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"Stark, your intern is the spawn of Satan. He was difficult being sick, but now that he's better, he's the worst."
Tony's amused laugh echoes through the speaker.
Sam's following words sound almost pleading.
"Why is he being so stubborn, Tony? He had been freakishly nice and agreeable before. What did you put into his head?" If the man thought his words were contradicting, hell, they probably contradicted, but Sam couldn't care less.
He needs Stark to listen.
"Eyes on the screen, Feathers, I don't want to talk to your ear. Yeah, that looks almost better."
The man in question looks calm. Too calm, sitting back in the seat of his jet, the first button of his dress shirt opened. Tony takes a sip out of a cheap Iron Man mug. It must have been a present, or it wouldn't find itself anywhere close to the man.
"I didn't do anything," begins Tony, pointedly ignoring the glare. "We just talked, checking that the kid didn't sneak into the lab unsupervised when he's not on top of his game."
"And why does he act like none of what we say matters after being on the phone with you? A few weeks ago, he wouldn't look Bucky in the eye, and now he doesn't move, doing the whole grumpy teenager act."
"I might be the smartest person in this merry band we call a team, but I cannot even cut open his teenage head to get on why the kid does what he does. Call it one of the mysteries of childhood."
It has to be a conspiracy. There is no other explanation for whatever this is. Sam glares at the smug grin on Stark's face. It was like the man's eyes were mocking him.
"See what I have to deal with all the time? Get a taste of your own."
"How do I get him to stop? I don't care if it's the holidays or not. He cannot sleep the whole day. Bucky was about to throw a water bucket at him after pulling him by his ankle but did nothing, and the brat just shot his webbing at him."
Tony takes another sip of coffee, but it's too late. Sam had seen the poorly hidden twitch of the corner of his mouth as he barely suppressed bark-out-loud laughter. Sam takes a deep breath.
"Stark," he begins. He makes sure to talk slowly, like he would to a four-year-old child and not a self-proclaimed billionaire-genius-whatsoever.
"That kid. He wears his webshooters. To bed."
"Oh, does he?" The man doesn't even pretend to be surprised.
"That means he likely didn't get to sleep at all."
Sam's eyelid twitches.
"What?"
Tony takes a glass of water from the tablet held out to him.
"Thanks, Marcy."
He checks his wristwatch, eyebrow rising before glancing back towards the screen.
"He patrolled until 5:43 am. It's the weekend. Let the kid live a little."
When the kid came in asking for Mr. Stark while hacking up a lung, Sam thought it would end with them calling Happy and getting the sick teen chauffeured to his aunt.
"Aunt May is in Malaysia. For the rest of the month. Could I have some water, please?"
Even Bucky's face twisted as he awkwardly rubbed the teen's back, who mumbled the words between dry heaving in the bathroom. It hadn't been pretty. They got Dr. Cho to check him only to tell them that the freaky spider-metabolism lets the kid speedrun through a mean case of the flu. They had contacted Stark, and the man had been adamant at first to fly back instantly, but Pepper had asked them to give her and Tony a minute. The man later said he could not make it and basically threatened them to take care of his mentee. Sam wonders at what point in life he ended up babysitting an enhanced teenager while his mentor was away on some rich people trip.
"Did you forget the part where I told you he had been in bed and sick for the past few days?"
He wipes a hand over his face.
He's too old for this.
Sam also couldn't understand how Stark, out of all people, refrained from going into helicopter parent mode, being hundreds of miles away from his kid and said kid fighting a cold. He had seen the man freak out over papercuts before.
"Don't be rough on him, Wilson, he's sixteen. The kid just crawled out of the crib and took his first steps. Be a little understanding. You won't get him out of bed treating my penthouse like a military camp for troubled youths."
Be a little understanding.
Sam thought he was trippin' hearing these words from no other than Tony Stark, the most eccentric and selfish person going by the man living in a Tower with his name planted on the side.
"That's because you coddle him too much!"
Tony sniffs slightly.
"Are you suggesting I am not taking your call seriously? Because you would be very much right about it."
"Stark-"
Tony glances over his shoulder, a grin breaking over his face before he turns back towards the screen.
"The missus is calling. I will check in later, having a firm chat with the human incarceration of teen rebellion. Don't worry, I'll set the itty bitty troublemaker straight."
"Tony-"
"Don't worry, we will have a stern talking."
