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he battlefield was soaked in ash and chaos. Titan and Wakandan forces were dwindling. Giant-Man stumbled through debris. Valkyrie’s winged steed bled from the mouth. The clang of steel rang hollow now, the screaming had stopped—only the thunderous roar of Thanos remained.

Tony had been watching. Kneeling behind a ruined chunk of Avengers HQ, chestplate half-torn, he stared at the gauntlet lying between Thanos and the battlefield’s edge. The Mad Titan reached for it.

But someone else moved first.

"Mr. Stark, let me do it," Peter whispered.

Tony turned, voice shaking. “No, kid. Don’t even think about it.”

“I can handle it.” Peter’s voice didn’t shake. His suit was shredded, eyes exposed beneath a cracked lens. His hands were trembling, but not from fear. Resolve had taken root where doubt once lived. "You said we’d win. That we’d fix everything. Let me be the one who does it."

Tony looked into the boy’s eyes and saw the same raw desperation he’d had in that cave in Afghanistan. And the same reckless spark. He tried to speak. Couldn’t.

Then Peter ran.

Before Tony could rise, before Thor could call his axe, before anyone could stop him—Peter Parker leapt through the crater, webs lashing the gauntlet midair. It flew to him, wrapped in slings of bio-thread, and latched itself onto his hand like it had been waiting.

The stones burned.

They sang with cosmic violence, time and power and soul all screaming through the neural fiber of his suit. Peter cried out once. Just once.

"I’m sorry."

Snap.

Light blinded them all. The army of Thanos vanished. Not in blood or flame. Just... turned to dust. Gone.

The silence that followed was unnatural.

Peter collapsed.

They kept him alive, barely. Bruce, with what was left of his intelligence. Strange, with spells and whispers of time. Shuri and her machines. Even Tony, operating on adrenaline and panic, held Peter’s hand through it all.

The damage was brutal. His right arm was gone from the elbow down—vaporized by raw energy. The right side of his face was seared, his ribs collapsed, and the web-shooters had melted into his wrists. But he lived.

When he woke, he didn’t speak for three days.

The new arm came from Wakanda. Vibranium-alloyed, sleek and light but strong enough to crush steel. It was silver-black, with web channels built into the palm and fingertips. But Peter barely looked at it. He kept his eyes low. Spoke little. Spent hours alone.

Tony didn’t push him.

At night, Peter would sit on the balcony of the rebuilt Stark cabin, staring into the lake. Sometimes Morgan would climb into his lap and fall asleep. Sometimes he’d cry without a sound.

Tony joined him one night.

“She doesn’t know,” Peter said. “What I did.”

“She doesn’t need to,” Tony answered.

“I do.”

There was a silence.

Peter turned his prosthetic hand over in the moonlight. “It hurts.”

Tony nodded. “Yeah. It will. For a long time.”

“Would you have stopped me?”

Tony looked out at the still water. “I should have. I didn’t.”

“You let me do it.”

“You were ready.”

Peter swallowed hard, jaw clenched. “But I was just a kid.”

“You were the only one strong enough.”

They didn’t call him Spider-Man anymore.

Not in headlines, not in whispers. He was something else now. He still wore a mask, but it was darker, sleeker. His movements were different—calculated, precise. Gone was the reckless acrobat. In his place stood something colder, quieter.

Avengers didn’t ask him to join missions anymore. He picked his own.

When a new threat emerged, alien or man-made, he was already there. And when it ended, he was gone. A shadow. A myth.

Some said the Snap had scarred more than his skin.

But Tony knew better.

It had given him clarity.

The price had been paid. Not in death. But in sacrifice. And the boy who once looked up to heroes had become something else.

Not a god. Not a legend.

Just the one who did what had to be done—and lived.

Title: "Scars Beneath the Skyline"

New York City – 6:32 AM

The city never really slept, but this early in the morning, it pretended to. Steam drifted from manholes. The chill of late spring hung in the air, and the sunlight skimmed through the cracks between buildings like it was afraid to touch the pavement.

Peter Parker, twenty-one, Avenger, world-saver, public hero, and known mutant of fate, stood on the edge of a rooftop above 5th Avenue with a paper bag in one hand and his mask in the other.

Inside the bag: two bacon-egg-and-cheese sandwiches.

The other hand—the prosthetic—whined softly as he flexed it, the gears adjusting to the morning stiffness. He wore a half-zipped hoodie over his upgraded nanoweave suit, black and red. The scars over his neck peeked past the collar. The right side of his jaw was a patchwork of melted skin and faint blue Wakandan implants pulsing faintly.

People waved from the sidewalk below. A kid took a photo. No one screamed anymore.

They knew.

Peter lifted the sandwich in salute, then vanished over the roof’s edge.

7:02 AM – Stark-Rogers Cabin, Upstate NY

Morgan Stark-Rogers was seven years old and full of rage.

“I said no almond milk!”

Steve was halfway through flipping protein pancakes. “That’s what we had, peanut.”

Tony, in a plush robe and too-expensive slippers, sipped coffee on the balcony. “Why don’t we get Peter to swing by and fight the Dairy Cartel for you?”

Morgan froze. Her expression morphed instantly. “Uncle Peter’s coming?!”

“He said he’d be here before you finished burning your toast,” Tony said.

Thud.

Peter landed with a soft grunt just outside the back deck. He stepped in through the glass door, wind-tousled, half a sandwich gone.

“Got your dumb bagels, Mr. Rogers. And Morgan’s jelly donuts.” He handed over the crumpled brown bag.

Morgan launched at him.

He caught her one-armed and spun her once, grinning, before the expression flickered as she touched the side of his neck.

“You okay today?” she asked softly.

Peter hesitated. “Yeah, kiddo. Metal arm’s not growling at me yet.”

Steve came over, ruffling Peter’s hair and pulling him into a one-armed hug. The warmth was genuine. But Peter still flinched—just slightly. He hated how they noticed.

Tony’s eyes met Steve’s across the kitchen.

No one said it aloud. But this was one of Peter’s good days.

10:11 AM – Manhattan

The city watched him now. There were no more hiding places. Cameras followed his swings, and headlines followed his scars.

SPIDER-MAN RETURNS TO MIDTOWN TECH TO SPEAK ON TRAUMA & HEROISM

STARK’S PROTÉGÉ OR THE WAR’S LOST SON?

PARKER PATROLS ALONE – AGAIN

He ignored them.

Instead, he webbed onto the roof of a tenement on the Lower East Side where he could see the mural.

His mural.

A twenty-foot tall painting of him cradling the gauntlet, that moment right before the Snap. His face grim. His suit torn. His right arm flaring into light.

Someone had tagged beneath it in red:
"HE DIDN’T DIE. HE LIVES WITH IT."

Peter stared at it for a long time.

Then he dropped to the street.

2:23 PM – Queens

A purse snatcher ran the wrong direction.

Peter’s arm shot out. A mechanical whip of web snapped the man by the ankle and slung him into a trash bin.

No applause. No cheers. People took out their phones.

The thief groaned. Peter walked over, prosthetic clicking softly against the pavement.

“You want to rethink your morning, man?” he said, crouching beside the guy.

The thief stared up, wide-eyed. “You’re Spider-Man.”

