudly through all of the tower’s loops and curves. It was all Peter could hear. That and the thunder of his own heartbeat in his ears. 'I'm dying’ Peter thought again. Seconds passed, or maybe days. His mask felt like it was constricting around him, soaked with tears and spit and snot, but he couldn't make his mind pull the strings of his body to remove it. He clawed uselessly at his face and neck. He had had panic attacks before, but never like this. This must be something new, something different. This one would really kill him.

Through the haze he realised someone had been saying his name.

“Peter?”

A warm voice. Kind.

“Peter?”

Closer now, full of urgent concern. Peter felt strong arms around him, pulling him from his fetal position on the floor into a broad strong chest. He had no control of his senses, Eyes blurry, ears full of his own heart. Still hyperventilating, he reached out and grabbed blindly in front of him, like an animal. His hands found cotton, navy blue. Washed over and over til buttery soft. A brief whisper of recognition passed through him. He’d passed this in the halls, seen it on a hook in the training room changing area, studied its outline in the kitchen from afar. Steve’s hoodie, some deep part of Peter’s brain supplied from its murky depths. It was Steve who was holding him. Peter buried his hands in the soft fabric. Gripping it like it was his last tether to earth.

“Peter, what happened? Are you hurt?” Steve said. He reached for Peter's mask and pulled it off. The face beneath closed a tight first around his heart. The kid had deep hollows under his eyes like he hadn’t slept in days. His eyes were red and puffy, searching but unseeing, tear stained cheeks. It was his expression more than anything. Pure fear, eyes barely registering reality. Glazed over with terror. The kid was still gasping. Steve's mind raced thinking what could have happened. What could have done this to him? A laser beam to the brain? Some kind of psychic bomb? Another goddamn wizard? Was whatever the hell it was still after him? “Peter, can you hear me?” he urged, stuffing the mask into the front pocket of his hoodie.

“Hgn” Peter's eyes roamed wildly, staring past Steve to the streaking sky above. He put his big hand to Peter’s cheek, gently pulling his face towards his chest so he could see it.

“Peter, can you look at me?” he said warmly. Finally his eyes met Steve’s. They were dilated to blackholes, almost consuming the warm brown that should have been there. “Can you tell me what happened? Who did this to you Peter?”

“P...” Peter gasped.

“What is it Peter? Puh..”

“Pa…”

“Poison? Did someone poison you?” asked Steve. Peter squeezed his eye shut but shook his head and with monumental effort between heaving pants said,

“...Panic…Attack”

Understanding dawned on Steve, of course. He should have known. He mentally kicked himself for not putting the signs together the second he saw the face under the mask. A small part of him was relieved that this wasn't the start of the next alien invasion or AI take over, but mostly he ached for the broken boy convulsing in his arms. All this suffering caused by his own mind. Steve was all too familiar. Steve moved his hand from Peter’s face, who let out a small desperate whimper at the loss.

“It’s okay, I’m still here.” said Steve, sliding his arm under Peter’s knees and back. As Steve rose Peter’s hand stayed firmly locked onto the larger man's hoodie. Steve carefully walked back inside. As they passed through the shared kitchen and up the steps Steve cooed and whispered into Peter's soft curls. “It’s alright. I'm not going anywhere. You're safe. You’re not alone.” More sweet nothings followed them through the halls. Peters shuddering gasps and hyperventilating slowly abated, giving way to wrecking sobs. Desperate animal noises that recalled to Steve’s mind the shell shocked young men he had seen all too many of in his army days. Helpless and wrung out.

Steve considered briefly going straight to Peter's room but decided he would be better prepared to watch over Peter in his own. When Steve reached his door he stood momentarily, wondering how he was going to get the door open. He hiked Peter higher so he could hold him in one strong arm and use the other to open the door. Somewhat calmer now, Peter responded by wrapping his arms around Steve's neck and burying his face into the large man's collarbone. It seemed almost instinctual, like Steve was still his tether and he was holding on for dear life. His breathing had become a shaky hitching mess, that sound of a broken thing trying with all its might to hold itself together. That last time Steve had heard Peter make those sounds was beside a dying Tony Stark.

Steve's room was warm and calm. Since taking up residence in the tower he had worked to make the space his sanctuary. Away from all the superhero chaos. The only sign of any super soldier was his shield leaning by the door. This wasn't Captain America's room, this was Steve’s. A series of lamps came on as the door opened, softly illuminating the womb like space. Peter peeked out from over Steve's shoulder as he turned to close the door. He took in the bookshelves lining the walls, full of well thumbed paperbacks, little trinkets, and framed photos. A dark wooden desk with a drawing board, strewn with bits of paper. Sketches. Notes. Pages torn from books and magazines. Art covered the walls. Some framed, some stuck up with tape. Barely an inch of wall was actually visible. Plants dotted the perimeter. A large persian rug covered the floor and a couch draped with patterned throws sat in a cosy corner. If it weren't for the wall to wall window with a sky high view of Manhattan, Peter might have felt transported back to a 1930s apartment in Brooklyn.