There is a twinkle in the man's eyes.
The screen goes dark.
Sam curses.
"The video of Barnes patting the kid's back until he falls asleep like a toddler? I saved, archived, and showed it to my wife. She loves it. It's very domestic and very unlike Barnes. The perfect blackmail material." Clint lolls on the couch, a hand behind his head, eyes gleaming with delight.
"What do you need help with now? If it's about cough-sirup, just put it in some juice and say the weird taste comes with the congested nose. Works like a charm."
Sam pinches the bridge of his nose.
"He's fine now, Clint. Completely back to health."
The archer draws an eyebrow up.
"What's wrong then?"
"He won't get out of bed."
"He won't get out of bed," repeats the other man, lips quirking in unconcealed amusement.
"It doesn't matter what Bucky and I are saying or doing. He stays in bed and demands to sleep. Stark said he was patrolling, so he's bound to be tired. But he cannot sleep the whole day. If he does, he will be awake all night, and I will not deal with the outcome."
"Did anyone tell you you're a hypocrite?"
Sam ignores the jab and walks back to Bucky, who is behind the stove, a concerningly high staple of pancakes next to him that's still growing. Clint follows, leaning on his arms and watching them from across the counter.
"Let me get this straight. The kid comes in on Thursday being all sick and pitiful, and you two," he points at them to clarify he wasn't talking about another duo at the tower housing superheroes, "took care of him. And the kid had been his awkwardly polite self, trying to play it down to not inconvenience you like the self-deprecating little bug he is?"
A hand sneaks towards the pancakes.
"Exactly."
"And now that you two nursed him back to health, he doesn't do what you tell him to? Acting like a tired teenager, whining about being sleepy, going on about the bed being the most amazing place on earth, and not caring what you want?"
"Ouch!" Clint glares at Bucky, who unapologetically pulls the pancakes out of reach, spatula ready for another hit.
Sam raises an eyebrow. "Sometimes I forget you are a father. That's what happened. Any idea how to get him to crawl out of that blanket cocoon?"
The blond straightens up, wiping the grease off his hands with a kitchen towel. Laugh lines are decorating his face.
"No. I have no idea. Good luck, you two."
It caught Bucky's attention, looking up from where he poured another portion of batter into the sizzling pan.
"What do you mean?"
"Oh, I am sure you two can handle this just fine," answers Clint. He grimaces slightly as his shoulder makes a popping sound while stretching, uttering something about not having enough training before giving the two a small salute.
"See you around. Tell the Spider-Kid I said hi."
"You can tell him yourself," shouts Sam after the blond, who turns around, a big grin on his face.
"I wouldn't want to wake him. He's a growing boy. He needs his "Z's".
Bucky shakes his hand. He's elbowing Sam slightly in the side.
"Let's try talking to him again."
The man pulls the pan off the heat and glances at the clock.
Barton is right. Bucky has become incredibly domestic. Sam observes how the other put the pancakes in the oven to keep them warm. They make their way over to the hallway, determined to end this. It is bad enough that two of their friends got a kick out of it, seeing how they get messed with by a baby-faced teen, leaving them alone to deal with the little devil.
"What about your medicine? Have you taken it?"
Bucky's hands stopped before his knuckles could knock on the door to the teen's room. They hear the shuffling of bedsheets before Peter's voice comes through muted.
"I kinda run out of it?"
"Peter Benjamin Parker, why didn't you say anything?" asks the woman on the other line, sounding exhausted, implying that this must be a topic of many conversations but not without a hint of amusement.
"I honestly forgot, but I haven't been sick in months. I was about to tell Mr. Stark, but with Decathlon and the updates for the suit, it slipped my mind. But I'm completely fine now, I swear!"
"Maybe I should ask Tony if you could stay at the Tower."
A low whining sound emits from behind the door, something they have never heard from the kid before. It was like hearing the personified essence of a protesting teenager. "I can take care of myself, Aunt May. I'm sixteen! I came to the tower when I felt unwell. I even asked for help!"
"And that's the barest minimum of what I expect you to do when you get sick, Peter. Is Tony around? Could you hand him the phone?"
"Sorry, May, he's not here. He's at a conference in France."
There's a short pause from both sides.
"Who took care of you then?"
"Oh right, I haven't told you that. It's just wild! Do you remember Mr. Wilson and Mr. Barnes?"
"You have mentioned them, yes."