Peter tilted his head. “Yeah. Not the fun one, though.”

7:48 PM – Stark-Rogers Cabin

Dinner was quieter now. Morgan watched cartoons in the other room. Tony typed one-handed on a floating keyboard, Steve read.

Peter sat on the porch.

A glass of root beer next to him. His mask beside it. The arm gleamed under the porch lights. Some nights, he took it off. Tonight, he didn’t.

Tony stepped out and leaned against the railing. “You could stay longer. There’s no curfew.”

Peter didn’t look up. “I know.”

“Lot of kids out there who listen to you now.”

“I didn’t do it for that.”

“I know. But they still do.”

Silence again. Then Peter asked, softly:

“Do you ever think… maybe I should’ve let you do it?”

Tony exhaled. “Sometimes. But then Morgan wouldn’t be eating donuts with powdered sugar in her hair, and Steve wouldn’t be burning pancakes, and I’d be dust.”

“And me?”

“You’d still be here. Carrying it all. Just like you are.”

Peter leaned back. “That sucks.”

Tony chuckled. “Yeah. It really does.”

Midnight

The city slept again.

And high above it, swinging low past neon signs and moonlit towers, was Spider-Man. Mask back on. Arm humming like a forge. Silent, scarred, and watching.

Not a symbol. Not a martyr.

Just Peter Parker.

The boy who snapped

Title: "Scars in the Hallway"

Midtown School of Science and Technology — Monday, 8:12 AM

They didn’t even bother whispering.

Peter Parker stood just inside the glass double doors of Midtown Tech, his backpack slung over one shoulder, prosthetic arm covered in a black compression sleeve. His hoodie did little to hide the seams in his neck or the jagged scar that traced up his jaw like cracked porcelain.

The hallway buzzed.

That’s him.

Did you see the way his arm moves?

He snapped his fingers and killed Thanos.

He killed everyone.

That last one always cut deepest. Even when whispered.

Class didn’t feel like class anymore. Teachers flinched when he entered. One even called him “Mr. Parker” like he was on staff. He sat at the back. Always.

The other students didn’t know what to do with him.

Flash Thompson, to his credit, didn’t mock him anymore. But he didn’t talk to him either. No one did.

Not MJ.

Not Ned.

Not after the reveal.

Ned had tried. He’d come to the hospital after the Snap, once, and seen the bandages and the arm. But he’d backed away. “You’re not just Peter anymore,” he’d said. “You’re... something else.”

Peter hadn’t blamed him. He barely recognized himself either.

10:37 AM – Physics Class

Mr. Harrington dropped a stylus. No one moved.

Peter leaned down to pick it up. His prosthetic clicked as it flexed. The sound made two girls flinch.

He held out the stylus.

Mr. Harrington took it with a smile that didn't reach his eyes.

Peter sat back down, staring out the window. The arm sat like weight across his desk.

He could feel every eye on him.

He wished—God, he wished—someone would talk to him like before. Make a dumb joke. Shove a book into his hands. Ask for help on a math problem.

Anything normal.

Instead, silence ruled.

Lunch – 12:04 PM

He sat outside. Alone. Bench beneath a rusted tree. Half-eaten sandwich beside him. Webbed fingers slowly unwrapping gauze around his wrist.

A shadow moved beside him.

MJ.

Her eyes were sharp. Not scared, but different than they’d been before the Snap. Like she’d stopped hoping for softness in people.

“You look like crap,” she said.

Peter smirked faintly. “Thanks.”

She dropped a juice box next to his tray. “Some of the kids think you’re radioactive.”

“I mean... technically not wrong.”

A pause.

“I never said thank you,” she muttered.

“For what?”

“For not dying.”

Peter didn’t answer.

MJ looked down at the arm. “Does it hurt?”

He flexed his fingers. Metal claws slid out and retracted.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “Not the way they think, though.”

Last Period – 2:53 PM

A freshman cornered him in the hallway. Nervous, notebook clutched to her chest.

“Um, Mr. Parker—I mean—uh, Peter?”

He turned. She blinked at the webbed plating across his palm.

“You saved my brother. In Brooklyn. Last year. I just wanted to say… thank you.”

Peter smiled gently. “What’s his name?”

“Adam.”

He nodded. “Tell him to keep his head down next time.”

The girl laughed nervously and darted off. It was the first laugh he’d heard all day.

3:35 PM – Rooftop of Midtown Tech

The bell had rung. The halls had emptied.

Peter stood alone on the school roof, mask half-off, wind tugging at his curls. His metal hand gripped the ledge like it was the only solid thing in his world.

Below, students scattered to buses and bikes and weekend plans.

He stood above it all. Apart.

Hero.

Ghost.

Boy.

He wasn’t sure which one they saw anymore.

But up here, for a few moments, he was just Peter again. The kid who still loved science. Who still missed Aunt May. Who still hoped MJ might one day hold his real hand.

He jumped into the sky.

Not to escape it.

But to rise above it—again

Title: "The Fall That Didn’t Finish"

Midtown – Rooftop of Midtown Tech – 3:37 PM

Peter stood at the edge of the roof.

The school was empty now. He could hear the buses pulling away, laughter drifting faintly from the street. A world below, pulsing with life.

He had given everything.

He had bled, burned, watched the world cheer and then turn silent.

They knew who he was now, and they still looked through him.

The prosthetic arm felt heavier than usual. Cold. Alien. Not his.

Peter looked down.

He didn’t wear the mask.

No note. No web left behind. Just wind. And gravity.

He closed his eyes and stepped forward.

Down the Block – 3:38 PM

Steve Rogers, hoodie zipped up, walking with a paper bag of apples and peanut butter snacks for Morgan, looked up just in time to see something fall from the Midtown Tech rooftop.

A blur of red and black.

A body.

He dropped the bag and ran.

Impact Interrupted – Seconds Later

Peter had only just felt the rush of air flattening against him, the weightless plummet, when arms wrapped around his torso mid-air. Hard. Familiar.

They hit the street in a tangled mess of muscle, metal, and asphalt.

The ground cracked.

Pain flashed white-hot up Peter’s back. He gasped—because he was still breathing.

Steve was crouched over him, panting. “What the hell were you doing?!”

Peter didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

Steve grabbed the front of his suit, eyes wide with fury and fear. “Peter—what were you doing?!”

People started to gather. Phones rose.

Steve pushed Peter up against the wall of the school building, shielding him from sight with his body.

Peter’s voice came out like a splintered breath. “I just wanted it to stop.”

Steve’s hands trembled. Not with anger. With helplessness. “You’re a goddamn Avenger. You saved everything. Why—why would you—"

“Because I still feel everything,” Peter snapped, eyes glassy. “Every scream. Every face that turned to ash. Everyone who looked at me after and said, ‘He lived.’ Like that was a blessing. Like it didn’t hurt every day I woke up still here!”

He choked, fists curled against his thighs.

“My arm... I see it when I sleep. I don’t even know if the rest of me is real anymore. I’m just... leftovers.”

Steve’s face broke.

He pulled Peter into a crushing hug, not the soldier, not the Captain—just a man who knew the cost of carrying the world.

“You’re not leftovers,” Steve whispered. “You’re what’s left standing. And I am not losing another son.”