Steve walked toward the bed in the centre of the room, it looked like a cloud. Downy puffs of crisp white cotton. As Steve pulled back the cover it crinkled invitingly. Peter felt Steve shift to put him down and tensed, tightening his grip around Steve’s neck.

“Hey, it’s okay. I’ll be right back.” said Steve, in a tone usually reserved for adults comforting small children. Peter didn’t move, except to shake. Steve lowered him to the bed and put his arms around him, turning what had been a bridal style carry into a hug with Peter sitting on the bed and Steve kneeling between his legs. One arm solidly around his middle and the other rubbing reassuring circles between his shoulder blades. “I promise Peter, I’m not leaving, I’m just getting you some water, okay? You must be so dehydrated.”

Peter realised he was dehydrated. His mouth felt like a desert. He could feel the edge of a pounding headache creeping up on him. The specific type that comes from crying tears until you have nothing left to cry. Hesitantly he let his arms drop. His whole body still quivering with unwarranted anticipation of danger. Steve pulled back slowly. They were now face to face for the first time since the landing pad. Peter looked out at Steve from under his brow. Exhausted. Sheepish. He quickly looked away blinking hard, not wanting to meet Steve’s eye.

Steve got up and a moment later Peter heard a running tap coming from the ensuite. Steve returned with a large glass of water, holding it out to Peter. He reached for it to bring it to his lips but his hands were shaking so badly that he could barely hold the glass steady enough to sip from. Most of it missed his mouth and rolled down his chin. “Here, let me help.” Steve said. He took the glass from Peter and brought it to his lips, gently cradling his chin with his right hand. Peter moved his hand to Steve’s forearm, anchoring his trembling fingers on the firm warm skin, his thumb brushed the ropey tendons of Steve’s inner wrist, feeling his pulse beat strong and steady. He drank deeply. Draining the glass and still feeling water miss his mouth and trickle down his chin and neck. “Sorry, I thought that would go better.” said Steve, abashed. Putting down the glass, he pulled down his sleeve over his hand and dabbed gently around Peter's mouth, still holding his chin. Peter finally looked up at Steve again. His nut brown eyes still glistening.

“I’m sorry” he croaked out. His voice was like sandpaper from the wailing sobs that seemed to still hang in the air around them.

“Don't worry, it’s just a bit of water. These things happen” said Steve, dabbing at Peter’s cheek with a fabric clad knuckle.

“No, for…the rest of it.” Peter said horsley. Their eyes met. Steve stopped dabbing.

“Nothing to be ashamed of, kid. Like I said; these things happen.”

Peter looked away again. He doubted it, not to Captain America. One of the strongest people to ever exist. Solid, sturdy Steve Rogers. Always so calm in an emergency. Peter couldn't imagine Steve being knocked loose by anything.

“Now, let’s get you comfortable,” said Steve. Peter felt Steve’s fingers sliding over the surface of his suit. “how the hell do I get this thing off?'' he said, mostly to himself.

He fumbled with the suit, finally finding the opening at the back. He peeled it off Peter's shoulders, gently manipulating his arm one at a time until they were free. Once his second arm was out, Steve placed his hand on Peter's still shaky one. He didn’t say anything, just held it for a moment. Peter felt a wave of peace come over him, and with it, the freedom to be absolutely exhausted. His eyes fluttered shut and his head nodded forward. All fight or flight adrenaline abandoning him.

“Woah there, just a minute” said Steve as Peter leaned into him. He hooked his thumbs into the waist of Peter's suit and tenderly shimmied it passed his hips. Steve felt a small flutter of gratitude to see Peter wearing a pair of boxer briefs under his suit. Not that it would have stopped him helping, but it made it less awkward to be undressing his teammate. Steve kneeled once again, deftly lifting Peter's feet out of the legs of the suit. He quickly tossed the scrunched up suit in the corner, not caring that it was probably priceless for its technology alone. His priority was the person inside it.

“Lie down, Peter,” said Steve. Peter didn’t need to be told twice, he drooped sideways landing on the softest pillow he had ever touched. He noticed in some detached part of his mind that the pillow smelled like a mix of fresh laundry and the man in front of him. Clean but undeniably human. Steve lifted his legs up on the mattress so that Peter was fully reclined.

“Mmh” sighed Peter, half asleep already, eyes closed. His body physically drained. Steve pulled up the covers to the kids shoulders and turned away, until he felt a grip on his right wrist.

“Please,” Peter whispered, “don't leave.” Steve turned back to see Peter looking up at him forlornly.

“I'm not going far, I'll be on the couch all night.” assured Steve.

“Please.” pushed Peter. His tired eyes open and alive again with fear.

“I’ll be in the room until you wake up, nothing bad will happen.” Said Steve, laying what he hoped was a reassuring hand on Peter’s near white knuckled grip. Peter’s eyes were becoming dewy once again, threatening to spill over. Steve juggled the thoughts racing through his own mind. He didn’t want to do anything Peter would regret asking for while he was this vulnerable, once he had returned to his right mind. But at the same time, he was all too familiar with the feeling of just wanting a warm body beside him. To be reminded he wasn't alone.

