Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The boy crawled in through the window like a shadow: silent, practiced, invisible. His fingers curled around the chipped sill, nails blackened at the edges, knuckles raw. The latch had long since rusted into a stubborn memory of security, so he pushed it open with a soft grunt, careful not to wake the neighbors.

Not that they’d care. Not that they’d remember him.

The frame groaned faintly, swallowed by the thick, humid air. He paused, crouched halfway through, listening. The building was quiet, but not peaceful, quiet like a graveyard, where silence was just the absence of movement, not the absence of suffering.

His boots hit the cracked floor with a dull thud, leaving faint prints in the dust that had settled like ash. The apartment was cold, not winter cold, but the kind that seeped into your bones when the heat hadn’t been paid for. The kind that made your joints ache and your breath feel heavy, like you were inhaling regret.

The air pressed against him like a damp shroud. It smelled of mildew, old sweat, and something faintly metallic, blood, maybe, or rust. He scanned the room: damp walls, peeling paint, mold in the corners. The furniture was sparse, battered, and mostly broken. A couch with springs poking through its belly. A coffee table missing a leg, propped up by a stack of outdated newspapers. The only window, cracked with age, let in a weak streak of gray dawn light that struggled to pierce the gloom.

He moved slowly, deliberately, like someone afraid the room might collapse if he stepped too hard. First, he peeled off the mask, then the rest of the suit. Each movement was slow, like shedding skin. The fabric clung to him: damp, grimy, soaked through with blood, sweat, and memories he couldn’t afford to remember. The suit was a second skin, now tattered and hanging on by threads. A symbol of battles fought and lost. Of promises broken. Of people he couldn’t save.

He dropped the suit in the corner, where it landed in a heap, damp and pitiful. He didn’t look at it. The room felt colder without it. Like the suit had been the only thing holding him together.

Later, he thought. Later he’d find a better place, a better life. But right now, survival was all he had.

He moved to the kitchenette. The worn floor squeaked faintly under his feet. The fridge was old, humming with the weight of neglect. He opened it slowly; the groan was loud in the quiet apartment. Inside: half a sandwich, a bruised apple, and a bottle of tap water he’d refilled three times. He grabbed the sandwich and the apple, sitting on the edge of the rickety counter, eating in silence. The dull ache in his stomach was familiar—just like the ache in his ribs, bruised from more than just tonight’s skirmish.

It wasn’t much. But it was enough. And right now, enough was a hard-won victory.

He finished his food quickly, too quickly, then pushed himself up. The apartment was tiny: just a bed tucked into the corner, a broken chair, the couch, the coffee table, and the battered kitchen. He shuffled toward the bathroom, footsteps muffled on the thin, worn-out rug.

The flickering overhead light cast sickly yellow shadows across cracked tiles. He turned on the faucet; it sputtered and coughed out a stream of lukewarm water. The mirror was fogged, the humidity clinging to the room.

He didn’t look at it.

He already knew what he’d see: bloodshot eyes, hollow cheeks, a jaw clenched too tight for someone “so young.” Eyes that had seen too much and remembered too little.

Disgust.

Pity.

Contempt.

Revulsion.

That’s all the mirror ever gave him.

Stepping into the shower, he let the water hit his skin like a punishment. He scrubbed fast—not to get clean, but to feel something. Anything.

The water turned pink, then clear.

Peter didn’t linger. The steam curled around his shoulders as he stepped out and wrapped himself in a towel that smelled faintly of mildew and old detergent. It was thin, frayed at the edges, and barely covered the bruises blooming across his ribs like ink stains.

He dressed quickly: hoodie, jeans, boots. No costume. Not right now. Just… Peter. Or whatever was left of him.

The hoodie was faded, the cuffs stretched and threadbare. The jeans had a rip near the knee, not the fashionable kind, but the kind that came from crawling through alleyways and ducking under fences. The boots were scuffed, soles worn thin from miles walked in silence.

He moved toward the door, careful not to disturb the fragile balance of the apartment.

———————

The door creaked as he opened it, hinges groaning like they resented being used.

The hallway was dim, lit by a single flickering bulb that had been dying since he moved in. The walls were stained with things he didn’t want to name. The smell of cigarettes, sweat, and the faintest hint of something chemical and illegal seeped from behind doors.

From Apartment 5C, a voice rasped through the thin wood: “You hear that, Marla? That kid’s back. Told you he was sneakin’ in again.”

A woman’s voice followed, hoarse and tired. “Let him be, Ray. He’s just a kid. Probably got nowhere else to go.”

Peter kept his head low, shoulders hunched as he moved quietly past. The door to 5C was cracked open just enough for Ray’s bloodshot eyes to catch him.

“You owe me for that busted lock, Mason,” Ray muttered, voice thick with smoke. “Don’t think I forgot.”

Peter didn’t respond. He kept walking.

From 3D, a baby cried. The sound was sharp, desperate. A woman’s voice, young, worn thin, shushed it with practiced exhaustion. “Shh, baby, shh. Mama’s here. Mama’s here.”

Peter glanced at the door. The paint was peeling, and a stuffed bear sat just outside, missing an eye. He remembered once helping the woman carry groceries up the stairs. She hadn’t thanked him. Just looked at him like she wasn’t sure he was real.

From 6D, laughter erupted, too loud, too manic. A man shouted, “You think you can cheat me, you little rat?” followed by a crash. Peter didn’t flinch. He’d heard worse. He’d seen worse. And there was nothing Peter could do about it.

From Apartment 4C, a voice called out, sharp and nasal. “Hey, Tech-Boy. You gonna fix that window you keep sneakin’ through?”

Peter froze. The door was ajar, and behind it stood Mr. Klemens, a wiry man with a permanent scowl and a wife-beater that hadn’t been washed since the Obama administration. He wore a tattoo that read My Grandpa, though Peter had never seen a child visit.

“I’ll get to it,” Peter said quietly.

Klemens snorted. “You always say that. But then every day, I wake up to the sound of that dumb window of yours.”

Peter nodded, avoiding eye contact. “Sorry.”

From 2C, a woman leaned out. She wore a silk robe that had seen better days, her hair wrapped in a towel, mascara smudged beneath tired eyes. “Leave him alone, Nate. He’s not the one who set off the fire alarm last week.”

Klemens grumbled something and retreated into his apartment, slamming the door with a force that made the hallway light flicker again.

Ms. Harper gave Peter a small nod. “You look like hell. You okay?”

Peter nodded, barely. “Yeah. Just tired.”

She studied him for a moment, then nodded. “Aren’t we all. But, hey. You need anything, you knock. I mean it.”

He murmured a thank you and kept walking.

The door to 1D opened just as he passed. Mr. Lowe leaned out, cigarette a glowing stub, chipped black nail polish catching the light. “You sure you don’t want soup this time?”

Peter shook his head. “Thanks. Maybe later.”

He shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

The hallway felt longer than usual. Every step echoed. Every door whispered stories he didn’t want to hear.

No Ned.

No MJ.

No Aunt May.

No Mr. Stark.

No Avengers.

No ID.

No passport.

No SSN.

No records.

No pictures.

No proof of existence.

Just Spider-Man. And even that was starting to feel like a myth.

Peter reached the staircase. The old wooden steps creaked beneath him as he made his way down. Just as he neared the bottom, the door to Apartment 1B swung open with a creak that sounded like judgment.

The landlord, Mrs. DelVecchio, stepped out in her slippers and robe, clutching a mug that read World’s Okayest Boss. Her eyes, sharp and unrelenting, locked onto him like a heat-seeking missile.

“Fitzpatrick,” she snapped, her voice sharp enough to cut drywall. “You’re short on your electric again. I told you last week: end of the month or I shut it off. You think I’m running a charity?”

Peter blinked slowly. The words hit him like static. He didn’t have the energy to argue. Not today.

“I—I know,” he mumbled, adjusting the strap on his backpack as he stepped past her. “I’m working on it.”

“Working on it?” she scoffed, folding her arms. “You always say that. You think I don’t notice the hours you keep? Creeping in at dawn, looking like you’ve been hit by a truck. You better not be doing anything illegal in my building.”

The boy’s gaze dropped to the ground. The bruises blooming under his hoodie, the ache in his ribs every time he breathed, they all told the story he couldn’t voice aloud. Illegal? Maybe. But not in the way she meant.

“I’m sorry,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “I’ll get it to you. By Friday.”

She muttered something under her breath, probably about “kids these days,” and retreated into her apartment with a slam that rattled the hallway light.

Peter exhaled slowly, then kept walking—he just needed to put one foot in front of the other.

———————

Stepping outside into the cold air, the city began humming around him. Delivery trucks rumbled past, honking taxis weaving through traffic, pedestrians rushing to nowhere. He moved with purpose, blending into the background like a shadow.

It was just before dawn. The faint glow of early morning crept through the thick gray clouds, and the smell of water lingered in the air, signaling possible rain within the hour. The air was cold, and the ache in his muscles reminded him of yesterday’s exhaustion. Bruises from last night’s fight were still tender beneath his clothes. His body protested every movement, but he knew he couldn’t afford to rest, not yet.

Outside, the air was crisp and biting. The streets were still mostly empty as he began walking, the concrete under his worn shoes uneven but familiar. A gust of wind tugged at his hoodie, slipping beneath the fabric and chilling the sweat still clinging to his skin. He pulled the hood tighter around his face, trying to disappear into the rhythm of the city.

Peter preferred to walk whenever he could, only taking the subway when absolutely necessary to save what little money he had. The long walk was part of his routine now, a way to keep moving and stay hidden, even if it meant fighting against the ache in his legs and back. It gave him time to think. Not that he wanted to.

