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    Summary

    Peter pushes Bucky away.

    Except “pushes” might not be the right word. “Shoves” is too polite. “Yeets” feels closer, but “catapults” is probably the most accurate. He uses just a little too much strength, and Bucky goes flying. Very flying. Horizontally too. Feet off the ground, airborne, and lands back-first into the murder clown that’s still skittering around.

    There’s a sickening thud, followed by the sound of Bucky grunting, and Peter—who is two seconds away from dying of a possible heart attack, there it is—webs the fuck out of there. To the voice of Bucky screaming into the comms, “What the hell, Queens?!” some nasty cackling in a background, and a single gunshot.

    In which Sam knows best (don’t tell him, he’ll never shut up about it), Bucky flirts like a malfunctioning toaster on its last spark, everyone and their nosy grandmother refuse to mind their own business, and, yes, at least one clown gets what’s coming to it.

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