“Please” breathed Peter, more sigh than speech.

“...Alright.” Steve relented. He toed off his slippers and lifted the covers to get in. He didn’t want to make Peter move but the kid was still clinging to his wrist so hard that he couldn't reach far enough to walk around the bed. His solution was to inelegantly clamber over Peter’s small body and slot in next to him. Steve intended to just lie beside him but the moment he was horizontal Peter clung to him, wrapping himself around his middle and resting his head over Steve's heart, listening to the steady, reassuring beat. A soothing metronome. The hand that had gripped Steve's wrist in desperation loosened and moved to wind with Steve's fingers. Steve was taken aback for a moment at the small intimacy, but he decided that for tonight, to do whatever Peter needed.

He brought his left hand up to stroke Peter's hair, remembering a hand in his own. Chaste and affectionate, but oh so familiar. He hesitated just a moment before letting his fingers card through those chestnut curls, Peter’s head rising and falling with Steve's breathing. Steve felt the last tense muscles in Peter's body finally relax as he drifted off to sleep. “Lights off.” He whispered into the air and the lamps blinked out around him, leaving just the electric glow of the city beyond the window illuminating the room. He continued to run his fingers through Peter’s soft hair, trying to ignore the lump forming in his throat, and the weight of more than Peter’s small body on his chest.

……………………………………………………………………………………………………………

In the half state between wake and sleep, Peter felt an odd mix of serenity and apprehension. He was as comfortable as he had ever been, the world soft and warm around him. The peachy light of sunrise glowed beyond his still closed lids. But something nagged at the edge of his mind. Something he couldn’t look directly at yet. He tried to ignore it. To drift back to sleep. Avoid the waking world and burrow into the mellow shelter around him.

Merciful sleep would not come.

His eyes opened. At first he didn’t remember where he was. Couldn’t make sense of what he was seeing. Two perfectly formed lips, cupids bow sharp and both so rosy pink Peter was sure he’d never seen lips be pink before this moment. They were slack with sleep, blowing the tiniest puffs of warm air right between Peter’s eyebrows, where a crease of confusion was forming. He took in the rest of his field of vision. Steve’s face, thrillingly close, his soft beard, closed eyes. Honey brown eyelashes fanning out across high cheekbones, so near Peter could have counted each one. The concerned furrow that normally lived between Steve’s brows smoothed in sleep. He looked younger than Peter could recall seeing him, cradled easily in unconsciousness. All of it awash in the low golden light of early sunrise streaming in through the big window. It was the prettiest thing Peter had ever seen.

Then the memory of the night before slammed into him like the weight of a building being dropped on his chest. Peter would know. A bitter cocktail of dread, shame, and humiliation flooded his system. Every muscle in his back tensed again, undoing the benefit of one of the best night's sleep he had ever had. He brought his hands quickly to his face and buried it in them as he felt his eyes start to prickle.

Steve roused, having felt Peter tense in his arms. He looked down to see the kid with his hands covering his face. A quick little gasp slipped out and his shoulders had just started to shake. “Peter?” said Steve, his voice raspy with sleep.

“I’m sorry” sniffed Peter, throat closing around the words.

“No need for that kid,” Steve reached a hand out, encircling Peter’s wrist and tenderly removing one hand covering Peter's face, “talk to me.” Peter didn’t know where to start. Frustrated that his mind could betray him like that, disappointed that these attacks had been getting worse again, embarrassed that he had been seen in that state. By Captain America of all people.

For a moment Peter saw himself from above, in another man’s bed with no real clothes on. Crying like a baby in the arms of a person who was supposed to be his boss. His teammate. Not that there was much of a team left. Peter, an Avenger, no wonder everything was falling to shit. This was supposed to be who was saving the world? Yeah right.

It had been nothing really. Nothing worthy of causing such a monumental breakdown. A distant scream, a car horn, a baby crying 7 blocks away. Peter’s enhanced senses had saved his life many times. Made him be able to be Spider-Man. But sometimes the constant stream of information was too much. A crescendo of panic would sneak up on him and suddenly every thought he had formed around a pearl of anxiety. He had gone from lazily swinging home, just blocks from the tower, to feeling like an exposed nerve in a half second. His blood had been replaced with gasoline and someone had taken a match to it. Panic begot more panic and suddenly his hands were hot and tingly and not his but very much still his, attached to his body. His body that was hurtling through the air and these hands that were not his were the only things responsible for him not plummeting to the asphalt. And time slowed and all the ways Peter could die in that moment played out behind his eyes. Or not die.