Peter clung to him, silent tears running into the shoulder of Steve’s sweatshirt.

No reporters. No shield. No heroism.

Just the boy who almost fell.

And the man who caught him.

Hours Later – Stark-Rogers Cabin

Tony stood at the window, arms crossed, watching Peter sleep on the couch.

Blanket pulled up to his shoulders. Prosthetic still on.

Steve leaned on the wall beside him, arms tight.

“He almost...” Tony started, then swallowed hard. “He almost didn’t come back.”

“I know.”

“I should’ve seen it.”

“So should I.”

They stood in silence.

Then Tony whispered, “He thinks he failed us.”

Steve looked over. “Then we make damn sure he knows he didn’t.”

Tony nodded. “Tomorrow... I’ll tell him the story. The one I never finished.”

“What story?”

“The one where he saves me, too.”

Title: "The Morning After the Edge"

Stark-Rogers Cabin – 7:43 AM

Peter blinked awake to sunlight slanting through half-closed blinds and the faint smell of cinnamon pancakes. A blanket was tucked tightly under his chin. Too tightly.

His head ached. His back was sore. And he was on the couch in the Stark-Rogers living room, not his bed in Queens.

He sat up slowly.

The blanket fell, and the prosthetic arm gleamed against the sunlight. Still attached. Still him.

The night before was a blur. A drop. A yell. Strong arms. Steve’s voice.

He shook it off.

Just a dream. Probably.

"You're up," came a voice softly from the kitchen.

Tony. Wearing a "World’s Okayest Dad" apron.

"...Did I fall asleep here again?" Peter asked groggily.

“You could say that.” Tony turned off the stove and walked over, setting down a plate of pancakes shaped like web symbols.

Peter blinked. “Uh… thanks. This is... new.”

“No sarcasm today. Just carbs,” Tony said.

Peter squinted. “You okay?”

“You askin’ me? Kid, you’re the one who slept like a corpse on my designer couch.”

Peter gave a weak smile, but something about Tony’s tone—it was too light. Too measured.

Then Steve came in from outside, hair wet from a run, and immediately crouched beside the couch.

“You need water? Anything hurting?”

Peter’s eyes narrowed. “I mean… not more than usual.”

Steve nodded but stayed crouched there. Hand on Peter’s arm like he was afraid he’d disappear again.

“…You’re being weird,” Peter muttered.

Morgan wandered in, dragging her blanket and a stuffed raccoon under one arm.

She didn’t say good morning.

She walked straight up to Peter, climbed into his lap without asking, and hugged his chest tight.

Peter’s arms hovered awkwardly in the air. “Uh. Hey, Momo.”

She didn’t let go.

“Did I... miss something?”

Tony glanced at Steve. Steve didn’t look away.

“You could say yesterday was kind of a... rough one,” Tony said, walking over slowly. “There was a moment. A big one.”

Peter’s chest tightened.

Flashes. Wind. Gravity. Arms catching him. Yelling.

“…Oh.”

“You remember?”

“Bits.”

Steve spoke gently. “You tried to leave us, Peter.”

Morgan’s arms tightened around his middle. “Don’t do that again.”

Peter stared ahead, eyes wide. “I wasn’t... I didn’t mean—"

Tony sat beside him, and for once didn’t make a joke. “You don’t have to explain. You don’t have to say anything. Just… don’t carry it alone anymore.”

Peter looked down at Morgan, who refused to let go, and then over at Steve, who hadn’t moved from his crouch. Tony, who watched him like a father who’d almost lost a son.

He exhaled. Shaky.

“I didn’t want to die,” he whispered. “I just didn’t want to hurt anymore.”

Steve rested his forehead against Peter’s shoulder. “We know.”

“You’ve been hurting in silence for too long,” Tony added. “That’s over. You fall—we catch you.”

Morgan finally looked up. “Promise me?”

Peter smiled faintly, brushing her hair back.

“I promise.”

And for the first time in a long time, he meant it.

Title: "Transfer Trauma and the Mouth That Wouldn't Stop"

Midtown Tech – 8:03 AM

Peter stepped off the bus, hoodie up, headphones in, trying to disappear.

He wasn’t in the mood for stares today. Not after yesterday. Not after the porch confession. The pancakes. The way Tony had walked him out like a bodyguard. The way Morgan whispered “Don’t fall again” like it was a spell.

His mind was loud.

But Midtown? Midtown was louder.

Phones out. Eyes tracking him. Whispers like dust clouds. He passed by his locker without even looking at it. Sat at his desk before anyone else entered physics.

Then the door opened.

And in walked chaos.

A boy with a half-buttoned uniform shirt, sleeves rolled up over forearms covered in what looked like marker doodles and bandaids. His red sneakers squeaked with every step. His eyes were bright. His smirk—unchallenged.

“Is this physics?” he asked, loudly. “Or the Spider-Man Hall of Fame?”

Peter looked up slowly.

The boy’s eyes found him immediately. Locked in. “Oh, look. Front-row seats to the living legend.”

“New kid,” Mr. Harrington muttered from the corner. “That’s Peter Parker. Peter, this is Wade Wilson. He transferred in from... somewhere.”

“Canada,” Wade said, grinning. “Land of syrup, sadness, and suppressed rage.”

He dropped into the seat beside Peter, slouched dramatically, then stage-whispered, “So, what’s it like being the world’s favorite trauma token?”

Peter blinked. “Excuse me?”

“I mean, like—you died, came back, snapped the glove, didn’t die again, got a robot arm, and now you're back in high school? That’s commitment. Or, like... punishment?”

Peter stared at him. “Do you always talk this much?”

“Only when I’m uncomfortable.” Beat. “So, always.”

Peter turned back to his notebook, trying to ignore him.

But Wade didn’t stop.

“I get it though. The not dying thing? Big mood. You ever wonder if they only like you because you didn’t die?”

Peter paused.

Wade raised an eyebrow. “Bam. Got you thinking.”

Peter turned his head, expression sharpening. “You don’t know me.”

“I know pain when I see it,” Wade said, a little softer now. “I know the twitchy eyes. The robot bits. The tight-lipped ‘I’m fine.’ I am that.”

Peter frowned.

Wade smiled wider. “Relax, Spider-Boy. I’m not gonna write a fanfic about you. Yet.”

Lunch – 12:08 PM

Peter sat under the rusted tree again. Alone.

Until a tray clattered next to his.

Wade.

He took a huge bite of a turkey sandwich. “I got kicked out of the other table. Apparently, sarcasm isn’t allowed in polite society.”

Peter looked up. “You’re sitting here?”

“Look, I’m not trying to be your sidekick or emotional support psychopath,” Wade said, mouth full. “I just figured… two trauma goblins like us? Might as well share a bench.”

Peter stared for a second.

Then: “…You’re so weird.”

Wade grinned. “Takes one to know one, robo-boy.”

Later That Day – Hallway

Peter opened his locker and found a sticky note taped to the inside:

“You fall again—I bounce under you. Deadpool-level loyalty. – Wade”

Peter stared at it.

He didn’t smile. Not really.

But he didn’t throw it away either.

Title: “Signs and Spider-Crushes”

Stark-Rogers Cabin – Tuesday Morning – 7:12 AM

Peter was humming.