His thoughts drifted as he walked. Not to anything good. Just flashes of things he couldn’t fix. A face he couldn’t forget. A voice he’d never hear again. The kind of memories that crept in when he was too tired to block them out.

As he traversed the city, the sun rose higher, casting a harsh light that made his eyes sensitive. The brightness prickled at his eyelids, forcing him to squint painfully. The more crowded areas, busier streets, markets, places where people gathered, made his ears ache with the constant noise. A siren wailed in the distance, followed by the blare of horns and the screech of tires. It all pressed against him, loud and relentless.

The city’s hum became a roar. He passed a street vendor shouting about fresh fruit, a delivery truck idling with its engine growling, and a group of construction workers shouting over each other. Usually, he’d drown out the chaos amplified by his senses. But today, it was too much. The sounds blurred together, a wall of noise that made everything throb. His heartbeat pounded in his ears, a relentless drum that made it hard to filter out the world.

Peter kept walking.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he arrived near the small neighborhood store where he worked: a quaint convenience store tucked between a laundromat and a pawn shop. The door creaked open as he stepped inside, the familiar scent of old wood, canned goods, and faint bleach filling his nose. The fluorescent lights flickered overhead, casting a sickly glow that made everything look a little off.

Peter kept his head low, trying to disappear amid the clutter.

A customer pushed through the door, an older man with a thick beard and eyes squinting behind glasses. “Hey, kid,” he grunted, voice rough. “Got any of that cheap soda? The one in the blue bottle?”

Peter nodded politely, grabbed a bottle from the back shelf, and slid it across the counter. “Here you go.”

The man grunted again and rummaged in his pockets, finally throwing a crumpled dollar bill onto the counter. Peter quickly snatched it and slipped the soda into a paper bag. He didn’t bother to say much, just gave a nod. It wasn’t much, but it paid the bills—barely.

A few minutes later, a woman with a stroller came in, fussing about her crying kid. “Do you have anything for allergies?” she asked, voice strained.

Peter offered a small smile, grabbed a box of tissues and a bottle of cough syrup. As she fished out her wallet, her kid reached out and tugged at Peter’s sleeve, a tiny hand grabbing his wrist. He forced himself to hold back a wince as it tugged on a bruise on his shoulder, gave the kid a quick smile, then gently pulled away as the woman handed over cash.

The line of customers was never long, but each one brought their own annoyance: complaints about prices, slow service, or just the noise of the small space. He kept his hands steady despite the fatigue creeping into his limbs. His fingers ached from the cold, and his knees felt like they might buckle if he stood still too long.

A loud bang from the back room made Peter flinch hard, the sound slicing through the haze in his head like a slap. His spidey-sense should’ve warned him, should’ve buzzed in his skull, should’ve nudged him a second before the crash. But it hadn’t. Not until it was too late.

The signal came late. Sluggish. Like the rest of him.

He turned toward the noise, already knowing what he’d find.

The stack of boxes had fallen. Not just tipped, collapsed. A mess of cardboard, crushed packaging, and scattered contents now littered the floor in a chaotic sprawl. Cans had rolled under shelves. Bottles had cracked open, leaking sticky syrup across the floor. A bag of rice had burst, grains skittering like sand across the tiles.

His stomach sank.

Normally, he’d have caught it. Stopped it. Heck, he’d have webbed it mid-fall if he had to. But today, his reflexes were dulled by fatigue, his senses fogged by hunger and bruises. He was running on fumes, and the consequences were now spread across the floor like a punishment.

The manager looked up from seat, eyes tired but sharp. He didn’t say anything. Just gave Peter a nod and jerked his chin toward the back.

Peter didn’t argue. He slipped behind the counter, ducked into the storage room, and knelt beside the mess.

It was worse up close.

He started sorting through the wreckage, fingers trembling as he picked up dented cans and wiped syrup off cracked plastic. His knees ached against the hard floor. His hoodie stuck to his back, damp with sweat. Every movement felt like dragging his body through molasses.

He worked in silence, stacking what he could, salvaging what hadn’t burst or broken. Then came the harder part, lifting the boxes. One by one, he put them back where they belonged. His arms shook with the effort. His ribs protested. But he kept going.

The manager took over at the register without a word, handling customers with the same quiet efficiency Peter usually did. It was the closest thing to kindness he’d gotten all day.

He didn’t mind the silence.

Silence was easier than small talk.

Easier than pretending he was okay.

———————

After leaving the store, Peter headed down the uneven sidewalk, shoulders slumped but moving forward. The familiar ache in his legs nagged at him with every step, but he pushed through, knowing he couldn’t afford to stop. The streets grew busier as he neared the warehouse district. Trucks idled, and the clang of metal echoed around him. The sun had climbed higher now, casting a glare that made his eyes sting painfully. At least it wasn’t raining. He wouldn’t be able to handle the cold that followed.

He passed a row of dumpsters, the smell of rot and oil thick in the air. A man slept beside one, wrapped in a blanket that looked more like a tarp. Peter didn’t stop. Just kept walking.

Finally, he arrived at the warehouse, a long, low building with rusted doors and a loading dock cluttered with crates and pallets. The scent of oil, grease, and dust coated everything, making his nose twitch. Inside, the air was thick and warm with the smell of machinery and diesel fumes. The foreman, a burly man with a gravelly voice, looked him over with a dismissive glance.

“Hey, kid,” he said, giving him a rough pat on the shoulder. “Get those boxes over to the trucks, will ya?”

Peter nodded and tried to ignore the sharp sting of fatigue in his limbs. The foreman, oblivious to his tired eyes and trembling hands, led him to a heavy crate and handed it off. He barely managed to keep his grip as the weight threatened to throw him off balance. The box was awkward, and sweat beaded on his forehead as he steadied himself.

Peter shuffled from one truck to another, stacking boxes, trying not to drop anything or trip over his own tired feet. The constant hum of machinery and loud warehouse noises filled his ears, but they blurred together, making it hard to focus. His arms ached, his back protested, and sweat dripped into his eyes, blurring his vision.

He didn’t talk to anyone. Didn’t joke. Didn’t smile. Just moved from task to task, like a cog in a machine that was starting to rust.

Several hours passed in a blur of lifting, shifting, and dodging the occasional careless truck driver or coworker. Each movement felt heavier than the last. He pushed himself, knuckles scraped, muscles screaming, heart pounding in his chest.

His thoughts drifted again. Not to anything good. Just flashes of rooftops, broken glass, a voice that used to call his name. He blinked hard, forcing the memories down.

When the last crate was finally loaded, he leaned against the side of a truck, catching his breath and feeling the burn in every limb.

The sun had dipped low behind the skyline. The city was cooling, but Peter’s body still burned.

He wiped his forehead, straightened up, and turned toward the street.

There was just one stop before his next shift.

Chapter Text

Later, after finishing at the warehouse, Peter found himself standing in front of the small, corner-store bakery, hunched and half-folded into himself like a crumpled receipt someone had forgotten to throw away. His hoodie was pulled tight around his face, not for warmth but for invisibility. The chill in the air wasn’t sharp enough to bite, but it had settled into his bones like regret, slow and persistent. He couldn’t tell if he was shivering from the cold or from the exhaustion that had been gnawing at him since sunrise.

His legs ached. Not the kind of ache that came from a good workout or a long run, but the kind that whispered of bruises blooming beneath skin, of muscles stretched too far for too long. Every step he’d taken since the warehouse had felt like dragging a corpse—his own, maybe—through the city. Now, standing still, the pain had nowhere to go. It pooled in his knees, his ankles, his lower back, pulsing with every heartbeat like a cruel metronome.

He shifted his weight from foot to foot, trying to stay upright without drawing attention. The sidewalk beneath him was uneven, cracked in places, and littered with old leaves and bits of trash that fluttered in the wind. A plastic bag caught on his boot and he didn’t bother to kick it away. It clung there, flapping weakly, like it had found a kindred spirit.

The bakery’s windows were fogged from the warmth inside, glowing faintly with the soft light of early evening. Through the glass, he could see the cluttered interior—mismatched chairs, faded wallpaper, shelves lined with pastries that looked like they belonged in a storybook.  The scent of sugar and flour seeped through the cracks in the door, wrapping around him with a warmth he doesn't feel very often now. Not since after everything that’s happened. Not since the Incident—okay, and that’s as far as that goes. He already looks like shit, doesn't need to feel like it too.

Ms. Pérez ran the place. She was probably inside now, arranging trays of flan or wiping down the counter with that same faded cloth she always used.

Peter had met her by accident, stumbling in one night after a patrol gone wrong, bleeding through his hoodie and desperate for something—anything—that didn’t hurt.

———

The scent curled into his lungs and settled there, grounding him in the moment.

It reminded him of the first time he’d stumbled into this place—bleeding, half-conscious, and still in the suit.

He hadn’t meant to come in. He’d been swinging on autopilot, ribs cracked, vision tunneling, and the only thing he could register was the smell of sugar and warmth drifting out into the street. It had pulled him in like gravity. He’d landed hard on the sidewalk, staggered through the door, and collapsed right there on the tile floor between the counter and the pastry case.

Ms. Pérez had screamed. Not loud, but startled. She’d rushed out from behind the counter, her slippers skidding slightly on the linoleum. Peter remembered the way her hands hovered over him, unsure where to touch first. His mask had been torn halfway off, blood soaking through the fabric at his side. He’d tried to say something—I’m fine, probably, because that’s what he always said—but it came out as a wheeze and then nothing at all.