He recalled the sickening lurch of how it felt to disintegrate. The air rushing in to fill the spaces that used to be him. Not to die but be suspended. The five years of nothingness that technically he wasn't supposed to have experience. Everyone said it had been like blinking and they were back but Peter knew. He felt it. He lived on in the cells that had burst apart and reformed. In the gap between those two moments he had not ceased to exist. It was not blank, but a worse cavernous nothing. He thought of every person who had died that he had loved. Of every person who’s death he had been responsible for. ‘Spider-Man doesn’t kill people.’ Yeah right. He had blood on his hands and he knew it. His flimsy mantra meant nothing in the face of real danger. Had he sent them there? Doomed them to that purgatory? There was no glowing afterlife but even worse there wasn’t even the benign void to swallow them up. If there was truly nothing there would be no way to experience that nothing. He had experienced the nothing and when he returned it clung to him. Followed him just over his shoulder until he almost forgot it was there. And right when he felt comfortable. Safe. it would close its grips around him again.

All of this pierced through Peter's mind between letting go of one web cable and shooting the next. Suspended mid air above traffic and onlookers. His whole body, every synapse in his brain frying with overstimulation. Pointedly bored native New Yorkers and squealing tourists both saw him misstep. Not quite catch himself. A gasp rippled through the crowd. Peter didn’t even have time to think ‘Oh fuck’ as he surged towards the asphalt.

With a loud bang and a sharp pain that confirmed he wasn’t dead, Peter landed on his back on the top of a truck. It had already driven several blocks before he could take in his surroundings beyond the cold air plunging in and out of his chest and stinging his tear wet face through his mask. His body was seizing, out of his control. Not unlike his mind, which was giving him nothing but vast one dimensional terror. Flat on his back in the dent his body had created on top of a truck in midtown Manhattan, Peter felt terror akin to when he had truly believed the universe would end. Out of the corner of his eye, the tower loomed. The animal instinct to run and hide took over. He had to get home.

Peter sat up, wiping the tears from his cheeks with rough swipes. He couldn’t make himself look at Steve.

“Thank you for looking out for me yesterday Captain but I'll get out of your hair now. Sorry I - - disturbed you last night.” he said, pulling back the covers and swinging his legs out of bed, his feet sinking into the plush rug that adorned the room. Peter was pointedly avoiding looking anywhere but down. Steve propped himself up on an elbow, he felt a rising worry that he had done the wrong thing the previous night. He should have kept a professional distance. Taken him to the medbay. He had been inappropriate in some way. Made Peter uncomfortable and therefore made the situation much worse. ‘But look at him’ thought Steve. In the curve of his spine and the bumps he could count there he saw a flash of himself. The version before the serum and the fame. The one no one really looked twice at. A kid who could use some care.

“Peter,” Steve said softly, “you don’t have to leave.” Peter sat on the edge of the bed with his back to Steve, poised to flee.

Until he felt the featherlight touch of a hand on his wrist.

“Look at me Peter,” said Steve, almost a whisper, “do I look disturbed to you?” Peter risked a glance back over his shoulder at Steve. It was true, Peter thought in spite of himself, the man looked anything but. He was cradled in a white cotton nest, a small halo of dark blond hair slightly mussed with sleep encircled his face. That face. Like it was carved from marble. Peter hated that he had caused the apprehensive frown it was wearing. “It’s still early, come back to bed.” Steve paused.”You don’t have to be alone right now.” He was well aware he was being a hypocrite but Peter didn't need to know that. Suffering in silence was his thing.

‘You don’t have to be alone right now.’ The words shot through Peter’s chest, dissipating any resolve he had built up to face his feelings alone. He hung his head.

“Okay,” he relented, settling back down. “thank you, Captain.”

“Steve.” said Steve, also nestling in. “Please just call me Steve.” His eyes already closed again.

“Steve” said Peter, staring at the ceiling purposefully. The purpose being not to moon at Steve. The gap between them fizzed with tension. It seemed to Peter to suck all the air out of the room.

“Try and get some rest alright? It’s what you need right now.” murmured Steve, his own voice heavy with sleep.

“Okay” said Peter. He pulled the cover up to his chin and closed his eyes, body still rigid. Steve could feel Peter not relaxing. It was out of character, he told himself, but it had worked yesterday. ‘Fuck it.’ thought Steve. Peter was surprised to feel an arm sliding around his middle, pulling him close. He was startled at the contact, yet soothed in equal measure. He counted Steve's breaths by the rise and fall of his chest pressed to his side. The proximity had an uncanny ability to stall his racing thoughts. The breaths slowed before too long to the steady rhythm of sleep. Each swell unwound him bit by bit until Peter followed not long after, into a blissfully dreamless nothing.

……………………………………………………………………………………………………………

Blue. Bright clear blue. It was the first thing Steve saw when his eyes opened. The expansive window that made up one wall of his quarters was all sky from where he was lying. Just the spindly tips of Manhattan's tallest buildings butting in rudely from below. Sometimes Steve’s stomach still lurched when he remembered how far into the sky he lived. He believed himself to be a creature of solid ground. The floating behemoths and soaring skyscrapers of the century he awoke in as foreign to him as another planet at first. Today though, today he revelled in the distance it gave him, he could just roll over, the outside world be damned.