Both men cannot help but grimace at the wary tone. They wonder what the kid has told his aunt about them to cause that reaction. Peter seems unaware of the distaste in his aunt's voice as he cheerily continues chatting away.
"So, I came to the tower feeling kind of under the weather and asked for Mr. Stark, but there were only Mr. Barnes and Mr. Wilson, who told me Mr. Stark wasn't there. I wanted to call you, but suddenly, I got incredibly queasy, and I ran to the bathroom and lost my lunch. I was so embarrassed getting sick in front of them, but Aunt May. Both of them were super nice about it. Especially Mr. Wilson seemed genuinely worried. They got Dr. Cho to come to the penthouse and look at me. She gave me some medicine against the flu, and it didn't take two days until I was completely better. Oh, and Mr. Barnes even cooked me chicken-and-noddle soup! It was nothing like the soup you make me."
"You know perfectly well that my soup comes out of the can, mister."
"Oops," is all the kid says, the grin carrying over in his voice.
"I'm glad to know Tony has to deal with that side of you too. Everyone should know that my nephew is part-time Spider-Man and part-time gremlin."
The kid honest-to-good cackles, not sounding any bit remorseful.
"But Peter, if those two stop being good to you, promise to let me or Tony know. I feel uncomfortable with you being around someone who had been that indifferent before."
"Don't worry, May. I think both sides needed some time to warm up to each other. I will let one of you know if something happens. I feel way more comfortable around them now, knowing they care, you know? I think it's genuine."
"I'm glad you think so, darling. I wish I could be there for you. Call me if something happens, alright?"
"Will do. Love you."
"Love you too, baby. Let me know when Tony's back."
"Yeah. See you soon, May."
"Take care of yourself. See you, Peter."
There is some shuffling before silence settles behind the closed door. The men share a look before Bucky knocks softly against the wood.
"Come in."
Sam raises an eyebrow. It was like they had never left. The kid is still rolled up tightly in the blanket, only a mob of brown hair peeking out between the gray line sheets.
"Friday, what time is it."
"It's 13:37, Mr. Wilson."
"And at what time do teens usually get up at the weekend?"
"According to the latest statistics, teenagers from 12 to 17 years old get up between 9:00 and 11:00 am."
"See, even the super-computer agrees with us, kid. It's time to get up, so move your butt."
The cocoon shifts slightly. A pair of brown, very awake eyes peek out of the opening, squinting at them.
"Friday is an AI, not a super-computer."
"Okay. Alright. The AI said your usual teen should get up between 9:00 and 11:00, and you have already taken it much further than that."
"Well, I'm not your usual teen," comes the quip, as if the kid had waited for it.
"No, you're not. A little shit is what you're are," presses Sam out, muttering to himself as he runs a hand over his head, wondering why he's even arguing about this.
A sound catches his attention.
Glancing at Bucky, seeing the man raising an eyebrow, he knew the other had heard it too.
A giggle.
Soft and breathy, muffled by pressing his face into the blanket, but it had been there, undeniably.
Now it's official.
The kid's messing with them.
Bucky seems to think the same.
"Hey! What are you doing? Let me down!"
In one swift motion, the blanket roll of a teen is scoped from the bed and thrown over a broad shoulder. Curly strands of hair bounce up and down with every step that the teen gets carried further away from his bed, wriggling and protesting on the way. Sam follows with a smirk, having to hand it to the ex-assassin. With the teen tightly wrapped up, he couldn't do much but fight against being picked up and carried like an angry caterpillar. Bucky got a firm grip around the kid's middle, preventing him from getting his arms out of the makeshift cocoon, which turned into a silky spider trap.
Their destination is the living room, where Bucky drops the living cargo on a couch.
"Friday, lock the kid's room until he ate something and washed up."
"I'm pretty sure it's a criminal offense to lock someone out of their room," protests Peter, who robs forward until he is on height with a pillow. Sam squints his eyes at him when the teen snuggles into the couch, eyes closing again.
"Oh no. We didn't bring you here for you to pass out on the couch. Get up, kid."
"Can't hear you am sleeping," mumbled the teen and dared to let out a giant yawn before wriggling, turning his back towards the stunned adults.
The nerves of that kid.
"That's it. I'm calling Tony. You see what you can do."
Sam leaves the room, ready to give the billionaire a piece of his mind, leaving Bucky alone with their troublemaker.