Actually humming.

In the kitchen. At seven in the morning. Wearing two different socks and pouring orange juice while swaying like he was halfway through a dance battle with gravity.

Tony squinted over his mug.

Steve looked up from the paper.

Morgan blinked. “Is he okay?”

Peter didn’t notice the attention. He downed half the juice, wiped his mouth with his sleeve, and mumbled, “Gotta go early—help the new kid with... trig.”

He grabbed his bag and darted out the front door before anyone could stop him.

The room fell quiet.

Tony blinked. “Did he just say ‘new kid?’”

Steve lowered the paper. “And math?”

Morgan squinted suspiciously. “He hates helping with math.”

Tony stood, walked over to the kitchen counter, and leaned on it like he was defusing a bomb. “Steve, we have a situation.”

“What kind of situation?”

“Our son,” Tony said slowly, “is in love.”

Steve choked on his coffee.

Morgan gasped. “Peter has a crush? Who is it? What’s their name? Are they cute?”

“Doesn’t matter if they’re cute,” Steve said, then added, “But also—yeah, kinda does.”

Tony was pacing now. “Okay, okay. Let’s think. New kid. Transferred in. Weirdly timed with Peter’s sudden emotional un-collapse. What do we know?”

Morgan was already tapping on her StarkPad. “Midtown Tech’s new student is... Wade Wilson. Age sixteen. Transferred from... multiple schools. Like a lot of them.”

Steve raised a brow. “Wilson?”

Tony pinched the bridge of his nose. “God help me, I know that name. There’s a Wilson that SHIELD flagged years ago. Healing factor, high pain tolerance, mouth that won’t quit…”

Steve’s eyes widened.

Tony’s jaw dropped.

“Deadpool?!”

Morgan beamed. “I like him already.”

Later That Evening – 5:26 PM

Peter came home late. Hoodie on, hair wind-tossed, a faint bruise near his jawline.

“Hey,” he said casually. “Wade and I were at the library.”

All three of them stared at him.

Peter blinked. “What?”

Tony leaned in. “You’re smiling.”

Steve crossed his arms. “You’re also lying. You hate libraries.”

Morgan leaned her elbows on the table, grinning like a devil. “You like him.”

Peter froze. “What?”

“You like Wade,” she sang. “You like the weird new kid. You’re totally in loooove.”

“I am not—!”

“Peter,” Steve interrupted gently, “it’s okay if you are.”

Peter looked at the three of them. And something in his defenses buckled.

He didn’t deny it.

“…He’s just... different,” he said softly. “He doesn’t care about the hero stuff. He says what he’s thinking. He’s been through things too. And... he makes me forget the pain for like, five seconds.”

Tony’s expression softened. “Sounds like a good thing.”

“He also put a sticker on my back that said ‘Certified Trauma Snack.’” Peter muttered.

Morgan snorted.

Steve smiled, stepping forward. “Peter… it’s okay to have light in your life. You don’t have to punish yourself forever.”

Peter looked down, then nodded once. Quiet. Vulnerable.

“…Thanks.”

Then Morgan grinned and said, “Can he come to dinner sometime?”

Peter turned red. “No.”

Tony and Steve grinned.

Morgan just hummed.

Title: “Dad Talk: Malfunctioning Hearts and Limbs”

Stark-Rogers Cabin – Garage Workshop – 7:41 PM

Peter sat cross-legged on the floor, a screwdriver in his mouth, wires running from his prosthetic arm to a diagnostic screen flickering on the nearby bench. Sparks popped once. He didn’t flinch. This was his quiet space—part lab, part therapy. The whir of tiny servos was calming.

Then the door creaked open.

“Hey, bud,” Tony said, leaning in with an uncomfortable casualness that set off every internal alarm Peter had.

Steve followed right behind, hands in pockets, wearing the expression of a man who’d rather face an alien armada than have an emotional conversation.

Peter raised an eyebrow and didn’t look up. “If I say I’m busy with a vibrating death arm, will this conversation go away?”

Tony smirked. “Cute. No.”

Peter sighed and dropped the screwdriver. “What now?”

Steve sat on the workbench. Tony stayed standing. Bad sign.

Tony cleared his throat. “So... we just wanted to say we noticed the whole... Wade Wilson development.”

Peter immediately paused mid-rewire. “Oh no.”

“We just want you to know,” Steve added, “that you don’t have to be scared to talk to us about your feelings.”

“I wasn’t,” Peter said.

Tony nodded. “Great! That’s good. Open communication is healthy. Especially when one of your dads was a repressed super soldier and the other was a billionaire disaster bisexual with... flair.”

“Tony.”

Peter narrowed his eyes. “I am physically holding exposed wiring near my nervous system, and you’re choosing now to do this?”

Tony leaned against the wall like a therapist in a Netflix teen drama. “Listen. We’re just saying—we know it’s weird when you start catching feelings, especially if the person in question is, let’s say, a chaotic bisexual gremlin with aggressive eye contact and... questionable moral instincts.”

Steve cut in quickly, “But we’re not judging!”

Peter raised his metal hand, trying to delicately screw the servo cap back on. “You’re literally married. To each other. I know you’re gay. I’m not twelve.”

Tony blinked. “Right. But there’s a difference between knowing your dads are gay and them saying ‘Hey, son, we support your possible romantic entanglement with a foul-mouthed Canadian delinquent.’”

Peter groaned. “Please stop saying things.”

Steve added gently, “We’re proud of you, Peter. For opening your heart. For letting someone in again. Even if that someone refers to us as ‘Captain Tightpants’ and ‘Daddy Starkles.’”

Peter froze. “He what?”

Tony looked like he was actively restraining a laugh. “He called me ‘Daddy Starkles’ and tried to give me a fist bump. I’ve never been more horrified or impressed.”

Peter turned bright red. His servo joint sparked.

Steve reached over instinctively to help—

Pop!

The arm hissed and snapped a bolt clean off. Peter yelped, flailing backward, arm buzzing like a wasp hive gone rogue.

“Damn it!” he shouted, shaking the prosthetic violently. “This is what I get for trying to fix my trauma limb while getting queer-coded support speeches from superhero husbands!”

Tony held up both hands. “Okay, okay—pause the meltdown. We’ll go. Clearly the arm needs emotional space.”

Steve, already reaching for the toolkit, said softly, “We’ll finish this talk another time.”

Peter groaned into his knees.

Tony, before leaving, leaned back in one last time and said with a smirk, “Just use protection. Like emotional boundaries. Or rubber gloves when touching Wade’s face.”

Peter hurled a wrench at him.

Later That Night – Peter’s Room

Peter lay on his bed, staring at the ceiling. His arm buzzed occasionally with mild glitches.

From down the hall, he could still hear Steve saying, “I think that went pretty well.”

And Tony replying, “One day he’ll thank us. Maybe at the wedding.”

Peter grabbed a pillow and screamed into it.

Softly, under his breath:
“…I hate everyone.”

But his smile lingered anyway.

Title: “Missing Arm, Maximum Alarm”

Stark-Rogers Cabin – Saturday Morning – 9:03 AM

Peter padded into the kitchen wearing pajama pants with little science symbols and a faded Midtown Tech hoodie with one empty sleeve dangling where his prosthetic arm should be. His hair stuck up in every direction. His face was half-asleep.