And roll over he did, into the embrace of the enigma in his bed. Peter. He had been squirming around for hours after they had both gone back to sleep. Finding new ways to cling to Steve, at one point a small hand slipped under the hem of Steve's hoodie, right where the waistband of his chequered pants sat upon his hip bone. The hand didn’t roam, to Steve’s relief, but the hot soft skin it found was enough for Peter to still and fall into a deeper sleep once again. Later again Steve became aware of Peter lying almost entirely on top of him, legs intertwined. All of this while Peter slept on, like he was unconsciously trying to crawl inside Steve's skin. Steve didn’t mind being pulled from sleep with each reshuffle, he would just watch Peter and wait for the burrowing to be completed and then hold him close once again. Something fluttered in Steve’s chest. Some long dormant creature he had thought dead. What was it? Fondness? That seemed too soft a word. Affection? Attraction? Steve's heart both churned and thrilled at the thought. Not again, he thought. I’m too broken for that. It’ll only end in tears. And yet…

Peter groaned, lids slowly flickering open. Steve’s face was only inches from his but neither of them moved.

“How are you feeling?” asked Steve after a moment. Peter looked thoughtful, silently assessing himself. The ribs he thought he had broken the night before had already knit themselves back together. The bruises and scrapes he had accrued hauling himself to the tower were only painless soft pink skin once again.

“Good. I think. Yeah, good.” He blinked blearily.

“Good, it seemed like it.” smiled Steve, a cheeky knowing look on his face.

“What do you mean?” Said Peter with a lightly apprehensive tilt of his head.

“You wriggle.” Steve chuckled.

“What? For real? Aw man I thought I was over that.” He groaned. His cheeks flushing pink with embarrassment. “I used to fall out of bed when I was little. May ended up just putting down more pillows by my bed and letting me keep sleeping when I fell it happened so often. I thought I grew out of it. I’m sorry if it kept you awake.”

“Okay new rule, no more apologising” said Steve, Peter let out a small surprised laugh, then brought a hand up to rub his eyes. Steve was happy to see him so relaxed, but knew there was background noise that needed to be addressed.

“Does that happen often Peter? Panic attacks?” said Steve, a serious tone edging in. A dark cloud seemed to cross Peter’s face, his hand stopped moving. After a moment he seemed to gather himself and took a deep breath.

“When I was a kid, yeah. May would always help me through them. They stopped after I got my powers. I figured it was a health thing, like how it fixed my eyesight and my asthma. But after I came back from being dusted. After Thanos, and…Tony. They started again. Only got worse after Mysterio. Those drones. They made everything seem so real. Some nightmarish shit” He paused. “Now I think it wasn’t what that jacked up spider did to my DNA at all, it was just the feeling of being untouchable. Invincible.” Peter said wistfully.

“How would May help you through them?” asked Steve.

“She would just hold me. I'd sit on her lap and she would rock me like a little kid. I guess I was a little kid. She’d let me cry. Then she would talk to me about whatever, some TV show she had watched, gossip about our downstairs neighbours, memories of my parents. Sometimes I talked back, but even when I didn’t it really helped. Just anything to fill the silence.”

Steve deliberated, but just for a moment before he reached out a hand to Peter’s thigh and deftly pulled him across his lap, so that he lay cradled in Steve’s warm arms.

“Is this alright?” Steve asked, a worried undercurrent present in his voice. He really hoped it was alright. Peter nodded into Steve’s chest. “So, let’s talk” he said, apprehensive that he had just initiated a two way conversation. It’s not that he had decided to let his walls down, but Peter was making it so easy. Peter paused for a moment, organising his thoughts. Thoughts he had to tear away from Steve’s palm still resting on his upper thigh. The strong forearm belting him in place, which he’s just noticed for the first time, are swathed in fine golden hairs he’d never been close enough to see before. He had to stop himself from reaching out and stroking them just to feel the silky sensation of it under his fingers.

“I don’t feel invincible anymore, I actually feel extremely vincible. Is that a word?” Peter hesitated, picking up the drawstring of Steve's hoodies to fiddle with instead. “Now it’s like I can still feel myself dissolving. It’s hard to describe. Like I didn’t come back right…” Peter trailed off, thinking of the moments before he got dusted. The feeling of impending doom, the way his body knew something was wrong. He had had a moment's warning yet not been able to stop it. Steve knew Peter wasn’t speaking metaphorically. He could picture it clear as day, his friends crumbling around him. Bucky calling his name before he stumbled, never hitting the ground. “It’s never happened like that before, out on patrol. Normally it's at night, when I’m trying to sleep. I can feel all the atoms that I’m made of trying too hard to stay stuck together for real this time. It’s too quiet and my mind just races until I can’t breathe anymore.” Steve’s heart clenched at the thought of Peter going through that alone, in the dark, just down the hall.

“I’m sorry kid, I’ve been there.” said Steve.