Peter listens, waiting for what the other man would do now. He can hear Bucky's calm heartbeat, his body tensing slightly when steps approach.
"You know," begins the older man, surprising Peter by lifting the blanket alongside his legs to sit down and let his limps fall on his lap."back then, when Steve was younger, he had been a handful. We have lived close to each other. When one of our parents was away, we'd sleep over at the other's house. Then I learned that my best friend could be the grumpiest little punk being tired. And getting sick quickly, he'd been tired often. The surprise when I came back, and suddenly the skinny kid who asked to pick a fight is now getting on everyone's nerves by getting up at 5:00 am and asking people if they wanna 'round the park with him."
"What did you do then?"
"When that punk didn't want to get up?"
"Yeah."
Bucky smirks at the curiosity in the teen's voice.
"I taught him a lesson."
Peter's eyes shoot wide open as something heavy gets thrown over the blanket cocoon, successfully pinning his legs.
"He would hold on to his blanket, refusing to let it go. But there are ways to make him crawl out of that hideout."
While speaking, Bucky shoves a hand into the opening of the blanket roll. His arm vanishes halfway until he finds what he's searching for and begins to pull.
"No!"
The man smirked as he pulled at the teen's ankle until a pair of pale feet stuck out of the cocoon, legs wriggling in an attempt to shuffle back into the safety of the blanket. By pulling at the teen's legs and the latter being too stubborn to let go of the blanket, Peter got pulled into the depth of the blanket-cocoon, the only visible part of the teen his kicking limps.
"No? I thought you were curious?" teases Bucky as he fights to get the kicking feet into a headlock.
"I didn't ask for a demonstration!" comes the muffled protest, followed by a squeak when one of Bucky's fingers accidentally runs over his sole.
"Should have specified what you wanted then," replies the older, glancing down at the successfully caught feet in his grip. Thanks to the unfavorable position of Peter laying on his stomach, having wrapped the blanket tighter than ever around himself during his wriggling, and Bucky throwing one leg over the teen, he has a remarkably secure hold of his legs. Despite his head deep inside the blanket, Bucky's words are loud and clear, sparking a sense of nervousness inside him. Even though his spidey sense doesn't act out, Peter can feel something nearing his vulnerable feet.
"You know what Steve still can't stand?"
Instead of an answer, a high-pitched, muffled screech ejects from within the blanket, followed by frantic wriggling and choked laughter as Bucky begins to worm a finger between the kid's toes, feather-lightly scratching at the skin. A grin forms on the man's face at the very familiar reaction. There hadn't been a second of the day where Peter regretted burying himself in his blanket. Surrounded by the cozy warmth and the familiar scent of fabric softener, there wasn't a place he'd rather be. Not even once, did Peter imagine that his favorite blanket would become his downfall. His wonderful, beloved blanket has revealed itself to be a wicked spider-trap. It's almost scary how a blanket, physics, and one super soldier are enough to leave him flopping around helplessly on the couch like a fish out of water. Under other circumstances, he'd easily tear a way out of the textile, but with his arms pressed close against his body and the blanket tightly wrapped around him like an overgrown Boa Constrictor, getting out was surprisingly though. Oh, and, there was also Bucky, who had a leg thrown over him, effectively pinning him against the couch, but Peter wouldn't have been able to concentrate on getting out anyway, even if he wanted to.
"I've gohohot ihihihit, I-Ihihi've gohoht ihit! Youhu cahan stahahap, okahahay? Pleahase, Buhuhucky!"
He's growing crazy.
Around him is nothing but sheer darkness. He's blind, swallowed, and betrayed by his blanket and at the mercy of whatever Bucky has in stock for him. Peter's toes are curling at the attempt to fend off the fingers, but they are giving chase. When he shakes them off, they merely switch feet to provide the other toes with the same treatment. It's alarming how Bucky knows how to turn him into a pile of squirming limbs, unable to contain his laughter.
"I would say this is even more effective on you than Steve back in the day," comments Bucky with a grin as he lets a single finger glide over Peter's sole. The whole blanket cocoon jumps at the action.
Bucky's grin rivals a Cheshire cat.
"That was something. Might be more sensitive than your toes, huh?"
"NO! It's nohot! Yohuhu're mistahaking, seriously."
"Do I? Your reaction tells me otherwise." As if to underline his words, Bucky strokes his fingers again, slowly and teasingly, down the soles of his feet.
