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Wind rushed past him as he swung from building to building, keeping a keen eye on the darkened streets beneath him. Peter's hand was already throbbing after missing a man's face and punching the brick wall instead (in his defence, he'd been dodging another attack simultaneously), but the night had barely just begun.
A shout for help rang out. Peter scanned a near by alley way and saw a teenager, probably the same age as him, pressed up against the wall with his belongings scattering the ground. Taking in a deep breath, Peter let go of the web and shot out another anchor in time to swing through the narrow gap and slam himself into one of three attackers. The teenager yelped at the sudden change in his situation and somehow backed away even further as his robbers shifted their focus. Avoiding the frantic hits, Peter managed to web them to the wall, or a large, battered dumpster, without much exertion.
"You alright?" he breathed out, glancing over the men, before finally looking over at the teenager. He was standing frozen in the entrance of the alleyway with his mouth slightly ajar. "Did they hurt you?" Peter asked carefully, keeping his distance.
The teenager said: "No…no, I'm fine. Just…" He didn't need to finish before Peter reassured him quietly and helped collect the few belongings from the ground. "Thank you."
"No problem, that's what I'm here for," Peter replied easily. Once the boy had called someone, he shot out a web and launched himself back into the air.
A coolness to the blustering wind had begun to set in, and Peter shivered as he caught himself just in time. Glancing back the way he'd came, he made the easy decision to take a high vantage point and take a few minutes to himself. The building that Peter chose was a few storeys higher than the others around it, and he squatted down on the edge of the roof.
Car horns echoed up to his hideout; there were some people screaming and laughing on their way home from a bar (Peter had initially perked up at the sounds); a cat yowled in an alleyway. The cacophony of noise had slowly become more digestible the longer Peter had spent as Spider-Man, and he quickly latched on to the sound of screaming. Someone shouted his name as he sprang off the roof, rolling in the air a few times, before he was swinging towards the sound.
Creeping down the side of a building, Peter got a good look at the situation down below and hesitated as the barrel of a handgun caught the light. But he couldn't not help the woman. Breathing in deeply, he continued down the wall before announcing his arrival.
Dodging a bullet, he sprang down and landed on one of the men's shoulders. With his webs, Peter tugged his victim towards the wall and slammed his head against the bricks before trapping him in a makeshift cage in a few seconds. But there were still three others. Within a moment, he leapt across the alley and caught one of their faces with his foot. They groaned loudly, clutching their cheek and swearing bitterly. Then, Peter dropped to the ground, dodging another bullet and fired a quick succession of jabs to the man's chest, sending him backwards against a dumpster where his arm was instantly webbed to the metal. But the gun went off again; the attacker taking Peter's brief moment of stillness to aim. He barely felt more than a sharp punch to his side, before surging forwards and grabbing the weapon. Reaching forwards, Peter turned the safety off just in time and ripped the gun from the man's hand. Then, whilst dodging a punch to the back of his head, cracked the handgun back against the robber's forehead. With a loud shout, he collapsed and clutched at a dripping gash just above his eyebrow. The last man took a sudden kick to his stomach and wretched loudly, just in time for Peter to shoot a glob of his webs over his mouth.
Once they were all webbed down, and the dishevelled woman had called the police with a shaky voice, Peter finally took in the injury to his side.
Blood had been steadily dripping from his torso for the last few minutes and he gingerly pressed his hand against the wound, hissing at the pain that was steadily growing.
"Are you alright?" the woman whispered. She'd sat down on the sidewalk to calm herself down and peered up at Peter who nodded.
"I'll be fine. I'm Spider-Man, I'm always fine." Shakily laughing at his comment, she shook her head and thanked him again. Then Peter managed to hoist himself up onto the roof of the neighbouring building.
The gunshot wound was bleeding more than they usually did, and Peter had a good understanding on what a normal injury (for him at least) looked like. Whatever this wound was, it wasn't something he knew how to deal with. Maybe there was a different kind of bullet, he asked himself as he took in a few deep breaths. With his rubs aching bitterly beneath his skin, Peter chewed at his bottom lip. If this was last year, or the year before, he'd pull himself together and drag himself to the Tower, but with the Avengers practically split up and Tony ending his unofficial internship, Peter had turned to other people.
Gasping at a sudden jolt to his wound, Peter pressed his knuckles against his eyebrows and clenched his jaw. One of those people lived a few blocks away, unlike the others who were either out patrolling themselves, or in other parts of the city that Peter didn't think he could get to in time. At the realisation of the gravity of his injury, Peter's heart began to pound beneath his skin and he lurched forwards. Somehow, he managed to ignore the throbbing pain in his side and the slickness of his suit, and flung himself off the building.