“Yeah right.” Peter let out a rueful laugh. “Captain America gets panic attacks? You don’t have to say that just to make me feel better.” said Peter incredulously, still looping the drawstring between his slender fingers.

“I’m not just saying it Peter.” said Steve so earnestly that it made Peter instantly regret his flippant dismissal, he looked up into Steve's soft blue eyes.

“Sorry, I - - you just seems so…unshakable”

“What did I say about apologising? And yeah Captain America. You can’t rattle him. But I'm just Steve.” A sad smile crinkled round the edge of Steve’s eye.

Peter’s eyes flicked down to Steve’s lips; he couldn't help it. He pulled them away again, back up to his eyes.

“Just Steve? Please, Steve Rogers is America’s sweetheart.” Peter said, feigning lightheartedness. Steve smiled bashfully, and slowly blinked like a cat.

“I don’t wear a mask like you but the whole image, it’s all wartime propaganda. Focus grouped to hell before they’d even found me. I was just blonde and blue eyed enough, just self righteous enough. Just stupid enough to volunteer.” Steve paused.” You know my birthday isn’t even July 4th?”

“Really?” said Peter, genuinely surprised. Though now that he thought about it, that would have been a ridiculous coincidence.

“Mhm, they changed all my records so officially you won't find anything else. They even changed my birth certificate. Made it look like I was predestined to take that serum.”

“But all those parties” said Peter, sounding a little pathetic even to his own ears. He recalled the gatherings Tony would throw, bustling with people, backlit by fireworks.

“Hey. Who am I to stop a party? Especially Tony’s.” Steve saw the slight flinch cross Peter’s face. “Besides, I get to spend my actual birthday in peace.”

“So when is your birthday?” asked Peter.

“April 9th, in the spring, when it starts to get warm again. I always loved that, it felt like the city’s gift to me for surviving the winter.” Steve said, a small smile inching onto his lips at the memory, along with a far away look in his eye. Peter noted Steve's hoodie and flannel pyjamas. The thick duvet and the dozen other blankets round the room, the toasty temperature in the air itself, much warmer than the rest of the tower's standard settings.

“So you don’t like the cold?” Peter asked. Steve thought of the bitter winters in a Brooklyn apartment that no longer existed. Of Siberia. Of rushing wind and the sickening feeling of falling, then the freshwater bite of the Potomac. Of a train car barrelling onwards through the snowy Alps, suddenly empty. Of an expansive horizon of ice rushing closer.

Of how long it really takes to freeze to death. He shivered involuntarily. His gaze dropped, jaw clenched.

“No. I don't like the cold.”

Peter noticed the change in Steve’s demeanour. the slight, almost imperceptible, but definitely there terror in his eye. He dropped the drawstring and slowly, before he could think to hard about what it might mean, brought his hand up to Steve’s face, ghosting his thumb across his cheek in a soothing repetitive motion. Steve leaned into the touch needily, his lids dropped and he let out a shaky hitching sigh.

“I - - sorry.” breathed Steve.

“I thought we agreed no apologising” said Peter softly, half teasing, half soothing.

“We did.” Steve smiled, then his face hardened again. That damn furrow making another appearance. “I hope I haven't made you uncomfortable Peter. I just know what it’s like to go through that type of thing alone. You would cling to anything that came along, but I hope you don’t feel I took advantage. If you want to forget this happened I can go back to being totally profess- ”

“I don’t, Steve.” Peter cut in quickly, not even taking the time to consider the offer. Surprised but glad to find how assertive he sounded “And I’m really glad it was you.” He added with a rush of surety.

“I can get you some clothes or something, if you’d rather put something on?” said Steve with a slight glance at his bare chest, giving Peter a second chance to put some distance between them. Peter remembered his undressed state, but he felt neither cold nor exposed.

“I’d rather stay exactly how I am, if that’s alright?” said Peter, hoping his trepidation didn’t come across in his voice. Steve had offered him an out and he hadn’t taken it. It was only polite to return the favour.

“Yeah, that's alright.” said Steve. Peter smiled. The two sank into comfortable silence. Peter's hand slid down, casually he hoped, to rest at the junction of Steve’s neck and shoulder. His thumb just brushing the rise of collarbone not covered by fabric. He found the slight thrum of Steve’s pulse he could feel there reassuring. He rested his head on Steve’s vast shoulder, noting absentmindedly that their heartbeats had synchronised. Steve nestled his face into the top of Peter’s hair. It smelled faintly of shampoo, but mostly of Peter. Steve found himself memorising the scent. Parsing out the notes. A cedar-y wood note, like the particleboard or plywood of a workshop. Warm baked bread, somehow. The fresh earthy gloom that comes on the wind just after rain. Steve pictured Peter slicing through the sky in grand sweeps, the scent of the air itself clinging to him. Under it all, the intoxicating and indescribable smell of soft warm skin. Flush with life. Steve could get high off it.

“Steve?” said Peter, yanking him back to reality. Not a bad reality, all things considered.