"Stohop it! That's nohohot fuhunny!"
"I'm entertained greatly. But if you're not having fun, we've gotta do something about it."
"Nohohoh, please dohohon't!"
Even Peter knew it would be hard to take him seriously with the sheer quantity of giggles pouring out of him.
"What the hell are you doing?"
Bucky looks up, his arms never ceasing their hold around Peter's ankles.
"Though I'd try some reliable methods from back in the days. Till now, it looks promising."
Durning Bucky's answer, Sam glances at the squirming heap of blankets. The head of the kid had vanished. The only part indicating he was still there was the madly kicking legs in his friend's grasp.
"Is that so," he asks, slightly skeptical.
As an answer to his question, a panicked squeal followed by even more panicked struggling echoes through the room as Bucky, without warning, attacks one foot with five wriggling fingers.
Sam's mood improves all of a sudden after being witness to Bucky's little demonstration. Having Stark laughing at him again and telling him that he should just let the teen do what he wants, Sam had been more than done with this. But with the new knowledge and the ability to take some well-deserved renege, Sam's bad temper is history.
"Let me try."
His lip twitched upwards as his words caused the teen below him to try to wriggle out of the blanket with new-found vigor.
"You've got to be pretty ticklish if you're that afraid of what's to come," observes the man, sharing a grin with Bucky.
"He's worse than Steve."
"Am not!" comes the sulky answer as fast as a bullet.
"That so?" teases Sam with a smug grin while sitting down.
"Seeing your reaction, I'm not convinced."
The cocoon stops wriggling for a moment.
"Maybe it's time to get checked by an optician."
Bucky barks out a laugh, earning a glare from his friend.
"I hope you have a tight hold on the little runt," growls Sam, and before Bucky can answer, he dishes out a relentless tickle attack on the teen's helpless feet.
Maybe he shouldn't have provoked Sam.
That's the only thing Peter can think about, apart from one all-consuming thought.
It tickles.
Oh god, how bad it tickles.
"Visit an optician, my ass. What do you call this Buck? Does that look like not ticklish to you?"
Sam found out quickly that light touches got the best reactions. With feather-light touches and
a mean precision, he strokes the tips of his fingers, in quick succession, over the soft skin. Even if they couldn't see his face, the sounds from within the blanket were enough to tell them that Sam works very effectively.
"You could almost think he lied to us," states Bucky dryly, but not without a grin.
"Am nohohohoht lyhihihing!"
"Right. What you're doing doesn't count as lying. You're in denial. Not sure if I know what's worse."
"What doho youhu knohohohow anywahahay?"
"I know you're not in a position to talk big."
Peter had anticipated another attack on his feet. Honestly, he had counted on a lot of things. Getting pulled out of his DIY prison had not been on the list. The surprise is written all over his face as his hand shoots up instinctively to protect his tightly shut eyes from the piercing ceiling lights. His reflex is also his downfall as a pair of hands capture his wrists with ease and promptly hold them over his head. Completely taken out of order by the bright light, the teen reacts belated as a weight settles on top of his legs, pinning him to the couch. The lights dim as Friday seems to have caught onto his trouble opening his eyes, and it takes a few moments before he dares open his eyes again.
"Well, where were we?" asks Sam, cracking his knuckles.
"The kid said you should get your eyes checked."
Sam squints at Bucky before directing his eyes down to Peter, pointing a finger at his chest.
"See what you did? Now I'm going to hear about this for the next weeks."
The kid dared to chuckle. Sam was sure he didn't imagine it. The kid was even making fun of him in this situation. How did it come to this level of disrespect? He raises an eyebrow at the teen, which causes the exact opposite of what he had in mind. The teen fought a grin.
"Are you laughing at me?"
Peter's eyes are twinkling with mischief.
"There is that optician shop right around the corner. I know the manager from one of my patrols. Her name is Patrisha, and she's super nice. I could put in a woHOHORD FOHOR YOUHUHUU! NO, STAHAP IHIHIT!"
"Stop?" asks Sam, whose fingers have found a way under the teen's sleeping shirt and whose thumbs are kneading into the sensitive side of Peter's stomach. "After everything you just said, you little gremlin?"