Each time he caught himself with a web, the gory hole tugged harshly and Peter swore, later on, that he could feel his skin ripping open and more blood slipping out. But it was barely a few minutes until he could see the familiar rooftop, and the window that was already open. By this point, Peter could acknowledge that Bucky (the person in question) had already heard him, and he should probably just go straight to the man's window. But, a part of him remembered their brief and blunt (on Bucky's side) conversation; he hadn't seemed particularly enthusiastic to have been roped into an unofficial support system for the vigilantes of New York.
Landing on the roof, Peter swallowed a wave of nausea that stemmed from the radiating pain and reached for his phone that he kept tucked away in an inside pocket. Careful to not get blood smeared across the screen, he found Bucky's name in his contacts and hesitated before pressing the little, green logo of a phone. It rang for a few seconds before the man picked up.
"Yes?" he muttered, a loud rustling making his voice hard to make out. Peter breathed out quickly before saying,
"Bucky? I…I…um. I need some help." He groaned quietly as his hand jolted away from the wound and more blood dripped out onto the roof. The man went quiet.
"You on the roof?"
"Yeah," Peter managed to wheeze out.
"I'm coming, kid."
"Not a kid," he protested quietly, suddenly aware of how much the gunshot wound hurt. "Wait, don't come. I can walk." Peter lifted his head at the sound of a quiet click and peered through blurry vision as Bucky strode out from the stair well with a handgun stuffed into the waistband of his jeans (not pyjama trousers, Peter noticed in his daze).
"What happened?" The man got a good look at the teenager before he managed to answer.
"Got shot," Peter breathed out. As he did, Bucky took a firm grip on the boy's shoulders and began to steer him towards the stairs. He didn't mention the droplets of blood left behind.
Bucky got the kid situated on the battered couch and hurried off to find his first aid kit that was shoved under the kitchen sink. Peter grumbled quietly, trying to sit up and, apparently, help but the man quickly shut it down and passed him a protein bar instead. He took off the mask to eat it.
"Who shot you?" Bucky asked. He didn't actually want an answer, but as he prepped the couch for makeshift surgery, he needed Peter to stay awake for as long as possible. "Muggers?" Bucky began to cut the suit off his body.
"Something like that," Peter mumbled out. "But it's different."
"Different?" The boy shrugged and said,
"Normally it doesn't bleed this much." Bucky frowned at him.
"The bullet's still inside, that's why," he said gruffly. "I'll get it out." Peter's eyes widened a little but the man had turned away to find some tweezers. "It'll hurt," he added a moment later.
"I've done it before." Peter shivered dramatically and tried to shift on the couch before giving up as his side throbbed; the wound pulled taut. Then, Bucky tugged out a small strip of leather from his kit and handed it over. He simply said,
"Bite on it." Peter pulled a face, looked at the strip before shrugging and shoved it into his mouth. It tasted salty, like someone had been sweating heavily the last time it had been used. "You ready?" He shook his head, jaw clenched already, and Bucky huffed quietly.
The bullet was wedged deep inside, something the man figured out barely a minute later when he failed to hear any clink of metal against the tweezers. Breathing out slowly, he tried to look through the thick blood with little success. Trying to ignore Peter muffled shouts, Bucky poured water over his side and finally caught sight of a small glint of a bullet.
"Peter?" There was a strangled grunt in response. "I can see it, OK?" Peter nodded hesitantly. "Not long now." Bucky managed to keep a consistent flow of water over the wound so that he didn't lose the metal again and it was only a few more minutes before he finally latched onto the bullet and tugged it out slowly. All the while, Peter was writhing in pain beneath him and his jaw was clenched so tightly the leather snapped. "It's alright," Bucky muttered and finally the bullet hit the floor with a quiet thud. "It's out." The torn, leather strap fell from Peter's mouth as he panted heavily.
"Thanks," Peter managed to say weakly before letting his head fall back onto the couch. Glancing over the state of the couch and his floor, Bucky went to find a few towels leaving Peter alone. And giving him a chance to look around.
The kitchen only had one cup perched on a shelf, the second cup was on the counter, and the surfaces were completely clean other than a kettle and a rusted toaster. Peter reached out with a shaky hand to try and pull himself up and peered through at the small bedroom. He could see the edge of a bed frame. But then he realised that Bucky wasn't sleeping when he'd called. Or he pieced together what he'd already known.
"You alright?" Peter glanced over as Bucky walked back in with a small stack of tattered towels.
"Were you sleeping?" Peter asked after a few minutes, his voice no longer wavering as he could feel his side already starting to heal. Bucky paused. "Do you-"
"It's nothing, kid. I've never slept well."
"Really?" Bucky nodded carefully. Then he asked,
"It doesn't need stitches, right?" The sudden change of conversation didn't particularly surprise Peter, and he shook his head. "Good."
"Um, you don't need to clean up, I can do that."