“Yeah, Peter?” answered Steve.

“...Nevermind.” Peter murmured. Steve's curiosity piqued.

“What is it?”

“Can I ask you something kinda personal? Don’t get mad.” Peter said, a hesitation there Steve couldn’t help but find endearing.

“I won’t get mad.”

“Does this not make you kinda uncomfortable?” said Peter, almost apologetically. “I don’t think you're a bad person or anything but I know you're…you know… from another time or whatever. There were more rules. Or are you just, like, super secure in your masculinity or something?”

Steve laughed. Like actually laughed. Peter was surprised, the sensation of it reverberating up from Steve’s chest.

“Sorry, that was a stupid question. Forget it.” he stuttered.

“No Peter it wasn’t it’s just...”Steve paused, thinking. It seemed silly to obscure this facet of himself, given the nearly naked man literally on top of him, but it had been so long since he had had to verbalise it that his ribs seemed to tighten around his lungs just a little more than was pleasant. It wasn’t a secret exactly, it had just been a long time since it was relevant. “I agree that the modern world is a lot freer, more accepting than it has been in the past. But queer people have always existed. We’ve always found each other.”

‘Oh.’ Thought Peter. ‘Oh.’

“...We?” said Peter after a long moment, eyes wide. “Did Captain America just come out to me?” Peter almost guffawed.

“God no, Captain America is straight as a rod.” Steve said with a flippant smirk. “Didn’t you hear about his girlfriend he left behind? Tragic love story for the ages I’m told. Me however? Yeah, maybe.” The smirk faltered slightly, all superficial cokesureness falling away but a weight lifted from his chest all the same.

“Woah” said Peter, a little stunned.

“What even is coming out anyway?” said Steve, attempting to brush off the ‘wait, that was kind of a big deal’ feeling. “I had never heard of that before going in the ice. The people that needed to know knew and anyone else could get lost.”

“I guess you're right, I never really bothered coming out either. I think people my age just… assume everyone is bi until told otherwise. May didn’t care. And I never told anyone otherwise.” ‘There.’ thought Peter. ‘Out.’

“Like I said. We always find each other.” said Steve, a twinkle in his eye. Something inside him shifted, he couldn’t tell if it was a coil tightening at new possibilities or unravelling completely with the relief of companionship.

“So, who knew? You said the people who needed to?”

“My Ma, she was so sweet about it. Not typical at the time but she knew I was getting the shit kicked outta me for something. It wasn't a huge leap. And Bucky.”

“Was Bucky your…boyfriend?” Said Peter, recalling the legend of the two boys from Brooklyn, off to fight a war. Attached at the hip, playground to battle field. History will call them best friends.

“Oh man I wished. But he was such a ladies man, a new girl on his arm every week. I was always just happy he kept coming home to me. It made me feel so special.” Steve's Brooklyn drawl was beginning to make an appearance. Something about talking about the past always brought it out. Peter loved it. “There was definitely something there, under the surface. When we were both drunk enough he would insist on teaching me how to dance. How to kiss. ‘So you can land yourself a real doll.’ he would say. Call me his best guy.“ Steve mused, lost in the memory for a sweet moment. “But the stakes were too high before the war. He was scared I think. I know I was. I would never have asked him to give up the normal life he was on track for to be with me. A nice girl. Marriage. Some kids” Steve had a far away look in his eye. “Then he got shipped out. I became a lab rat so I could follow him. A few desperate fumbles on the front and behind enemy lines, just cortisol and endorphins butting heads. I was in this new body neither of us knew what to do with. It’s hard to think long term when guys are dying around you left and right'' Steve trailed off. “It was different back then, you couldn't have the conversation. ‘What are we? Do we have a future together?’ You just took the moments you could get together and hoped neither of you got a blue ticket, or shot.”

“Blue ticket?” asked Peter.

“Discharged from the army for being a homosexual. Though not officially, of course. Technically it was for having ‘undesirable habits and traits of character’.” said Steve, as though he were reciting something that had been drilled into him. Or that he’d drilled into himself. He put on an old-timey twang while he said it but Peter could feel the sadness beneath the words.

“I’m sorry they did that to you. Made you feel less than for who you loved.”

“Oh they didn’t, they never knew about me and Bucky. I was the perfect little soldier with my squeaky clean all American image. I regret that now, I didn’t know the influence I had. I often feel like I could have said something. Changed a few minds. But I was scared to put my neck out like that.”

“That’s a lot of pressure to put on yourself.”

“That’s kind of my thing.” Steve joked sadly. “Wow kid, what are you doing to me? I haven't spoken about my feelings this much in decades.” ‘Ever’ Steve thought.

“I like it, will you keep going?” said Peter. Steve remembered what he had said about his aunt May just talking about anything to fill the silence.

“Are you sure? It’s not really a happy story”

“That’s okay, not every story that’s important is happy. I wanna know.”

“Okay but first you gotta promise me something kid.”

“What?”