He opened the fridge.

Pulled out milk.

Poured cereal.

Completely at peace.

Until—

"PETER BENJAMIN PARKER WHERE IS YOUR ARM?!"

The spoon froze mid-air.

Peter sighed.

Tony stormed in wearing a bathrobe and panic. His hair was also sticking up—but for very different, more paranoid engineer reasons.

“Where’s your arm?” Tony repeated, gesturing wildly. “Where’s the arm?! Why don’t you have the arm?!”

Peter blinked slowly. “Good morning to you too.”

Tony walked around him, inspecting like Peter was a suspiciously humanoid toaster. “Is it malfunctioning? Did you break it again? Are you regressing? Did Wade say something? Did I say something?”

Peter took a bite of cereal.

“Dude, it’s Saturday.”

Tony’s eyes narrowed. “And?”

“I don’t wear it on Saturdays.”

Tony stared. “You what?”

Peter swallowed. “It’s a rest day. Arm gets a break. I get a break. It’s heavy. It gets hot. The micro-servos tickle when I sleep.”

Tony looked betrayed, like someone had unplugged his AI without warning.

“You’re telling me you’ve had this completely emotionally symbolic and cybernetically sophisticated piece of tech—my greatest work next to my kid and my husband—and you’re just... leaving it on your nightstand like a bad charging cable?”

Peter gave him a tired glare. “Do you wear your Iron Man suit to brunch?”

Tony paused. “I could.”

Steve walked in, holding Morgan’s hand, both of them wearing matching flannel pajamas. He took one look at Tony pacing, Peter eating one-handed, and just said, “Armgate again?”

Morgan, cheerful as ever, skipped over to Peter and hugged his waist. “Are you armless today?”

“Yup,” Peter said with a smile, ruffling her hair with his left hand.

“Cool,” she said, then looked at Tony. “Dad, he doesn’t need it all the time. Let him be soft sometimes.”

Steve grinned. “Out of the mouths of babes.”

Tony crossed his arms. “Fine. But if I catch you lifting anything heavier than a cereal box with your trauma shoulder, I’m gluing that thing to your ribcage.”

Peter held up a spoon. “What about this?”

“That’s the limit.”

An Hour Later – Garage

Peter finally returned to the garage to double-check the arm. The core was stable. The actuators just needed fine-tuning. He sat cross-legged again, headphones on, tweaking the wrist joint.

Tony hovered behind him, arms crossed, watching.

Peter noticed.

“Are you here to micromanage or just emotionally hover like a neurotic seagull?”

Tony sniffed. “I’m here to supervise out of love and deep-rooted trauma. There’s a difference.”

Peter didn’t reply, but after a minute he said softly, “I don’t hate the arm.”

Tony tilted his head. “Yeah?”

“I just like remembering I’m not only the guy who snapped his fingers and melted half his body. Sometimes I want to be just Peter. No metal. No war. No... labels.”

Tony crouched beside him, quieter now. “You don’t need the arm to be whole, kid. You never did.”

Peter looked at him, eyes tired but clear. “I know. But you did your best to make sure I could choose.”

Tony smiled, eyes crinkling. “Yeah. Well. Dad of the year. Even when I overreact.”

“Especially when you overreact.”

Tony stood and ruffled his hair. “Finish your tweaks. Then take it off and go text Wade something dumb. I’m sure he’s emotionally available between trauma memes.”

Peter rolled his eyes.

But smiled for the first time in months.

Evening – Stark-Rogers Cabin – Peter’s Room – 8:17 PM

Peter sat on his bed, back against the wall, arm off again, blanket wrapped loosely around his shoulders. The night was quiet. Too quiet. Even the trees outside seemed still.

On the floor, his phone buzzed.

Wade 🧠💥:

you up?
you’re probably journaling or dismantling a toaster but if not
i miss your weird face.
come outside. porch.

Peter smiled at the screen. Just slightly. Fingers hovered over the reply.

Then he saw it.

A notification right below Wade’s message. Buried in his gallery.

An old photo.

“NY Sanctum – 5 YEARS AGO”
Blurry. Dust in the air. Tony, bleeding. Strange, holding back Thanos’s horde. And Peter. Young. Terrified. Reaching for the gauntlet.

He hadn’t seen it in ages.

He clicked it by mistake.

The screen filled with his own eyes—wide, naive, alive.

And suddenly, it was like his chest cracked open.

FLASHBACK

That moment—so vivid.

The way it felt to hold the Stones.

The sound they made when they screamed through him.

His arm burning. Not metal. His.

His scream echoing through the void of victory.

Tony, watching.

The army turning to dust.

The silence.

PRESENT – 8:19 PM

Peter exhaled hard and dropped the phone. It hit the floor with a dull thud.

He pulled his knees up to his chest. The blanket slid off.

The phantom ache where his real arm used to be pulsed like it knew.

He didn't cry. He hadn't cried in months.

But he shook.

That kind of tremor that lives deep in your bones, behind your scars, in the places no one sees—even if they look right at you.

Outside – Wade waited.

Leaning on the porch railing. Looking up at Peter’s window.

And for the first time since they met, he didn’t smile.

He could feel it.

Something inside Peter was breaking again.

Title: “All the Parts You Don’t Fix”

Stark-Rogers Cabin – Peter’s Room – 8:23 PM

The silence in the room was loud. A high-pitched ringing filled the hollow space in Peter’s skull, the kind that made everything else feel far away. He could barely hear the wind outside. Barely feel the room around him.

Just the pressure in his chest. A vice grip that had been tightening for years.

He stared at the old photo, screen still glowing faintly on the floor.

Why did he look so alive then?

Why did he still miss dying?

Downstairs – 8:25 PM

Wade’s knuckles hovered over the front door, hesitation rare on his face.

Then he knocked.

Not once. Not in a goofy rhythm. Just… solid. Sharp.

Tony opened it with one eyebrow already raised. “You’re early for emotionally inappropriate porch visits.”

“I’m not here for banter, Stark,” Wade said, eyes darker than usual. “Where’s Peter?”

Tony stepped aside. Steve looked up from the living room, alert now. Morgan looked toward the stairs, frowning.

“He’s in his room,” Steve said. “But...”

“I know,” Wade muttered, already moving.

Upstairs – 8:28 PM

The door wasn’t locked.

It never was.

Wade opened it slowly, and the second it creaked, he knew. Something had gone wrong.

Peter was sitting in the dark, knees to his chest, his prosthetic arm left forgotten on the floor, glinting like a reminder of a life too heavy to carry.

He didn’t look up.

Wade shut the door behind him and didn’t speak.

Not at first.

Instead, he crossed the room, crouched down, and sat beside Peter without touching him.

They sat like that for a long moment—breathing in the dark.

Finally, Wade whispered, “You’re hurting.”

Peter’s voice cracked, raw and low. “I don’t know how to stop.”

Wade looked forward, hands in his lap. “I used to carve the pain out one piece at a time. Joke by joke. Cut by cut. Pretend I didn’t care. Pretend no one could touch it.”

Peter closed his eyes, breathing shallow.

“Then what?”