She’d dragged him behind the counter, muttering in Spanish under her breath, something about niño loco and madre de Dios. She’d cleaned his wounds with warm water and a bottle of rubbing alcohol she kept under the sink. Bandaged him with strips of old dish towels and gauze from a first aid kit that looked like it hadn’t been opened since the Reagan administration. She even stitched a gash on his thigh with trembling fingers and a needle she’d boiled in a saucepan.

When he woke up, he panicked. Of course he did.

He’d bolted upright, eyes wide, heart racing, limbs flailing like he’d been caught in a trap. She’d dropped a spoon and nearly spilled her coffee. He’d tried to stand, failed, tried to apologize, failed again. It was messy. Awkward. Classic Parker.

But she hadn’t yelled. She hadn’t called the cops. She’d just handed him a concha and told him to sit down before he fell again.

He had.

Albeit, reluctantly, but he had listened, he’d stayed.

And that was the beginning.

———

They’d struck a quiet deal. She gave him pastries that couldn’t be sold, and he helped her with whatever needed doing. It wasn’t charity, not exactly. But it wasn’t a job either. It was something in between. Something fragile.

Peter stared at the door, debating whether to go in. His stomach growled, low and insistent, but his guilt was louder. He didn’t want to impose. Didn’t want to be the kind of person who took without giving. But he was tired. So tired.

He took a breath, winced as his ribs protested, and reached for the handle.

The bell above the door jingled softly as Peter stepped inside, the sound delicate and familiar, like a whisper of safety. The warmth hit him instantly, wrapping around his aching limbs like a blanket fresh from the dryer. It smelled like dough and sugar and something buttery baking and frying in the back—maybe buñuelos or pan de leche. The scent curled into his lungs and settled there, grounding him in the moment.

Ms. Pérez looked up from behind the counter, her eyes softening the instant they landed on him. She was, in fact, arranging a tray of flan, the creamy caramel-topped custard dessert glistening under the flickering light overhead. Her hands moved slowly, carefully, like she was placing each pastry with intention. She didn’t speak right away. She just watched him for a beat, her gaze lingering on the way he leaned against the doorframe, the way his shoulders sagged like they were carrying something heavier than groceries or flour.

“Ah, mijo,” she said finally, her voice warm and steady. She reached beneath the counter and pulled out a paper bag already filled. Inside were slightly hardened croissants, day-old conchas, and a few cookies that had lost their crispness but still smelled like vanilla and almond. “Here, for you. Take what you want.”

Peter offered a tired smile, the corners of his mouth twitching upward just enough to count. He stepped forward, fingers brushing against the wax paper lining the bag as he grabbed a muffin. It was stale, but still warm—probably reheated just for him. He tore into it with quiet desperation, crumbs falling onto his hoodie and sticking to his fingers. His stomach didn’t growl this time. It just accepted the food like it had been waiting patiently for him to remember it existed.

He didn’t speak much. He never did here. Ms. Pérez didn’t seem to mind. She moved back to her tray, humming softly under her breath, something old, soft and soothing. Peter chewed slowly, letting the warmth of the croissant settle into his chest like a balm.

After eating, he helped her carry a few boxes of flour and sugar to the back. The bags were heavy, but he wasn’t bothered by the weight it brought, so long as he could help. He stacked them carefully, mindful of the fragile shelves and the way Ms. Pérez watched him with that same knowing look. She didn’t say much, just offered him a cup of lukewarm coffee and a quiet nod of thanks.

Peter took it gratefully, wrapping his hands around the chipped mug and letting the steam rise into his face. It wasn’t strong coffee, but it was warm.

When he finished, he set the mug gently on the counter, careful not to let it clink too loudly. Ms. Pérez was wiping down the display case, her movements slow and methodical. She glanced up as he approached the door, her eyes soft beneath the warm glow of the overhead light.

“Same time tomorrow?” she asked, her voice light but expectant.

Peter hesitated, then nodded. “If I’m still standing.”

She chuckled, the sound low and fond. “You’ll be standing. You always are.”

He offered a small smile, the kind that didn’t quite reach his eyes but tried anyway. “Thank you…”

Ms. Pérez waved a hand, dismissive but gentle. “Go on, mijo. Before the rain catches you.”

Peter turned toward the door, hand on the handle, but paused just before stepping out. He looked back one last time. The bakery was quiet now, the radio playing something soft in the background, the scent of sugar still lingering in the air.

“Buenas noches, Ms. Pérez,” he said quietly.

She smiled, not looking up from her tray. “Buenas noches, Peter.”

And just like that, he was gone.

With his small bounty of pastries eaten and his chores done, Peter stepped back out into the street. The sky had darkened, clouds rolling in like bruises across the horizon. He pulled his hood tighter and headed off to his final shift.

———————

The diner was farther than the warehouse and bakery, even farther than the convenience store. Peter knew the route by heart now, every crack in the sidewalk, every flickering streetlamp, every storefront that stayed open too late or never opened at all. The walk was long, but routine. His feet moved on autopilot, each step a negotiation between pain and necessity. He didn’t think about the distance anymore—just about getting there before his body gave out.

The city had quieted around him. The deeper into the night he walked, the more the noise faded into a low hum. Cars passed occasionally, their headlights sweeping across his path like searchlights, but no one looked twice. He was just another shadow moving through the dark. Streetlights buzzed overhead, casting pale halos that flickered and blinked like they were struggling to stay awake. The pavement beneath his boots was uneven, worn down by time and weather, and every step sent a dull ache up through his knees.

His hoodie clung to him, damp from sweat and the lingering humidity in the air. The chill had settled into his bones, not sharp enough to sting, but deep enough to make him feel hollow. His ribs still throbbed from the fight two nights ago, a slow burn that flared every time he twisted too far or breathed too deep. He kept his arms close to his sides, trying not to aggravate the bruises blooming beneath his clothes.

The diner came into view like a beacon of exhaustion. It was tucked into a forgotten corner of the city, wedged between a pawn shop with barred windows and a bookstore that hadn’t opened in years. Its neon sign buzzed weakly above the door, one of the letters burnt out so it read “DIN_R” in pale red light. The glow barely cut through the haze of fatigue clouding Peter’s vision, but it was enough to guide him in.

He pushed open the door, the creak loud in the quiet street, and stepped inside. The air hit him like a wall—greasy, thick, and warm. It smelled like fried food, burnt coffee, and something sour that clung to the corners. The floor was sticky in places, his boots catching slightly with each step. The booths were cracked and patched with duct tape, the cushions sagging from years of use. A radio played softly from the kitchen, static humming between old songs. The griddle hissed in the background, working overtime to keep up with the orders.

He moved behind the counter, tying on a stained apron with fingers that trembled just slightly. The knot came loose the first time, and he had to redo it, slower this time, more deliberate. His hands weren’t cooperating tonight. They felt like they belonged to someone else—someone older, someone worn down. But he kept them steady. He had to. The moment he stepped behind that counter, he wasn’t Peter Parker anymore. He was just the kid who worked the graveyard shift. The one who poured coffee and flipped bacon and didn’t ask questions.

The diner was already buzzing. Not loud, not chaotic, but steady. The kind of noise that didn’t stop, didn’t spike, just pressed against your skull like static. The customers were a mix of tired workers, insomniacs, and night-shift drivers. People who didn’t want to be awake but had nowhere else to go. They shuffled in with heavy steps and heavier eyes, slumped into booths or perched on stools, their voices low and scratchy from too many cigarettes or not enough sleep.

They shouted orders, complained about the wait, grumbled about prices. Some of them didn’t even look at him when they spoke, just barked out what they wanted like he was a vending machine. Their voices blended into a constant hum, a droning chorus of need and impatience. Peter’s skull throbbed with it, the sound vibrating behind his eyes, but he didn’t flinch. He just moved.

A grumpy man in a wrinkled work shirt slammed a crumpled dollar on the counter, the paper damp and creased like it had been through a war. “Hey, I ordered this fifteen minutes ago. You call this customer service?” he snapped, voice rough as sandpaper.

Peter blinked once, twice, then forced a small, patient smile. “Sorry about that, sir. We’re a bit busy right now, but I’ll get your order out in just a minute.”

The man’s eyes narrowed, his mouth twitching like he wanted to say more but couldn’t be bothered. “Yeah, well, I’ve got a meeting to get to. You better not mess this up.”

Peter nodded, already turning away. He didn’t ask what kind of meeting someone had at midnight. He didn’t care. He just added the order to the list in his head and moved on.

Another customer, a bleary-eyed truck driver, slumped onto a stool with a grunt. His jacket was stained with oil, his hands rough and calloused. “Hey, kid, I’ve been waiting forever. You got my coffee yet or what?”

Peter nodded quickly, grabbing the pot from the warmer and pouring a steaming cup. The scent hit him hard—burnt, bitter, familiar. He slid the cup across the counter. “Here you go, sir. Sorry for the delay.”

The driver grunted again, taking the cup without a thank you, already distracted by whatever was playing on the tiny TV mounted in the corner. Peter didn’t expect gratitude. He didn’t expect anything.

A woman in sweat-stained jeans leaned over the counter, tapping her fingers impatiently. Her nails were chipped, her eyes sharp. “You got any more of that bacon? I’ve been waiting ages for my breakfast.”

Peter, exhausted but composed, reached behind the grill to grab a freshly cooked strip of bacon. The heat from the griddle stung his fingers, but he didn’t flinch. He placed the bacon in her hand, careful not to let it slip. “Here, ma’am. Sorry about the wait.”

A little late to be calling it breakfast, he thought, watching her scarf it down without a word. But hey, to each their own, I guess.