Peter pulled and tore on his arms, but Bucky's hold didn't budge an inch. His upper body lay helplessly exposed to Sam's attacks. Sam seems very aware of that, too, and doesn't miss splashing out every technique he can think of while searching meticulously for Peter's weak points as if it were hard to find them. Both adults quickly realize that the squirming teen turns out ticklish all over. The kneading had been evil already, but when Sam began softly tickling over his bare stomach, the tips of his fingertips barely touching him, Peter thought he was ready to crawl out of his skin. He kicks his legs, bucking in their hold, and his face is about to split in half by how much he's grinning.
"STOHOHOHOP, stopstopstopstohohop, pleahahase! Sahaham! I cahahan't tahahake thihhis!"
"Oh, come on, don't spoil the fun. Spider-Man surely can handle a little tickling. Wait a second. Didn't you say you're not ticklish? If I do this, it shouldn't bother you. If you didn't lie about it."
Sam grins smugly, pushing the shirt upwards. He reveals a pale but well-defined stomach.
"That skin is as white as a sheet. You ever go out?" comments Bucky, and Peter doesn't know why but finds himself laughing even louder. Or it could be the cause of Sam's fingers, which have found their way towards his ribs and dug into them with vigor. The teen jolts as a finger digs into a particularly delicate spot, right under his bottom rib.
"Would you look at that?" Bucky and Sam share shit-eating grins while Peter gasps for air between a giggle fit.
"What have we gotten here?" Sam asks. He puts his hands on Peter's ribs, his thumbs lying right on the spot that had made the teen jump a moment before. That alone was enough to make him flinch again.
"Nothing. Absolutely nothing. It's a bruise from a few days aGOHOHO. NO!"
"You got hit?" asks Sam incredulously, before massaging into the spot with circling movements of his thumbs.
Peter can only nod, lips pressed tightly together, and eyes squeezed shut as he tries ignoring the electrical impulse jolting his entire body with pure willpower. He might have succeeded if there wasn't a third hand sneaking down and blunt nails dragging over his right armpit.
Brown eyes shot open widely, and Sam used the moment of surprise to press both thumbs into the spot while vibrating his hands and shaking them as the rest of his fingers dug between the teen's ribs.
"NAAHAHAHAHAHA. THAHAHAHAT'S UNFAIHIHIHIR! AHAHAHAHA BUHUHUHCKY, YOUHU'RE SUHUHUCH AHAN ASS-ACK! I'M TAHAKING IT BACK!! I'm taking it back, I'm tahahaking ihihit bahahack! I never said anythihing!"
"It's fascinating how a little tickling can bother a non-ticklish person as much as this, right?"
Bucky had to put both hands back to use holding the teen down, who was trying everything to free himself. Peter squirms back and forth under the series of attacks as high-pitched squeaks, followed by loud laughter, pour out of him. "Youhuh bohoth ahahre terrible! Terriblehe ahahand meahan!"
"You told your aunt something different."
Sam almost felt evil.
Wide eyes stared at him with something akin to horror.
"How do you know what I've talked about with my aunt?"
"We might have overheard some stuff."
Both men thought now they took it too far. But instead of distrust or anger, the teen wears a cheeky expression, eyes gleaming with a familiarity resembling Stark a bit too much for Sam's liking.
"Good to know that at least you're hearing's still alright."
"You little shit. Just wait till I'm done with you," threatens Sam with a growl. Before Peter can let out another savvy quip, the man bends forward and blows a giant raspberry on top of his stomach.
Peter didn't see that one coming.
A short scream escapes his throat, his back arching off the couch as the flight reflex kicks in harder than ever, collapsing into a madly giggling heap of weak limbs.
"I think you just found Spider-Man's weak spot. Gotta remember that for the next training session."
Those words would usually be enough to leave Peter shuddering, but, at the moment, he couldn't grab one clear thought as Sam's head was already on the way down.
"Let's see how many of these you can handle, tough cookie," teases Sam with a smirk as he blows a third, fourth, and fifth raspberry on Peter's stomach and when he can reach his sides.
"Ohoho my gohohod, pleahahase, stahahap it!" presses Peter out before breaking into another giggle fit, adorable squeaky laughter bouncing off the walls and filling the room.
"You know, all that wouldn't have happened if you had just got up when we told you to. How about now? Will you get up? Are you awake?"
The grin on Peter's face reaches up to his eyes, mirth dancing in them despite the teen calling them out for torturing him. Sam observes the kid growing frantic as his fingers wander higher up.
"I can get you wide awake in a second. Wanna bet?"