“Then I met someone who was even more broken than me. But he didn’t hide it. He just... kept living. And I hated him for it.”

Peter turned, barely. “Who?”

“You.”

Peter’s breath hitched.

Wade finally reached over. Just touched his shoulder. Light. No pressure.

“I saw the look in your eyes today, Pete,” Wade said softly. “I know what that edge feels like. When the silence inside you starts screaming louder than anything outside. When you start looking at your hands like they’re full of ghosts.”

Peter swallowed, voice almost gone. “They are.”

“I know,” Wade said. “But you’re not alone in it.”

Peter finally looked at him, and the moment their eyes met, Wade didn’t blink.

“You don’t have to carry the fall,” Wade said. “I’m already under you. I always will be.”

Peter’s throat tightened. His face crumpled like paper. Not loud. Not messy. Just a quiet, shattering breath as the weight cracked open all over again.

And this time, he didn’t fall alone.

He leaned into Wade.

And Wade held him.

No jokes. No deflection.

Just broken boys trying to keep each other from bleeding out through silence.

Title: “Steel Hearts, Quiet Hands”

Next Day – Stark-Rogers Cabin – Back Porch – 4:07 PM

The world had gone soft again.

After last night, Peter had stayed quiet. He hadn’t put his arm on today. Hadn’t spoken much at breakfast. Tony tried. Steve tried. Wade hovered. But Peter… was somewhere else. Somewhere deeper.

He sat on the back porch now, blanket draped over his shoulders, the stump of his right arm resting gently in his lap.

Staring into the woods.

Hearing things that weren’t there.

Remembering things he wished he could forget.

Then the door creaked behind him.

Footsteps. Slower. Heavier. Purposeful.

Peter didn’t turn.

“Steve sent you,” he said flatly.

Bucky stepped up beside the bench and sat down without a word. Not even a sigh. Just quiet. Calm.

Peter glanced sideways.

Dark clothes. Leather boots. Gloves on both hands. Face unreadable.

And yet, somehow, he didn’t feel judged.

Bucky stared out at the trees.

“I heard what happened,” he said eventually. “You fell apart.”

Peter didn’t speak.

Bucky nodded to himself. “Good.”

That made Peter frown. “What?”

“You should fall apart,” Bucky said, tone steady. “You’ve been holding it in so long, it’s a miracle you didn’t burn up from the pressure.”

Peter looked down. “They all keep trying to fix me. Every time I break. Tony tweaks the arm. Steve checks on me every five minutes. Wade jokes through the cracks. But I’m still...”

He held up the stump of his arm.

“This.”

Bucky took a slow breath.

Then he reached up and pulled off his glove.

Laid his vibranium arm across his lap like it was just another part of the day. Not shame. Not weapon.

Just his.

“I was the Winter Soldier for longer than I’ve ever been Bucky Barnes,” he said. “I killed people with this arm. I lost everything because of it. But it wasn’t the arm that broke me.”

Peter looked up at him, curious despite himself.

“It was the silence after,” Bucky continued. “When everyone thought I was fine because I could function. Because I could walk and talk and shoot a gun without crying.”

He turned his head.

“But I wasn’t fine. I was just quiet. Like you.”

Peter’s eyes burned again.

Bucky nodded toward Peter’s shoulder.

“You’re not broken, kid. You’re wounded. There’s a difference.”

Peter whispered, “Feels the same.”

Bucky shook his head. “Nah. Wounds can scar over. They don’t erase, but they harden. They teach you. They become armor.”

He flexed his fingers. The metal glinted.

“You’re gonna wear yours differently than me. That’s okay.”

Peter looked down again. “Sometimes I want to throw it away.”

“So did I,” Bucky said. “But I didn’t. Because it reminds me of who I chose to be after the worst of it.”

Peter didn’t speak. But something shifted in the way he sat.

A little straighter. A little stronger.

Bucky stood.

“You don’t have to talk,” he said. “Just… sit with it. Sit with me.”

Peter looked up. Eyes glassy, but calmer.

Then, finally, he said, “...Thanks, Bucky.”

Bucky nodded once, just once. Then sat back down, beside him, watching the trees.

Neither spoke for a long time.

And it was enough.

Title: “Emotional Recovery Ruined by Russian Intrusion”

Stark-Rogers Cabin – Back Porch – 4:52 PM

Peter was still sitting beside Bucky, the late afternoon light brushing over his face like a quiet apology. The silence wasn’t awkward anymore—it was almost peaceful.

Then—

“Did you seriously bring me to the middle of the woods for this?”

A new voice. Accent sharp. Words loud.

Peter flinched.

Bucky groaned audibly and muttered, “Oh no.”

The screen door flung open and out stepped Yelena Belova—in black tactical boots, joggers, and a jacket far too expensive for this level of forest.

She had a paper bag in one hand. An energy drink in the other.

“I thought you said we were getting dumplings, James,” she said, throwing the bag onto the bench beside Bucky. “This is not a dumpling place. This is a sad boy support group.”

Peter blinked. “What just happened?”

Yelena squinted at him. “Is this the one?”

Bucky sighed. “Yelena.”

“No, I need to know. This is the Spider-Man? The one who died and then undied and now looks like he listens to sad music with raindrop sound effects?”

Peter’s mouth opened slightly. “What—”

“I brought snacks,” she said, holding up the bag. “I assumed there would be trauma. I brought two Red Bulls, a banana, and something green I stole from your fridge.”

Bucky rubbed his eyes with his gloved hand. “Yelena, I lost a bet. That doesn’t mean you get to crash my emotional outreach moment.”

Yelena blinked innocently. “You agreed to dinner. You didn’t say it couldn’t include the ghost child.”

Peter raised an eyebrow. “Ghost ch—?”

Yelena pointed a pretzel at him. “You. You’re the child. You have the haunted eyes of a man three times your age. I respect it. Also, you need a haircut.”

Peter looked at Bucky like please help me.

Bucky shrugged. “You get used to her.”

“I’m delightful,” Yelena said, already plopping down on the other side of Peter. “And you, baby Avenger, are spiraling. So. Who broke your heart? Was it the tiny red one with the chaos brain?”

“Wade?” Peter muttered.

“Oh definitely him.”

Peter blinked. “How do you—”

“I watch everything,” Yelena said, sipping her drink. “You kids have no operational security. You’re practically live-streaming your trauma.”

Bucky leaned forward. “She’s not kidding. She hacked my email and replaced my Spotify playlist with Russian folk covers of Taylor Swift songs.”

“They are better versions,” Yelena said proudly.

Peter suddenly laughed. It startled even him. Just a breathy, broken snort of disbelief.

Yelena grinned like she’d won.

“There it is,” she said. “The almost smile. We’re making progress.”

Peter looked between the two assassins beside him. Both enhanced. Both scarred. Both impossibly strange and somehow… safe.

He leaned back on the bench again.

Still empty-sleeved. Still hurting.

But for the first time, not alone.

Inside – Kitchen

Tony squinted through the window blinds.

“Is that... Yelena Belova on my porch?”

Steve peered out behind him. “Yep. Eating Peter’s banana.”

Tony sighed. “Do we intervene or just accept that Bucky’s friends are all chaos goblins?”