He wanted to tell them all to be patient. To understand that he was barely holding himself together. That his ribs ached, his head throbbed, and his body was screaming for rest. That he hadn’t slept more than four hours in the past three days, and that every time he moved, something inside him protested. But he didn’t. He kept his tone even, his smile soft, his movements steady.

He pushed through, taking orders and serving with a quiet resilience that hid the toll it was taking on him. Every plate he carried felt heavier than the last. Every step behind the counter was a battle against gravity. His knees buckled once, just slightly, when he bent to grab a tray from the lower shelf. He caught himself before anyone noticed.

The grill hissed behind him, the coffee pot gurgled, and the radio played something old and slow that no one was really listening to. The fluorescent lights overhead buzzed faintly, casting a sickly yellow glow that made everything look a little off. Peter’s shadow stretched across the linoleum floor, long and thin, like it was trying to escape.

He moved from station to station, flipping pancakes, refilling mugs, wiping down counters. His fingers were numb by the time he reached for the ketchup bottle, and he had to blink twice to focus on the label. His spidey-sense was quiet tonight. Not gone, just dulled. Like the rest of him.

Despite the constant noise and the endless stream of complaints, none of it paid well. The tips were small, the hours long, and the manager barely looked at him when he clocked in. But it was enough to keep him going. Just enough to cover rent, to buy a few groceries, to keep the lights on in his apartment for another week.

And he couldn’t stop.

———————

As the clock neared a few hours past midnight, the diner began to empty out, one customer at a time. The last of the night-shift regulars shuffled toward the door, shoulders slumped, eyes glazed with exhaustion. A trucker muttered something unintelligible as he tossed a few crumpled bills on the counter and disappeared into the dark. The bell above the door gave a tired jingle, and then, finally, silence.

The din of the diner settled into a quiet hum. The griddle, which had hissed and popped all night, now exhaled a soft, steady breath of steam. The coffee pot sputtered its last breath, a weak gurgle that echoed in the empty space like a sigh. Outside, the neon sign buzzed faintly, casting a dull red glow through the fogged windows. The missing “E” still hadn’t come back to life.

Peter stood behind the counter, hands resting on the edge, his body swaying slightly from the weight of the day. His feet throbbed inside his boots, his knees stiff, his back aching in a way that felt permanent. He wiped his hands on his apron, smearing grease and syrup across the already stained fabric. He didn’t care. The shift was over. That was all that mattered.

He peeled off the apron carefully, like it might tear if he moved too fast. It landed on the counter with a soft thud, limp and heavy. He stared at it for a moment, then turned away, heading toward the back.

The kitchen door creaked as he pushed it open. The back room was dim, lit by a single flickering bulb that cast long shadows across the walls. The air was warmer here, thick with the lingering scent of fried food and burnt toast. Peter moved slowly, his limbs stiff. Every movement felt like dragging himself through molasses.

He dropped his backpack onto the counter and began to rummage through it. The zipper caught halfway, and he had to tug it loose, which, sadly, caused it to rip.

It should’ve been expected. With his luck, it probably should’ve happened much sooner than that but it isn’t any more disappointing or annoying than it is when it finally does happen.

Inside, everything was crammed together—his spare clothes, a roll of medical tape, a half-eaten granola bar, a cracked phone charger. He pushed past it all until his fingers brushed against the familiar fabric of his suit.

He pulled it out gently, careful not to snag it on the frayed edges of the bag. The suit was battered, torn in places, the fabric faded and stained. One of the sleeves had a hole near the elbow, and the chest emblem was barely visible anymore. But it was still his. Still the thing that made him feel like he mattered, even if no one remembered why.

He slipped out of the uniform shirt, the cotton sticking to his skin from sweat and heat. The suit slid over his shoulders like muscle memory, each movement practiced, automatic. It didn’t fit like it used to. Not because he’d grown, but because he’d shrunk—worn down by the days, the fights, the silence.

Peter grabbed a hoodie and a pair of jeans from the shelf in the corner, slipping into his civilian clothes with the ease of someone who’d done it a thousand times. The hoodie was faded, the cuffs stretched out, and the jeans had a rip near the knee that he hadn’t bothered to patch. He didn’t need to look good. He just needed to move.

He slung his backpack over one shoulder and pushed open the back door. The alley behind the diner was quiet, the kind of quiet that felt earned. The cool night air hit him like a breath of relief, sharp and clean compared to the diner’s grease-thick atmosphere. He paused for a moment, letting the breeze ruffle his hair, letting the silence settle into his lungs.

The alley was narrow, lined with dumpsters and discarded crates. A cat darted past, its eyes glowing briefly in the dark before it vanished into the shadows. Peter moved toward the far wall, where a rusted fire escape clung to the bricks like a skeleton. Near the base, behind a loose brick, he kept a small weathered box.

He crouched down, fingers brushing the edge of the brick, and slid it open just enough to stash his backpack inside. The box was hidden from view unless you knew exactly where to look. It was his secret stash, his emergency cache. A place to keep things safe. A place to pretend he had control.

He secured the brick back into place, checked the latch on the fire escape, and straightened up. His breath fogged in the air, curling around his face before disappearing into the night.

Taking a deep breath, Peter turned toward the building beside the alley. The bricks were chipped, the ledges uneven, but he knew them like old friends. His feet found the holds with practiced ease, his fingers gripping the edges like they belonged there. He climbed slowly, deliberately, each movement careful and quiet.

Higher and higher, until the city opened up beneath him.

Rooftops stretched out like a patchwork quilt, stitched together by alleyways and fire escapes. The wind tugged at his hoodie, the chill biting at his cheeks, but he didn’t stop. He perched on the edge of the rooftop, crouched low, eyes scanning the horizon.

The city was still awake. Lights flickered in apartment windows. Cars rumbled down distant streets. Somewhere, a siren wailed. Somewhere else, laughter echoed faintly.

Peter watched it all, silent and unseen.

Spider-Man was ready to patrol once more.

Chapter Text

Spider-Man swung silently between the darkened rooftops, the city stretching out beneath him: alive, chaotic, and full of secrets. His senses were sharp, tuned to every vibration, every distant sound. For a night that had started rough, he’d actually managed to find a bit of momentum. A couple of muggers caught in a quick web trap, a car-hijacker startled into a stumble, a few stray cats stuck in trees—nothing too dangerous, but enough to remind him he was still part of this city’s strange rhythm.

The first mugging had been textbook. Two guys cornering a teenager near a bodega, one with a knife, the other with a voice too loud for the hour. Spider-Man had dropped in silently, upside-down from a fire escape, and webbed the knife clean out of the guy’s hand before either of them could blink.

“Hey,” he said, voice light but firm, “you know what’s not cool? Threatening people with sharp objects.”

The taller mugger tried to run. Spider-Man webbed his shoes to the pavement.

The teen—shaky, eyes wide—muttered a stunned “Thanks,” before bolting down the street. Peter didn’t chase. He just watched, then turned back to the two stuck men.

“Police’ll be here in, like, three minutes,” he said, already halfway up the wall. “Try not to scream too much when they peel the webs off. It’s kind of sticky.”

He swung off before they could answer.

———

Later, he spotted a car-hijacker trying to hotwire a beat-up sedan near the edge of Queens. The guy was muttering to himself, elbow-deep in wires, when Spider-Man landed silently behind him.

“Hey, man,” he said, crouched low, voice casual. “You know that’s not your car, right?”

The hijacker jumped, smacked his head on the steering wheel, and scrambled out of the vehicle.

Spider-Man webbed the door shut before he could get back in. “I mean, I get it. Gas prices are insane. But maybe don’t steal someone’s ride?”

The guy lunged. Spider-Man sidestepped, tripped him with a flick of his wrist, and webbed him to the sidewalk.

A few seconds later, Officer DeWolff pulled up in her cruiser. She stepped out, arms crossed, eyebrow raised.

“You again,” she said, not unkindly.

Spider-Man shrugged. “Just keeping the streets clean.”

She nodded toward the webbed-up hijacker. “You know we’re still trying to figure out how to get these guys unstuck without losing their eyebrows.”

He grinned behind the mask. “Consider it a free wax.”

DeWolff rolled her eyes but smiled. “Thanks, Spider-Man.”

He saluted and swung off.

———

The cats were easier than usual. Well, as easy as it could be to get an animal with sharp claws—and a hatred for Peter’s entire being—off of a fire escape. Mr. Whiskers had been meowing like it had been abandoned by God up on that staircase. Spider-Man climbed up, coaxed it gently, and carried it down to the waiting arms of a little girl in bunny slippers, not without a few scratches here and there, almost cutting through his suit.

“Mr. Whiskers!” the little girl cried, hugging the cat so tightly it squirmed.

Spider-Man crouched beside her. “Try not to let him climb too high next time, okay?”

She nodded solemnly. “You’re my favorite superhero.”

Peter’s heart did something weird, and his expression softened behind the mask. Regardless of whether or not the girl knew it, she had just made his day… night? Does it really count if the hours had already shifted to the A.M. side of things? Or was that—oh, wait. He was getting side-tracked. And he’s still yet to reply to her.

“Thanks, kid.” he said softly, his voice gentler than usual.

Her mom waved from the doorway. “Thank you, Spider-Man!”

He waved back, then vanished into the night.

———

The old lady was crossing 6th Avenue, cane tapping against the pavement, cars honking as she tried to navigate the chaos. Spider-Man landed beside her, gently took her elbow, and walked her across with quiet patience.

“Thank you, dear,” she said, voice trembling. “You’re very polite for someone in spandex.”

He chuckled. “I try.”

She patted his arm. “You remind me of my grandson. He used to help me with groceries before he moved to Jersey.”