With these words, Sam bends his head down again, but before his lips can meet skin, he stops and digs his fingers into Peter's armpits instead. A mad cackling follows, and Peter pulls and pulls on his wrists, the feeling of fingers fluttering over his armpits driving him up a wall.
"I'M AWAKE. IHIHI AM COMPLETELY AWAWAKE! Ohoh my gohohod, Sahaham stohop. Pleahase nohot my underarms, I'm goihihing tohoho gehehet up whenehehever you tell mehe toho!"
"Only when I'm telling you?"
"Whehehehn you're bohoth are tehehelling me!"
"You know, I don't care if you listen to Bucky."
Bucky turns away from the teen to send a glare to Sam's way. "You wanna fight?"
The teen uses the distraction and pulls strongly. He manages to get one arm out of Bucky's hold. He grabs Bucky's hand, prying the fingers off his other wrist.
"Oh no, you don't," says Sam and claws his hands into the teen's stomach. The fingers retreat from Bucky's hands as the teen cackles and tries shoving Sam off of him. Bucky takes the distraction as a chance and quickly captures the free hand as Sam weakens the kid by digging his thumbs into his hipbones.
"You listen when we tell you, alright?" he asks with a grin as he threatens to let his fingers hover over the kid's exposed tummy. Peter's eyes weren't even focusing on him, only watching his hands while unwillingly sucking his stomach in as Sam smirks at him.
"Ihihi wihill!"
"And now admit that you're ticklish."
At first, both adults didn't think it would be possible for the teen to grow redder in the face, but they were proven wrong after Bucky's words.
They couldn't stop teasing the teen for it.
"Come on," urges Bucky, using one hand to hold the teen's wrists as he pokes him in the side, earning a panicked chuckle.
"Admit it. I'm a itty bitty ticklish spider."
Peter glares at them and shakes his head, but the continuing poking from both men causes him quickly to fall into another hiccupy giggle fit.
"If you refuse, we have to handle this a different way," taunts Bucky with a sigh as if he regrets the next thing he's about to do. Peter struggles against the grip, but Bucky pulls his arms further, stretching his upper body and leaving it to Sam's mercy. The other man makes sure to dig his thumbs into the teen's stomach before blowing one raspberry after another on the quivering belly under him.
"Sam! Sahaham, pleahahase. Thihihis is torture! I'm going tohoho, to tehell Steve that you-ACK, ahahaha, thahat you two tormented meheh!"
"Nice try, but Steve doesn't like snitches."
"Steve also doesn't like bullies," argues the teen with the best glare he could muster.
Sam and Bucky exchange glances.
It doesn't take two seconds for Peter to regret his threat.
"I'm sorry! I'M SOHOHORRY! SAHAHAHAM, BUHUHUCKY! Noho mohore, pleasahe. I'm tahaking ihit bahack! I wohon't say anythihin to Steve, okay? NAHAHAHA STAHAP, SAM! NO! No,no nohohoho not thihis agahahain, pleaahase. I'm tihicklish, you heard me? I admit ihit, pleahase stahap."
"Okay, one more thing."
The kid sent them a pleading look, and Bucky felt like kicking a puppy if he didn't let him go now. Peter quickly pulls his shirt down once set free and crosses his arms over his chest. He climbs to the end of the couch, a wary look in his eyes. He doesn't trust any of them right now.
Sam rolls his eyes at the teen's overdramatics while Bucky smirks. Deciding to ignore the kid's glare, Sam sits down next to him.
"Why are you acting so different around us now?"
Peter raises an eyebrow at the question.
"I thought you eavesdropped on me and my aunt?"
"Maybe, but it still doesn't make sense."
There is a new shade of pink growing on the kid's ears and neck. He looks down and picks at his pajama pants.
"I kinda got intimidated by you two. I always thought you didn't like me very much, and there isn't more to it than being on the same team during missions. I've never dared to be just me around you guys like I would with Mr. Stark or Clint. But when you two took care of me when I was sick, I realized that you express your affection differently than I'm used to."
"Are you telling me that now you know what we are like, you're going to continue acting like a little gremlin cause you feel comfortable around us?"
There it is again.
That dreaded shit-eating grin.
"Maybe."
Sam groans.
"Great."
Peter smiles before looking up at the man.
"Hey, Sam."
"What?"
"About the thing with the glasses-"
"Come here, you little shit!"