Steve sipped his tea. “Yup” he said poppin the ‘p’ at the end.

Stark-Rogers Cabin – Back Porch – 5:04 PM

Peter was slowly sipping a Red Bull he didn’t ask for. The banana sat peeled in his lap, untouched. His eyes were still glassy, but there was the ghost of a smile hiding behind his exhaustion.

Yelena had taken the bench as her throne.

Bucky leaned forward with his elbows on his knees, trying to pretend he was immune.

He wasn’t.

“You always do that?” Yelena asked, nodding at Bucky.

He didn’t look at her. “Do what.”

“That broody old soldier stare like you’re calculating everyone’s crimes. You look like you want to monologue about war every time a cloud passes the sun.”

Peter choked on his drink.

Bucky muttered, “I’m ignoring you.”

“No, you’re not. You can’t. Because you know I’m right. That’s the ‘I was brainwashed and murdered a lot of people and now I have deep unresolved guilt’ posture.”

Peter blinked. “Wait, is that a real thing?”

“Yes,” Yelena said. “It’s called the I-need-therapy-but-I-won’t-go slump. Very popular with assassins.”

Bucky sighed and looked at Peter. “You see what I deal with?”

Peter, surprisingly deadpan: “Honestly, I feel seen.”

Yelena leaned into Bucky, mock whispering. “I think the kid’s replacing you emotionally.”

Bucky stood up like she’d just physically shoved him.

“I’m getting more drinks.”

Yelena called after him. “Bring snacks! You always forget snacks, grandpa!”

The screen door slammed.

Peter blinked at her. “You’re so mean to him.”

Yelena grinned, popping a piece of dried fruit in her mouth. “Because it’s fun. Bucky needs someone to pull the stick out of his very tight 1940s ass.”

Peter stared.

Yelena shrugged. “He knows I love him. In a very platonic, ‘you traumatized wet cardboard of a man’ kind of way.”

Peter rubbed his eyes. “Is this... normal for you?”

Yelena tilted her head. “I literally grew up in a fake family of Soviet spies. This is normal for me.”

Peter laughed again. Another real one. It was ragged, a little cracked—but it was real.

Yelena looked sideways at him.

“You okay, ghost boy?”

Peter swallowed. “Better than this morning.”

She nodded. “Good. Because I brought vodka-flavored gummy bears. For emotional emergencies.”

Peter blinked. “...Is that legal?”

“Absolutely not,” she said, opening the bag.

Back inside – Kitchen

Bucky stood at the counter, cracking open a soda with slow, deliberate rage.

Tony leaned on the fridge. “She’s still needling you, huh?”

Bucky nodded once.

Steve sipped from his mug. “You know she does it because she likes you.”

“She’s Russian,” Bucky snapped. “Her affection is psychological warfare.”

Chapter Text

Upstate New York Highway – Saturday – 6:47 PM

The late sun painted the world gold. The windows of Bucky’s battered dark SUV were cracked just enough to let in the breeze—and Yelena’s nonstop complaining.

“James, your playlist is atrocious,” Yelena snapped from the passenger seat, flicking at the car stereo like it had personally insulted her. “Who listens to this? It’s all sad man music and angry guitars. You are too old for this angst.”

Bucky gripped the wheel tighter. “It’s my car. It’s my playlist. If you wanted the AUX, you should’ve won the bet.”

Peter, sprawled in the backseat, earbud in one ear, phone inches from his nose: “Please don’t kill each other before dumplings. Please.”

Yelena ignored him, leaning back to glare at Peter like he was the deciding vote in a Supreme Court case. “Peter. You are young. Trendy. You understand good music, yes? Tell him we should play something normal.”

Peter didn’t look up. “You steal his cupcakes last week?”

Bucky snapped his eyes to the rearview. “Thank you! See?! I knew it was you!”

Yelena scowled. “There is no proof.”

Bucky barked a laugh, eyes back on the road. “You left the wrapper in my ammo bag.”

Peter stifled a laugh, scrolling past a Wade meme about ‘unhinged step-bros’ and a raccoon with a hat. “Yelena, just let him have his playlist. It’s the only thing keeping him from driving us into a tree.”

Yelena groaned dramatically. “You are both no fun. Fine. But if I hear one more 90s grunge song I will hijack the stereo with my phone.”

“Try it,” Bucky deadpanned, flicking on the turn signal. “I will throw your phone out the window.”

“Then I’ll throw you out the window,” Yelena shot back.

Peter just whispered to himself, “This is fine. This is normal. This is my life now.”

Twenty Minutes Later – Parking Lot

The SUV pulled up in front of a cozy, neon-lit hole-in-the-wall dumpling spot tucked beside a tiny bar and a laundromat. Peter climbed out first, baggy hoodie sleeves dangling where his prosthetic arm should be—he left it behind, by choice. Bucky killed the engine with a sharp twist that sounded a little too aggressive.

Yelena hopped out, sunglasses on at dusk. “I am choosing everything on the menu. You two will eat it and thank me.”

Bucky slammed the door shut. “If you try to steal my dessert again—”

“Oh, my sweet metal-armed drama queen,” Yelena interrupted sweetly. “Next time I will leave two wrappers. To mock you properly.”

Peter laughed so hard he nearly choked on nothing. “You two need therapy.”

Bucky shot him a look as they crossed toward the restaurant entrance. “Kid, you’re our therapy.”

Yelena threw an arm over Peter’s shoulder, guiding him ahead like an older sister with zero personal space boundaries. “We are deeply dysfunctional, yes. But we feed you. So it’s fine.”

Inside the Restaurant – Five Minutes Later

They settled into a cramped booth by the window. Peter sat in the middle, pressed between Bucky’s bulk and Yelena’s boots propped illegally on the opposite seat. The table was already covered in dumpling baskets and tea.

Peter pulled out his phone to text Wade:

“Currently held hostage by your emotional support assassin & traumatized raccoon man. Send help or memes.”

Yelena peeked over his shoulder. “Texting your chaos boyfriend again?”

Peter turned bright red. “He’s not—”

Bucky barked a laugh. “Yet.”

Yelena raised her cup in a toast. “To trauma. To found family. To stolen cupcakes.”

Peter, red-faced but grinning, lifted his cup too.

Bucky just sighed, but clinked his against theirs anyway.

The steam rose, warm and real.

And for a moment, broken or not, they were just three survivors in a dingy booth—loud, unhinged, alive.

Dumpling Place – Booth – 7:48 PM

Yelena leaned her chin on her palm and stared at Bucky’s vibranium arm like it had personally insulted her family.

"So," she began innocently, “can you use that arm to, like… crush a watermelon in one hand?”

Bucky didn’t even blink. “Yes.”

Peter blinked. “Wait. What?!”

Bucky sipped his tea calmly. “It’s happened.”

Yelena lit up. “You’ve done it?”

“Hydra training exercise,” he said flatly. “Fifth week of ‘Kill Your Soul 101.’”

Peter sat back. “Oh my God.”

Yelena looked fascinated. “Okay, but… can you feel the watermelon?”

Bucky stared at her like she’d grown a second head.

“Like—tactile feedback,” she explained. “Soft? Cold? Juicy sadness exploding in your hand?”