Peter didn’t say anything. Just smiled and watched her disappear into the deli.

———

Spider-Man swung past the FEAST shelter next, just to check in. May had volunteered there once. He didn’t go inside, but he perched on the roof for a moment, watching the volunteers unload boxes. One of them—Martin Li—looked up and gave a small wave.

Peter nodded back, then turned away. He didn’t want to be seen too long. Not tonight.

———

At one point, he landed near a bodega where the owner, Mr. Delmar, was locking up. The man looked up, startled, then relaxed.

“Spider-Man,” he said. “You’re out late.”

He shrugged. “City doesn’t sleep.”

Delmar handed him a churro wrapped in napkins. “On the house.”

Peter blinked. “Seriously?”

Delmar smiled. “You saved my niece last week. She told me you carried her out of a burning building.”

Peter took the churro, warmth bleeding into his gloves. “She was brave. I just helped.”

Delmar nodded. “Still. Eat something.”

He did. It was slightly stale, but sweet. He felt better.

———

He even ran into Ned—well, sort of.

Spider-Man had just landed on the roof across from a dimly lit internet café when the door below swung open. Out came Ned Leeds, hoodie up, backpack slung over one shoulder, and a half-empty energy drink in hand. He looked tired but content, probably fresh off a long gaming session or a deep dive into some online rabbit hole. Peter paused, crouched low in the shadows, heart thudding.

Ned didn’t look up at first. But eventually he did. Just a glance. Just long enough to spot the figure on the rooftop.

“Yo!” he called out, voice casual, friendly. “Spider-Man, right?”

Peter froze.

Ned gave a small wave, like someone greeting a local legend. “Saw the footage from the bridge last week. You’re insane, man. My cousin was stuck in traffic—said you saved a whole bus.”

Peter nodded slowly, throat suddenly tight. “Glad they’re okay,” he managed, voice barely above a whisper.

Ned smiled, already turning away. “You’re awesome, man! Seriously.”

Peter didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. Just watched as Ned disappeared down the street, earbuds in, sipping his drink like it was any other night.

His tongue felt dry. His chest hollow. He hadn’t expected it to hurt like this.

He’d seen Ned a dozen times since the spell. Always from a distance. Always as Spider-Man. But this was the first time Ned had spoken to him. Not as a friend. Not as someone who knew him. Just… a stranger in a mask.

Peter stayed crouched on that rooftop for a long time after Ned was gone, the city humming quietly beneath him.

Then he swung away.

Yet, as he continued his patrol, the fatigue was creeping in. His body ached in places he didn’t want to admit, and his mind was foggy from lack of rest. His ribs still throbbed from the warehouse shift, and the diner grease felt like it hadn’t left his skin. Still, he kept moving, listening closely for trouble, feeling the faint vibrations beneath his feet whenever he reached the ground.

Then, something shifted.

A tremor in the air. A sudden shudder racking down his spine. A feeling in his chest—not pain, not panic, but something else. Something instinctual. Ancient.

A faint, irregular clatter—metal against glass—hurried footsteps, muffled voices, echoed from below. His spidey-senses prickled warningly, sharp and insistent. That could only mean one thing: a robbery.

With a flick of his wrist, Spider-Man angled himself downward, descending swiftly into an alleyway. He landed softly on the pavement, crouching low, eyes scanning the scene through the darkness.

Two masked figures, one armed with a gun, the other clutching a knife, were forcing their way inside the bank’s glass doors. The thief with the gun was nervy, twitchy, probably high or just plain reckless. The other, a lanky, scruffy-looking guy with a mohawk that stuck up in wild spikes—almost unnaturally, like it was a part of him—looked drowsy, unsteady on his feet, and noticeably malnourished.

Spider-Man’s lips curled into a grin. Perfect. Just what he needed to get his mind off things.

He swung into view just as the two criminals were about to make their exit, landing on the roof of the bank with a quiet thud.

“Hey guys,” he called out, voice light with amusement. “Looks like you’re trying to rob a bank—without any insurance, might I add. Bad idea.”

The gun-wielding man spun around, his finger tightening on the trigger. Spider-Man had already named him Trigger-Happy, because subtlety clearly wasn’t his thing. The other guy crouched near the vault—lean, twitching, clutching his side like he was holding himself together with sheer will. His skin shimmered faintly, greenish and slick, and his forearms were elongated, jointed like blades.

Trigger-Happy fired wildly and missed. Spider-Man ducked effortlessly, a web darting from his wrist and striking the bank wall behind him. The shot ricocheted harmlessly into the brick, the gun skittering across the floor.

“Whoa, easy there, big guy,” Spider-Man quipped, flipping upside down to hang from a nearby beam. “You know, I’ve seen better aim from stormtroopers. Seriously, you’ve got less accuracy than a drunk teen on a rollercoaster.”

He turned his gaze to the mutant crouched near the vault. “And you,” he said, voice dripping with mock disappointment, “are the poster child for bad life choices. You look like you’ve been living off cockroach stew and sleeping in dumpsters. What’s your secret? Genetics or just bad taste?”

The guy tilted his head slowly, eyes fluttering like he was waking from a trance. Then, without warning, he moved—faster than Peter had expected. Not just fast. Predatory.

He lunged.

Spider-Man barely moved in time. He twisted midair, the mutant’s bladed forearm slicing through the space where his head had been a second earlier. The air hissed with the force of the strike, the blade carving a shallow groove into the concrete wall behind him.

“Okay, rude,” Peter muttered, flipping backward and landing in a crouch. “I was in the middle of a roast.”

The mutant’s eyes glowed faintly, and a strange ripple distorted the air around him—not energy, but something else. A natural blur that made it hard to track his limbs, like watching a mantis strike in slow motion and fast-forward all at once.

Spider-Man fired a web at the guy’s arm, but the shot veered off course mid-air. Not because of a shield—because he had shifted his body just enough, just fast enough, to make the web miss. His movements bent perception, like watching a predator through heat waves.

“Whoa,” Spider-Man muttered, crouching low. “That’s a new trick. You some kind of mutant?”

The guy grinned, his mandible-like jaw twitching. “You can’t catch me,” he smiled, voice thick with amusement but laced with something else—something primal.

Spider-Man’s jaw tightened. He was already running on fumes—injured, dehydrated, and half-starved. But he wasn’t about to let a mutant take him down.

“Guess I’ll have to get creative,” he whispered, firing a web at his head, aiming to tangle the mohawk-like crest that jutted from his scalp.

The web wrapped tight—but only for a second. The guy shook violently, slicing through the strands with his bladed forearms. The web snapped like brittle thread.

Spider-Man’s eyes narrowed as he muttered to himself, “Okay. So you’ve got reflexes, slicing limbs, and some kind of visual distortion field… So, a mantis. Great. Just what I needed.”

He crouched, muscles tense, watching the way the Mantis—he’d dubbed him—shimmered, how his body blurred and snapped into focus with each twitch. Wasting webbing now would be a mistake. He needed precision. He needed a pattern.

“Let’s see what makes you tick,” he muttered, firing webs in quick succession—aiming for joints, limbs, anything that might slow him down. But each shot was dodged or sliced mid-air, the reflexes too sharp, too fast.

The Mantis lunged again, this time feinting left before striking right. Spider-Man twisted, barely avoiding the blade that grazed his side. Pain flared, but he didn’t stop. He rolled, fired another web—this one aimed at the floor beneath the mutant’s feet.

It stuck.

The Mantis stumbled, just for a second. Just long enough.

Spider-Man launched forward, feet-first, kicking the mutant square in the chest. The impact sent him flying backward into a stack of overturned chairs and shattered glass. He hit the ground hard, limbs twitching, mohawk sparking faintly with static.

Peter landed, panting, crouched low.

“Okay,” he said between breaths. “That was new. And awful. And I’m gonna feel that in the morning.”

The Mantis stirred, groaning.

Spider-Man raised a hand, web shooter primed. “Stay down, Edward Scissorhands.”

But the mutant didn’t listen. His mandibles twitched, and his compound eyes locked onto Peter with a gleam that was far too lucid for someone who’d just been kicked through a wall.

Peter lunged forward, aiming to tag his ankle with a web and pin him down for good.

His spidey-sense blared.

Peter twisted mid-air, catching sight of Trigger-Happy scrambling toward the stolen cash, dragging a duffel bag across the shattered floor.

“Hey!” he shouted, firing a web that slammed the thief against the wall with a satisfying thwack. “Hope you like being stuck, ‘cause I’m fresh out of patience!”

But that split-second distraction was all the mutant needed.

Mantis lunged, slicing through the air with one bladed arm. Spider-Man barely twisted in time, but the edge grazed his side—a burning sting that made him gasp.

Staggering backward, Peter clutched his ribs. His vision blurred. Pain pulsed through his body like static, hot and disorienting.

He crouched low, ribs aching, eyes locked on the mutant across the ruined bank lobby. The guy wasn’t just fast—he was precise. His limbs were jointed like blades, his movements sharp and deliberate. Green chitin shimmered under the flickering lights, and his compound eyes glowed with eerie intelligence.

“You smell like fear,” Mantis hissed, voice layered with a strange clicking undertone. “I can taste it in the air.”

Peter’s jaw tightened. “Y’know, I’ve met Mantis. Sweet, quiet, empathic. You? You’re just bad PR.”

The mutant tilted his head, mandibles twitching. “I’m not just a mantis. I’m evolution perfected. You’re the prey. I’m the predator.”

Then he moved.

Not a blur—something worse. A stutter in reality, like frames skipping in a video. One second he was ten feet away, the next Mantis’ bladed forearm was slicing through the air where Peter’s head had been.