“If this happens agai-“

“-When.” Peter butted in. “It’ll happen again. I don’t think this is the kind of thing you heal from.” Peter said, suddenly bleak.

“You’re probably right,” Steve agreed sadly. “okay - when - this happens again. You’ll come find me. Or call me. Or have your AI helper thing call me. No more sitting alone in the dark.”

“Okay.” Peter agreed. “One condition.”

“I don’t think you're in a position to be making demands here.” Steve tried to joke.

“You too. You don’t have to be alone either.” Peter said in a small but steady voice. Steve’s guts twisted. ‘No, no no’ they screamed. He cursed his own stubbornness and that damned serum that made everyone one of his convictions stronger, weaving them with his very DNA, even - no - especially the self destructive ones.

Steve steeled himself as best as he could manage. “Okay.” he managed to eek out. Peter smiled like he’d won a prize.

“Alright. Let’s hear it then. The Steve Rogers show, never before seen edition. From the best seat in the house.” Peter whispered jokingly into Steve’s chest, big doe eyes looking up at him. How could he do anything but comply?

“Well…then I woke up in this new century. Everyone I knew was dead. Or senile. And all I can think about is how much Bucky would have loved it." Steve's eyes grew glassy. “Little did I know at that very moment Hydra had him on ice, preparing to put his brain into a meat grinder again and make him kill.” Steve almost choked on the last word. He felt himself crack like an egg. All levity drained out of him. He often thought of himself as self aware, too self aware even. He knew he had been broken and marred by things he had experienced, of course he had, being superhuman only went so far. But knowing his emotions versus actually feeling them were worlds apart. He had seen therapists. A parade of mandatory psych evals, SHIELD mandated mental health sessions, even privately in the bleak years after the snap. But he couldn’t get over the mental wall. The secret belief that he needed to suffer. A penance of sorts. The earnest compassion he found so easy to extend to everyone else was no match for his stubborn martyrdom. Tears danced along his lashes and the mistiness in his eyes finally spilled over and ran down his cheeks.

“I wish people knew how gentle he was. Before. He’s come so far, his treatments in Wakanda and everything. They're like a miracle they really are but- -.” Steve paused, sniffed deeply and blinked hard. He felt like he was going to choke on his words, but they kept falling out of him. “He’s so different now. Guarded. Scared all the time. There’s scars on his soul that are never going to heal.” Despite the word vomit Steve has just laid bare, a smile inches onto his lips. “Even after all that, I think you’d like him.”

Peter lets himself smile back. “I’m sure I would.”

“He’d like you.” Steve follows up immediately. Not a question.

“You think?”

Steve gives an unhesitating nod, then his face clouds over again.

“I can’t expect him to love me like he once did. However that was. I’ll always be there for him, anything he needs. Anything. But he needs me to not need him.” Peters heart broke for the man under him. An icon in so many ways. A symbol of strength and endurance, succumbing to the unendurable burden of his trauma, trauma that everyone else seemed to frame as folklore. “I told you it wasn’t a happy story” Steve choked out, squeezing his eyes shut.

Peter brought both hands to Steve’s face, gently swiping his thumbs along his cheeks to catch the tears that were falling freely now. This man, stripped of his humanity in the name of being branded a legend. Peter felt a twist in his guts as he thought of his own idolisation of him. Or, at least, the figure he had presumed him to be. The crushing weight of history on his shoulders. Now, the man underneath the layers of myth making and stubborn righteousness was laid bare. And Peter liked this version even more.

“Thank you for telling me anyway.” His fingertips roamed, lightly tracing the path from the delicate translucent skin under those frankly ridiculously blue eyes, along his precise cheekbones, eventually up over the shell of his ear. Steve relaxed into the touch, evening out his breathing and letting it ground him. Sighing lightly when Peter found a new facet to trace along. Over his eyebrows, down the bridge of his nose, into the hollows of his cheeks and along his jawline. One careful finger tip. Finally, finally, around his lips. Steve hummed into the sensation, free from the rigid shame that had clung to him for so long. Peter realised that for possibly the first time since he’d gained the ability, his spider sense was completely silent. The part of his brain that was constantly scanning for danger underneath his everyday life had quieted. Zero threats detected, not even in his own thoughts. He understood, for the first time in a very long time, that he was totally and completely safe. Peter felt both bold and soft at the same time. The bravery that comes from having seen one another so vulnerable. Broken open.

“That sounds lonely. Are you lonely Steve?” asked Peter gingerly.

“All the time.” Steve realised it was true as he said it, looking into Peter’s warm brown eyes. Peter leaned in again, pressing his face into where Steve’s jaw met his earlobe, the salt of tears met his lips. Not quite a kiss, just even more skin on skin contact, like if he could press himself into Steve hard enough they could merge and neither would ever be alone again.

“Right now?” Peter's low voice was directly by Steve's ear, his finger lightly tracing the outer corner of his eye, still wet from tears but crinkling with smile lines now.

“No. Not right now.” Steve realised it was also true as he said it.