"You need to sleep," Bucky countered. "And heal." Peter watched the man as he pulled the spare glass from the shelf and filled it with water. "Here," he said as he passed it over. Thanking him quietly, Peter didn't hesitate before gulping it down. "You need anything else?"
"No. Thank you."
"No problem." There was a moment of silence. "Look, kid. I know it's been…hard."
"What?"
"With Stark," Bucky added hesitantly. Peter stared at him. "I know you guys were close, even though I wasn't…around." Agreeing quietly, the teenager looked away. "I'm glad that Matt set this up," Bucky continued to say, clearly uncomfortable. "For all of us, I mean." Peter huffed quietly.
"Yeah, I know."
"You're not the only person whose come by, you know?" Smiling at Peter's raised eyebrows, Bucky took the cup away to fill it up again. "Frank."
"Castle?"
"That's the one," Bucky muttered. "Took a knife to the shoulder a few weeks back. You're not the only one, kid."
"'m not a kid," Peter mumbled but Bucky only laughed quietly. "I'm not."
"Sure you're not. You got someone you can call?"
"About what?"
"You staying the night: you can't swing like that. And Matt told me to tell you that you're not allowed to anyway." Bucky forced out a laugh again as Peter stared at him bitterly. "Rules are rules, kid."
"That's not fair. And no, I don't." Peter racked his brain for anyone he would actually tell. May was on a double-shift at work; Matt would be patrolling. "Matt's probably out anyway."
"You'd call him?" Peter shrugged, careful of the healing wound.
"Why not?"
"I didn't realise you guys were that close," Bucky pointed out carefully. "Sorry." Peter stared at him before saying,
"He…fixed my suit. And taught me how to fight."
"Good. Look. Crash on my couch for the night, or at least sleep for a few hours. Then I'll get you some breakfast, and send you on your way. Sound good?" Peter smiled softly.
"Yes sir," he replied mockingly and Bucky eyed him carefully before walking over to his bedroom. It looked as though he was going to say something else before the door swung shut behind him. Peter breathed out slowly.
The extent of his fatigue hit him in the next two minutes, and Peter could barely begin to formulate an escape plan before falling asleep.
Peter woke to the smell of buttered toast and groaned quietly. Peering through blurry vision, he could see Bucky in the small kitchen with a plate in his hand.
"Bucky?" he mumbled, voice cracking. The man looked over as he cleared his throat.
"How are you?"
"I'm fine," Peter replied. He pushed himself up and breathed out once he realised that the wound had finally sealed up and the throbbing pain had lessened to a dull ache. All that was left to remind him of the injury was a jagged scab and a large patch of dried blood that coated the coach cushion and the floor beneath him. "Sorry about that." Peter pulled a face once he realised how large the puddle of blood had been.
"It's fine," Bucky said. "Here, I promised breakfast." Peter barely acknowledged the plate before he was shoving the toast into his mouth and chewed aggressively. Bucky mumbled something about manners before walking off to find Peter something to drink (he ended up spilling the water down his bare chest).
But, once he'd eaten and the raging headache had calmed down a little, Peter glanced down at the suit that had been sliced open and bit at the inside of his cheek.
"I'll get you a new one," Bucky announced and Peter jolted at the sudden noise. He looked up with his eyebrows furrowed before nodding. "I cut it open."
"Pretty sure it was those muggers," Peter added. He huffed quietly. And then, after brushing some crumbs off the pillow, realised that he needed to walk home at some point. "Do…do you have some clothes?" The man seemed to freeze for a moment before nodding once and Peter almost laughed at the frantic searching for something that would fit the teenager. Bucky wasn't much taller, but there was at least some difference and if not for the height, the man's build was bigger anyway.
"That should fit." Bucky pressed a small bundle of clothes into Peter's hand, who then got to work tugging off the rest of his bloodied suit and replacing it with a baggy t-shirt and a pair of shorts. "It's…it's raining, hold on." Somehow, Peter hadn't even noticed the drizzle that had picked up outside but then Bucky was returning with another article of clothing that Peter quickly realised was one of his hoodies.
Once Peter was sinking into the warmth of his new outfit, he said, "Thanks. I'll get them back to you."
"No need, I have enough clothes as is." Bucky's faint smile seemed to be all Peter needed before he took a battered pare of slip-on shoes and made his way to the front door with his costume shoved into a small bag.
"Thanks, again," Peter said, "I really appreciate it." The man let out a small laugh and waved the teenager away. "I'll drop by in a few days; once your clothes have been washed."
"Yeah, yeah, whatever, kid. Go on then, get out of here. Come by if you need anything else, yeah?"
"Yes sir."
Peter gave him one last look before slipping down the stairwell and pushed his way past a small group of teenagers so that he could reach the sidewalk down below. Once the rain thickened a little, he tugged up his hood and started walking home.
It was later that day that Matt dropped by and, somehow, seemed to know everything about Peter's nightly event. Bucky had snitched.