Peter twisted mid-air, barely dodging. His spidey-sense screamed, but it wasn’t fast enough. The strike grazed his shoulder, tearing through fabric and skin.

He landed hard, rolling behind a shattered desk. Blood soaked through his suit. His breath came in ragged bursts.

“Fast reflexes,” the mutant said, stalking forward. “But not fast enough. I’ve hunted spiders before. You twitch. I strike.”

Peter fired a web at his legs, trying to pin him. Mantis leapt—straight up—clinging to the ceiling like it was second nature. His body shimmered, blending into the shadows.

Peter’s eyes darted around. “Camouflage? Seriously?”

Then—his suit flickered. Barely perceptible. Like static crawling across his skin.

A voice crackled to life in his ear.

“Incoming—left side!”

Karen.

She was back.

For a split second, the HUD flared to life, targeting overlays dancing across his vision. His heart surged. Peter twisted instinctively, just as Mantis dropped from the ceiling like a guillotine. The blade missed his neck by inches, carving a deep groove into the floor beside him.

But before he could respond, the light dimmed. The voice glitched.

“Lockmode engaged. Unrecognized user.”

And then. Silence.

The HUD vanished. The targeting reticle blinked out. Karen was gone.

Peter froze for half a breath, the echo of her voice lingering like a phantom. That phrase—unrecognized user—cut deeper than any blade. It wasn’t just rejection. It was erasure. A reminder that even his own tech didn’t know who he was anymore.

But he clenched his jaw, forced himself to move. The mutant was circling again, blades twitching, eyes gleaming. Yet, in the blink of an eye, Mantis was gone again, camouflaged.

Spider-Man fired a web, pushing the ache down, burying the glitch in the back of his mind.

He was alone. But he wasn’t done.

Nevertheless, the echo of Karen’s voice lingered.

A blade sliced down from above. Spider-Man rolled, firing another web—this time at the ceiling. It caught, yanking him upward just as Mantis’s claws tore through the floor where he’d been.

“You’re wasting silk,” Mantis hissed, dropping down behind him. “I can see the tension in your muscles. I know where you’ll move before you do.”

Spider-Man spun, launching a flurry of webs—wide spread, unpredictable angles. One caught Mantis’s arm. He snarled, slicing through it with ease.

He lunged, swinging a punch, but Mantis caught his wrist mid-air, claws tightening.

He twisted Peter’s arm, forcing him to his knees. Spider-Man gritted his teeth, pain shooting through his shoulder.

Then. Instinct.

Peter slammed his head forward, cracking his forehead against Mantis’s jaw. The mutant reeled, just enough for Peter to break free and roll backward.

“Okay,” Peter gasped. “How am I supposed to fight a Mantis—a spider’s natural predator?”

Mantis crouched, watching him. “You’re adapting. That’s good. It makes the hunt more satisfying.”

Spider-Man fired a web at a nearby column, swinging around it to gain momentum. He launched himself at Mantis, feet first. The mutant dodged, but he twisted mid-air, landing behind him and firing a web directly at his back.

It stuck.

Mantis snarled, spinning with a blade raised, but Spider-Man was already moving, firing another web at his legs, then his arms. The mutant sliced through one, but the second tangled his limbs.

He lunged, fists flying. One punch connected with Mantis’s jaw, another with his ribs. The mutant staggered, camouflage flickering.

But then. Pain.

Peter’s knuckles screamed. Mantis’s exoskeleton was like armor. The shock traveled up his arm, numbing his wrist.

Mantis grinned, blood trickling from his mouth. “You hit hard. But you break yourself doing it.”

Spider-Man dodged another strike, barely. The blade grazed his thigh this time, slicing through the suit and drawing blood. He stumbled, caught himself on a broken counter, and fired a web at Mantis’ feet again and it stuck.

Mantis snarled, slicing at the floor, trying to free himself once more.

Peter took the chance. He launched forward, fists swinging, landing a solid punch to the mutant’s jaw. The impact echoed through the lobby—but Mantis barely flinched.

Instead, he twisted his head unnaturally, mandibles clicking, and slammed his forearm into Peter’s chest.

Peter flew backward, crashing into a row of overturned chairs.

His body screamed. His vision blurred. He tried to stand, but his legs buckled.

Peter blinked, blood dripping from his temple. His suit was torn. His web cartridges were nearly empty. His body was failing.

But he still raised his arm.

Still aimed.

Still fired.

The web shot hit Mantis square in the face, blinding him for a second.

Peter used the moment to crawl behind a desk, panting, heart hammering.

He was stumbling now. Struggling.

But he wasn’t done.

Not yet.

Peter forced himself upright, legs trembling beneath him, every breath a battle. “Okay,” he rasped, “let’s do this. Come on.”

He grinned—couldn’t help it. Blood dripped from his cheek, slid across his lips, metallic and bitter. He cringed, spat it onto the floor, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and grinned again, this time with something crooked and reckless behind it.

His voice came out hoarse, cracked, but laced with amusement.

“I can do this all day,” he muttered, half a joke, half a tribute. Something he’d heard in stories. Something Steve used to say. He wasn’t sure if it fit him, but it felt right in the moment.

He fired a final web, not at Mantis, but at the ceiling above him. A chunk of debris collapsed, crashing down on the mutant. Mantis raised his arms to block, but the weight drove him to the ground.

Spider-Man didn’t wait. He leapt forward, wrapping web after web around the mutant’s limbs, pinning him to the floor.

Mantis thrashed, slicing through some strands, but not all. His movements slowed. His camouflage flickered and died.

“How…,” he rasped, voice low.

Peter crouched, chest heaving. “I’m a spider. It’s kind of my thing.”

———————

Spider-Man staggered forward, breath ragged and body trembling, clutching his side. Every inch of him screamed in pain, but he managed to stay upright, eyes fixed on the mutant.

The fight was over. For now.

The boy took a shaky breath, trying to steady himself as the adrenaline waned and the harsh reality of his injuries set in. Every step sent a sharp jolt through his side, his legs, his arms, his fists, his body littered with cuts and scrapes, but he forced himself to move. Shadows cloaked his battered form as he darted toward the back exit of the bank.

Just as he reached the door, the distant wail of sirens pierced the night, closer now, growing louder with each second. Spider-Man’s eyes flicked toward the approaching lights and the flashing red and blue that signaled the police on their way.

With a quick, stuttered leap, he swung onto the nearest rooftop. The city’s chaos would keep him hidden for now, but he knew he couldn’t stay long.

In his mind, he replayed the fight. Every moment was a reminder of how fragile he was, how little he could afford to rely on his strength alone, especially in a situation like that.

Peter’s ribs screamed as he staggered across the rooftop, one hand pressed to his side, the other clutching the torn remains of his mask. His suit was shredded, most the nanotech had dissolved months ago, the rest clung to him like wet tissue paper. Blood soaked through the fabric, sticky and slow. Not enough calories. Not enough sleep. Not enough of anything.

He collapsed against a rusted vent, wheezing. He tilted his head back, eyes catching on the skyline. There it was. Avengers Tower. Still standing. Still gleaming. Still unreachable.

He stared at it for a long time.

A part of him whispered: You could go. You could ask for help.

Another part, the louder part, laughed bitterly. They don’t know you. You’re a ghost in your own story.

Peter pushed himself up, legs trembling. He limped toward the edge of the rooftop, then dropped down into the shadows of the alley below. No webs left. No strength to swing. Just gravity and grit.

He landed hard on his feet, knees buckling. The shadows swallowed him whole. He leaned against the damp brick wall, breath shallow, chest rattling with each inhale. The blood on his side had dried into a crust, but the pain was fresh—sharp, insistent.

His fingers trembled as he peeled off the mask, revealing a face that barely felt like his anymore. The bruises bloomed across his jaw, his cheekbone, his ribs. But it wasn’t the bruises that hurt.

It was the voice in his head.

You’re not strong enough.

You’re not smart enough.

You’re not fast enough.

You’re not enough.

The words weren’t his. Not really. But they’d taken up residence. They echoed in the silence, louder than sirens, sharper than blades. Every missed punch, every failed dodge, every glitch in the suit—it all fed the same conclusion.

You’re failing.

He pressed his forehead against the wall, eyes squeezed shut. The city pulsed around him, indifferent. Somewhere above, Avengers Tower gleamed like a monument to a life he’d lost. A life that didn’t remember him.

Karen’s voice—unrecognized user—played again in his mind. Not just a system error. A verdict.

He wasn’t Spider-Man anymore. Not the one they knew. Not the one they trusted. Just a boy in a broken suit, bleeding in an alley, pretending he still mattered.

Peter’s breath hitched. He wanted to scream. To punch the wall until his bones cracked. But he didn’t. He just stood there, letting the thoughts crawl over him like insects.

You couldn’t stop Mr. Stark.

You killed May.

You let Ned go.

You let MJ forget.

You let yourself disappear.

He shook his head, trying to push the thoughts away. But they clung to him. Infectious. Persistent.

The boy was tired. Not just physically. Tired of surviving. Tired of pretending. Tired of being the ghost of a hero.

And yet.

He straightened slowly, bones protesting. He pulled the hoodie over his torn suit, wiped the blood from his lip, and stepped out of the alley.

Because even if he didn’t believe in himself right now, someone might. No one will. Someone out there might need him. No one does. And that had to be enough. You’re never going to be enough.

For tonight.

Chapter Text

Peter stumbled through the apartment window just after sunrise, every step a negotiation between pain and gravity. The frame had stuck again, and he’d had to shoulder it open, which sent a fresh wave of agony through his ribs. They felt like they’d been rearranged by a jackhammer: splintered, bruised, cracked. His shoulder throbbed with a deep, pulsing ache that radiated down his arm, and his left knee buckled slightly as he crossed the threshold.