Peter coughed. “Juicy sadness?”

Bucky set down his cup. “What is wrong with you?”

Yelena grinned. “So much. But answer the question.”

“Yeah,” Peter added, helplessly amused. “Can you, like, feel things with it? Or is it just Super Strong Grabby Mode?”

Bucky slowly turned to Peter. “You too?”

Peter threw up his hands. “I didn’t start it! I’m just... invested now.”

Bucky leaned back, deadpan. “Yes. There’s some nerve sync through the implant. Temperature, texture, pressure. It’s... not perfect. Close.”

Yelena immediately perked up. “So if I handed you a kitten, would you crush it accidentally or...?”

Bucky slammed his forehead lightly against the table. “Why are you like this?”

Peter choked on laughter. “Why is that your follow-up?!”

Yelena sipped her tea with all the calm of a Bond villain. “I’m testing his emotional stability. Also, I need to know if we need to hide kittens from him.”

Bucky muttered, “I’m asking Sam to fake my death again.”

Peter leaned in, smiling way too hard. “I’m so glad I came to dinner.”

Bucky glared at both of them, dead serious. “You two are the worst combo. I’d rather be interrogated by Zemo again.”

Yelena looked proud. “You love us.”

“I have regretted every choice that led me to this booth.”

Peter raised his glass. “To regrettable choices.”

Yelena clinked hers. “And murder arms.”

Bucky sipped his tea and muttered, “I hope my arm malfunctions and slaps both of you.”

Peter just grinned, because for all the madness—and there was a lot—he felt okay.

Like for once, he wasn’t just surviving the world.

He was laughing in it.

Chapter Text

Dumpling Place – 8:04 PM

Yelena was in the middle of asking Bucky if his arm could open jars by thinking about them when her phone buzzed.

She didn’t even look at the screen.

“It’s Bob,” she sighed, answering with all the energy of a tired babysitter. “What did you do now?”

On speaker:
“Okay—I know you’re busy, but like, this is kind of DEFCON ONE.”

Peter perked up. “Wait, that Bob?”

Bucky groaned. “The Thunderbolts one. God help us.”

Bob’s voice continued at full panic volume.
“Your dad tried to watch John Wick but somehow now the TV is speaking German and the screen is upside-down and Alexei says he sees ‘messages’ from a buried Hydra sleeper cell in the static—”

Yelena didn’t even blink. “So... Tuesday.”

Bob kept going.
“He has two remotes, Yelena. Two. Where did the second one come from?! He’s sweating and quoting Soviet code phrases. I think he tried to interrogate the HDMI cable.”

Bucky leaned back in the booth. “Why is this our problem?”

Peter was crying laughing into his sleeve. “This is the best meal I’ve ever had.”

Yelena pinched the bridge of her nose. “Tell him to sit down, not punch the TV again, and turn the subtitles off.”

Bob gasped.
“HOW? There’s like thirty buttons. One has a turtle on it.”

Yelena took a deep breath. “Bob. Look me in the metaphorical eyes. Find the input button.”

“Which one is that?!”

Bucky reached for the phone and yelled, “THE ONE THAT SAYS INPUT, YOU MORON—”

“OH MY GOD I FOUND IT.”
click
“Oh no everything’s gone. The screen is black now. He’s accusing me of espionage.”

Yelena looked up, dead inside. “I’m going to kill my father.”

Peter, wheezing: “Please don’t. He hasn’t even finished season two of Stranger Things.”

Bob’s voice came again:
“Okay. Okay. I got the subtitles back. They’re in... Danish. That’s something. We’re watching Paddington 2 now. He’s crying.”

Yelena blinked. “...That tracks.”

Peter whispered, “That movie is emotional.”

Bucky just stood up, face blank. “I’m walking into traffic.”

Bob yelled one last thing as Yelena hung up:
“Do I need to feed him? He hasn’t blinked in fifteen minutes—”

click

Yelena sipped her tea like nothing happened. “Anyway. Where were we? Oh yes—metal arm and jar physics.”

Bucky sighed deeply. “Tell your AO3 fans I hate all of you.”

Yelena smiled sweetly. “You love us.”

“Unfortunately.”
Stark-Rogers Cabin – Living Room – 7:58 PM

Wade Wilson was sitting criss-cross on the floor like a camp counselor who’d just finished microdosing and was ready to talk about his feelings. He had a Capri Sun in one hand and a Stark Industries hoodie he definitely did not ask permission to wear.

Across from him on the couch:

Tony Stark with a glowing tablet and an expression that said “I once built an AI god, don’t test me.”

Steve Rogers with his arms crossed, jaw tight, leaning forward like he was back in a World War interrogation tent.

Morgan, sitting between them, wearing cat ears and holding a bowl of Goldfish crackers. Watching like this was the season finale of a crime drama.

Wade blinked. "Sooooo. This is... cozy.”

Tony didn’t smile. “What are your intentions with my son?”

Wade choked on Capri Sun. “Excuse me, what?”

Steve raised a brow. “You heard him.”

Wade blinked again. Then turned slowly to the reader.

“You know, when I signed up to flirt with Sad Robo-Spiderboy, I didn’t think it came with a super-soldier-husbands-judge-me-hour. But here we are. So if I disappear, tell Peter I died bravely. Or stupidly. Or both.”

Tony cleared his throat. “Stop breaking the fourth wall. We can see it.”

Wade slowly turned back. “Okay, fine, Mr. Stark. My ‘intentions’ are… to make him laugh. Keep him alive. Maybe annoy him into processing his trauma. Possibly kiss him if he doesn’t web me to the ceiling first.”

Morgan gasped. “Scandalous.”

Steve fought a smile. Tony did not.

He leaned forward. “You’re unstable.”

“Correct,” Wade said, finger in the air. “But lovable. Like a raccoon in a hoodie. Or a knife with a soul.”

Tony narrowed his eyes. “Peter is fragile.”

“Yeah,” Wade said softly. “I know. And I’ve never once treated him like he’s broken. I treat him like he’s real. Because he is.”

That earned a pause.

Even Steve blinked.

Morgan, full voice: “Okay but are you gonna marry him or what?”

Wade turned back to us.

“Seven-year-olds. The true chaos gods of emotional escalation.”

Tony sighed. “Okay. Here’s what’s going to happen. If you hurt him, I’ll know.”

Steve added, “And I’ll find you.”

Morgan leaned in. “And I will steal your phone and text Peter that you said you liked Batman more than Spider-Man.”

Wade looked genuinely horrified. “You wouldn’t.”

Morgan grinned like a demon. “Try me.”

Wade raised both hands. “Alright, alright! I’ll be a good little mercenary boyfriend. I’ll use my inside voice and everything.”

Tony looked at Steve. Steve looked at Morgan. Morgan nodded solemnly.

“Fine,” Tony muttered. “But I’m putting a tracker on his belt.”

“I don’t wear a belt,” Wade said.

“You do now,” Tony replied.

Cut to – Peter’s phone
Incoming text from Wade:

help. your dads are terrifying. i think one of them just growled. morgan threatened me with god-tier emotional blackmail. i love your family. i’m terrified. also your dad’s trying to make me wear a belt. a beige one.

Peter’s reply:

sounds like they love you 💖
suffer.