The suit was barely holding together, more thread than anything now. The fabric clung to him in damp patches, soaked through with sweat, grime, and blood; some of it dried, some of it fresh. His mask hung loosely around his neck, the lenses fogged and smeared. He didn’t bother with the shower. Didn’t even glance toward the bathroom. Just peeled off the suit in pieces, each movement slow and deliberate, and dropped it in the corner like a dead thing, the limp pile of red and blue looking more like a discarded rag than the armor it was supposed to be, it was meant to be.

He collapsed onto the mattress in just his briefs; no blanket, no pillow, just the cold, uneven surface and the desperate hope that unconsciousness would be kinder than reality.

It wasn’t.

Sleep came in fragments—shallow breaths, blurred, uncanny faces and hollow eyes, flashes of a flickering, mechanical heart dimming, blood, just so much blood.

One moment he was staring at the cracked ceiling, ribs aching, eyelids heavy. The next, he was falling.

Not in the way he usually did: graceful, controlled, webline taut against gravity. No. This was different. This was freefall. Endless. The wind roared past his ears, and the city blurred below him, buildings stretching and warping like melting wax. He reached for his webs, but his wrists were bare. No suit. No mask. Just skin and panic.

He hit the ground hard, but didn’t stop. The pavement cracked beneath him, and he sank through it like water, plunging into darkness.

Then light.

Blinding, sterile light.

He was standing in the hallway of Midtown High. Locker doors lined the walls, all of them ajar, swinging slowly yet there was no wind or open doors in sight. The floor was slick with something, he didn’t want to look too closely. His shoes stuck with every step. The air smelled like bleach and copper.

MJ stood at the end of the hall, her back to him. Her hair was pulled into a loose bun, her shoulders tense. Peter called out to her, but no sound came. He tried again. Nothing. His voice was gone.

He ran.

The hallway stretched longer with every step. MJ didn’t turn. Didn’t move. Just stood there, frozen.

Then the lockers began to slam shut, one by one, echoing like gunshots. The lights flickered. The floor cracked.

He reached her just as she turned. And her face was wrong.

Her eyes were hollow. Her mouth twisted into something that wasn’t a smile. Blood trickled from her nose, her temple, her chest, eventually every crevasse of her skin began to seep with that familiar red. She opened her mouth to speak, but only static came out.

Peter stumbled back, heart racing.

Behind him, Ned appeared. Laughing. Not in a joyful way, but in a warped, broken way. His face flickered like a glitch, shifting between the Ned he knew and something else, something faceless, eyeless, mouth stretched too wide.

“You left me,” Ned said, voice distorted. “You let me forget.”

Peter tried to speak, to explain, but his tongue felt like sandpaper. His throat closed up.

Then May stepped forward.

She looked normal. Real. Her eyes were kind. Her hands steady.

Peter reached for her, arms trembling, knees buckling beneath him. She smiled—soft, tired—and collapsed.

Blood pooled beneath her, spreading like ink across the floor. Peter dropped to his knees, tried to stop the bleeding, tried to hold her together, but his hands passed through her like smoke.

“You promised,” she whispered. “You promised I’d be safe.”

Peter blinked.

And suddenly, it wasn’t May in his arms.

It was Ben.

His uncle’s face was pale, lips parted, eyes unfocused. Peter’s breath caught in his throat. Ben’s shirt was soaked through with blood, his chest rising in shallow, uneven gasps. Peter pressed his hands to the wound, desperate, frantic.

“No, no, no—please, not again,” he whispered, his voice finally having come back to him, yet it was cracking, breaking with fear, with the pain of what he’s witnessing.

Ben looked up at him, eyes full of something Peter couldn’t name. “You did your best,” he said, voice thin. “But it wasn’t enough.”

Peter shook his head. “I—I didn’t know. I didn’t know what would happen.”

Ben’s hand reached up, touched Peter’s cheek. “You killed me.”

Then his hand fell away.

He could hear his heart stop. The steady beating that was there ceased as everything became devoid of noise.

Peter screamed.

The world fractured.

He heard something, a voice, distant and muffled, like it was underwater. He looked up, searching for help, for anything, for someone.

Two figures stood in the light.

A man and a woman.

Peter’s heart lurched. He knew who they were. He had to. But their faces were wrong. Blurred. Unfinished. Like memories that had been painted over too many times. He tried to remember—his father’s laugh, his mother’s eyes—but the details slipped through his fingers like sand.

“Peter,” the woman said, her voice warm and unfamiliar.

“Son,” the man added, reaching out.

Peter stepped forward, confused, desperate. “Are you—are you really—?”

But before he could finish, the light behind them flickered.

And people began to appear.

One by one. Dozens. Hundreds.

Faces from school. Teachers. Classmates. Mr. Harrington. Flash. Betty. Liz. Mr. Dell. Brad. MJ. Ned. All of them staring at him, eyes wide, mouths twisted. Their voices rose in a cacophony of accusations.

“You lied!”

“You let her die!”

“You’re a freak!”

“You’re dangerous!”

“You’re not one of us!”

“You’re not even human!”

“You monster!”

Peter tried to speak, tried to explain, but his voice was gone. His throat sealed shut once again. The crowd surged forward, hands reaching, clawing, grabbing at his arms, his chest, his face. Fingers dug into his skin, pulling, tearing, dragging him down.

He struggled, kicked, screamed, but the sound was swallowed by the noise. It got louder and louder and louder until it was all he could hear. Until it was all he could feel. Until the world collapsed into black.

Then—

Suddenly, he was in the warehouse. The one from the night of Homecoming. The one where he’d nearly passed out when it had collapsed on top of him. The one where he hadn’t even been given a chance to fight back against Toomes. But now it was empty. Silent. Except for the sound of a heartbeat: mechanical, slow, fading.

He turned.

And there was the Iron Spider suit, standing upright, hollow. Its chest flickered with a dim arc reactor, pulsing weakly. Tony’s voice echoed from inside it, warped and distant.

“If you’re nothing without the suit…”

Peter stepped forward.

“…then you shouldn’t have it.”

The suit collapsed.

Peter was alone.

Then the city rose around him again, but it was wrong. Twisted. The buildings leaned inward, windows shattered, streets flooded with red. He stood on a rooftop, mask in hand, and below him, chaos. Sirens. Screams. Fire.

He looked down and saw himself.

Another version of him, curled on the pavement, bleeding out, dying, surrounded by people who didn’t know his name. Who didn’t care.

He tried to move, but his feet were stuck. Webs tangled around his ankles, his wrists, his throat. He couldn’t breathe.

Then Mysterio’s voice cut through the noise.

“You’re not a hero.”

Peter gasped.

“You’re just a scared little boy playing dress-up.”

The illusion shattered.

Peter bolted upright in bed, drenched in sweat, chest heaving, ribs screaming, the pain now spread all over, sharper than before. His throat was raw. His hands trembled.

The apartment was quiet.

But the silence felt like a lie.

His healing factor had slowed to a crawl. No calories. No rest. Just pain. His body was trying, but it didn’t have enough to work with. He hadn’t eaten since the muffin at the bakery. Or was it a croissant? That felt like a lifetime ago.

Peter sat up slowly, wincing as his spine protested. His back cracked in three places, none of them satisfying. The apartment was quiet—too quiet—, save for the hum of the fridge and the occasional drip from the bathroom faucet. The light filtering through the blinds was pale and gray, casting long shadows across the floor. Dust floated in the air, catching the light like static. His stomach growled, low and hollow, but he ignored it.

He checked his phone: cracked screen, 9:43 A.M., 4% battery, three missed calls from the warehouse. No texts. No voicemails. Just the silent reminder that he was expected somewhere, even if no one knew his name.

He wasn’t scheduled at the bodega today. Small mercy. But the warehouse shift was still on. He’d promised to cover for a guy named Luis, who had a dentist appointment and a toddler with a fever. Peter didn’t know him well, but he’d said yes anyway. He always said yes.

He dragged himself to the kitchenette, opened the fridge, and stared at the contents: half a bottle of that same water, a takeout container with something unidentifiable hiding in a drawer, and after looking some more, he found a single egg behind said container. He cracked the egg into a pan, watched it sizzle weakly, and ate it straight from the skillet with a plastic fork. It wasn’t anywhere near enough, but it was something.

He rinsed the pan, filled a chipped mug with tap water, and drank slowly. His throat burned. His lips were cracked. He hadn’t realized how dehydrated he was until the water hit his stomach like a punch.

He moved to the bathroom next, peeled off the rest of his clothes, and stood under the shower for exactly four minutes. The water was lukewarm, the pressure weak, but it helped. He scrubbed the blood from his skin, watched it swirl down the drain, and tried not to think about where it had come from.

Afterward, he wrapped his ribs with medical tape, wincing with each pull, then dressed in layers: two shirts, his warehouse uniform, and his only hoodie. The hoodie hung loose over his frame, hiding the worst of the bruises. His left hand trembled as he zipped it up. He ignored it, shoving a protein bar into his backpack as he tried to remember where it was that he’d left his shoes at. When he finally found them it’d finally hit him, his boots were still damp from the night before, but he didn’t have another pair. God, was he going to have to wear wet shoes to work again, this was not going to be fun. It wasn’t like he had much of a choice here, so he slipped them on—not without a little sound of disgust first though.

He paused at the window before leaving, looking out over the city. The streets below were somehow still busy; people rushing to work, teens dragging backpacks, cars honking at each other. Life moved on. It always did.

Peter didn’t.

He grabbed his keys, slung his bag over his shoulder with a wince, and stepped out into the hallway. The door clicked shut behind him, and for a moment, he just stood there, breathing.

The pain was still there. The exhaustion. The ache in his bones and the weight in his chest. But he moved anyway.

Because that’s what he did.

Because that’s what was left.

———————

The walk to the warehouse was slow.

Every step sent a jolt through his ribs, a dull throb that radiated outward like a warning. His shoulder ached from the dislocation, his legs felt like they were made of wet sand, and his left hand kept twitching inside his hoodie pocket, refusing to cooperate. He kept his head down, eyes fixed on the cracks in the sidewalk, the gum stains, the cigarette butts. Anything but people.

Normally, no one paid him much attention. Just another tired kid in a hoodie, blending into the blur of the city. But today felt different.

There were too many eyes.

Too many glances that lingered a second too long. A woman looked at him, then looked again. A man frowned as he passed. A kid pointed, whispering something to his friend. A cyclist slowed down, turned his head, and kept staring even as he rode past.

Peter’s stomach dropped.

He knew what they were seeing. The hoodie couldn’t hide everything. Not the bruising that bloomed from his shoulder up to his neck and jaw, a sickly mix of purple and yellow that crawled toward his ear. Not the cut on his forehead, just visible beneath the edge of his hairline. Not the cluster of smaller scrapes across his cheek and temple—too many to be brushed off as clumsy accidents, but not quite enough to look self-inflicted. Though that wouldn’t have been any better.

He could feel the weight of their assumptions pressing against his skin.

Why are they looking at me?

His thoughts spiraled fast.

Did the spell break? Did someone remember? Did everyone?

His breath hitched.

No. No, no, no. That’s not possible. Strange said it was sealed. Said it was stable. Said no one would remember.

But what if he was wrong?

What if someone saw him—really saw him—and remembered?

What if the universe was already cracking?

What if this was how it started?

Peter’s chest tightened. His steps faltered. He bumped into someone and muttered a hoarse apology, but the person didn’t respond. Just kept walking. But they’d looked at him. Really looked.

It’s my fault. It’s all my fault.

His mind raced, faster than his feet could carry him.

Maybe I should’ve died with May.

I should’ve died instead of May. I should’ve died instead of Tony. I should’ve died instead of Ben. I should’ve died with my parents.

Maybe then none of this would’ve happened. Maybe then the world wouldn’t be breaking around me.

He stumbled into a side street, veering off course, legs shaking. The noise of the city dulled behind him, replaced by the hum of a distant generator and the soft clatter of trash cans in the wind.

I should be dead. I was dead. For five years. I should’ve stayed dead.

Tony should’ve never brought me back.

His breath came in short, shallow bursts. His vision blurred. His knees buckled slightly, but he kept walking, one hand pressed to his ribs, the other gripping the strap of his backpack like it was the only thing tethering him to reality.

Titan.

The memory slammed into him like a freight train.

One second he was walking down the street, ribs aching, hoodie pulled tight, trying to disappear into the noise of the city—and the next, he was there again. On that broken planet. On that battlefield. On Titan.

The sky had been a sickly orange, the ground cracked and dry beneath his boots. Dust clung to everything—his suit, his skin, his lungs. He remembered the way the air had tasted: metallic, scorched, wrong. The fight had already gone sideways. Quill was shouting. Strange was gone. Tony was bleeding. And Thanos. Thanos had gotten away, with the stone, the stone he was meant to protect, with the gauntlet, the gauntlet he had in his hands, he’d let slip right past his finger tips when it was right there.

But Peter had felt it before any of them.

Long before Mantis whispered, “Something’s wrong,” Peter’s spidey-sense had screamed. Not a whisper. Not a tingle. A full-body siren, blaring in his skull, in his bones, in his blood. Something massive. Something final. Something wrong.

He’d staggered, one hand grabbing at his chest, the other reaching for something—anything—to hold onto. But there was nothing. Just the cracked ground and the weight of inevitability pressing down on him.

Then it started.

His vision blurred. His limbs went weak. And then—his hand.

It was flaking away.

Not bleeding. Not burning. Just… disintegrating. Like ash caught in a breeze. Like he was being erased.

“Mr. Stark,” he’d said, voice cracking. “I don’t feel so good.”

He hadn’t meant to say it. It had just come out, raw and terrified.

Tony had turned, eyes wide, already moving toward him.

Peter had stumbled forward, reaching out. “I don’t know what’s happening…”

His legs gave out. Tony caught him.

“I don’t wanna go,” Peter had gasped, clinging to him. “Please—I don’t wanna go.”

His body was unraveling faster now. His healing factor was trying to fight it, trying to stitch him back together even as the decay tore him apart. But it wasn’t enough. It was never enough.

It wasn’t like falling asleep. It wasn’t peaceful.

It was agony.

Like being torn apart from the inside, too quickly for his body to repair, but just slowly enough for him to feel every second of it. His nerves lit up like fire. His bones felt like they were being ground into dust. His skin peeled away in layers, and he could feel it—feel the absence, feel the wrongness, feel the panic clawing up his throat as he begged.

“I’m sorry,” he’d whispered, voice barely audible. “I’m so sorry.”

And then he was gone.

It was then that Peter came back to the present, his spidey-sense warning him of the onlookers, watching him. He staggered into a deserted alleyway, hand pressed to the wall, gasping.

His heart was racing. His lungs were collapsing. His ribs screamed with every breath.

He was having a panic attack.

He knew the signs. He’d had them before. But this one was worse. This one was deeper. This one came from the marrow.

He tried to breathe. In. Out. In. Out.

But it wasn’t working.

His body was shaking. His vision was tunneling. His thoughts were screaming.

You should’ve died. You should’ve stayed dead. You’re breaking everything. You’re breaking everyone. You’re breaking the world.

He slid down the wall, knees pulled to his chest, forehead pressed to his arms.

The pain from the night before pulsed through him—bruises, cuts, exhaustion. Months of fighting. No nutrients. No rest. No first aid. Just survival.

Just guilt.

Just silence.

His fingers dug into the fabric of his hoodie, gripping tight. He rocked slightly, trying to ground himself, trying to remember how to breathe. But the air felt thick, like he was inhaling through cotton. His chest burned. His throat felt raw.

He thought about the warehouse. About the crates. About the foreman who never learned to use his name. About Luis and his sick toddler. About the shift he was already late for.

He thought about May. About the way she’d smiled at him even when she was dying. About the way she’d said, “You did the right thing,” even when it cost her everything.

He thought about Tony. About the way he’d held him on Titan. About the way he’d looked at him in those final moments, like Peter was the only thing that mattered.

He thought about Ben. About the advice he’d given him in his last moments, “With great power…” and how Peter had failed to live up to it.

He thought about his parents. About the warmth they’d brought him. About the absence they left behind. About the silence. 

It took him a while—an eternity, he thought—to calm down. Time didn’t feel real in that moment. It felt like drowning.

Eventually, his breathing slowed. His heart steadied. His thoughts quieted, just enough.

He wiped his face with the sleeve of his hoodie, stood slowly, and forced himself back onto the sidewalk.

The warehouse was still waiting.

And so he walked.

Chapter Text

At the warehouse, the foreman barely looked up. “You’re late,” he barked.

Peter nodded, voice hoarse. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. Be useful. Get those crates to the back dock. And don’t screw it up this time.”

Peter didn’t respond. Just moved toward the stack of boxes, each one heavier than it looked. His arms shook as he lifted the first crate. The pain in his shoulder flared, but he gritted his teeth and kept going.

He dropped a box. Not on purpose. His grip just gave out.

It hit the ground with a loud thud, the contents rattling inside.

The foreman stormed over. “What the hell, Fitzpatrick? You trying to break inventory?”

Peter opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

“You’ve been screwing up all week,” the man snapped. “Last shift, you mislabeled half the pallets. The one before that, you left the dock gate open. You think I don’t notice?”

Peter blinked slowly. The words hit like static.

“I—I’m sorry,” he muttered.

“Sorry doesn’t fix broken shipments,” the foreman growled. “You’re lucky we don’t ask for paperwork, kid. Or you’d be out of here in a heartbeat.”

Peter nodded, swallowing the lump in his throat. He picked up the crate again, arms trembling.

The rest of the shift unraveled like some sort of divine punishment. Every movement felt like dragging his body through wet cement. The crates were heavier than usual—or maybe he was just weaker. His shoulder screamed with each lift, a sharp, electric pain that radiated down his arm and made his fingers go numb. He adjusted his grip constantly, trying to hide the tremble in his hands, but it was obvious. Too obvious.

The warehouse was loud. Forklifts beeped, metal clanged, voices shouted over the din. Peter’s senses, usually sharp and precise, were dulled by exhaustion. The noise didn’t just echo in his ears, it pressed against his skull and made his thoughts scatter like marbles on concrete.

He missed instructions, misread labels, dropped a clipboard that shattered into three pieces. No one helped him pick it up.

A coworker brushed past him too fast, shoulder clipping his already bruised ribs. Peter gasped, staggering sideways, nearly dropping the crate he was carrying. The guy didn’t even glance back. He just kept walking, muttering something about “kids who don’t know how to work”.

At one point, he bent down to grab a fallen roll of tape, and the world tilted. His vision blurred for a second, black spots dancing at the edges. He had steadied himself against a shelf, breathing through the dizziness.

His stomach growled, loud and insistent. He hadn’t eaten since the croissant yesterday. Or was it a loaf? He couldn’t remember.

The foreman barked again. “Fitzpartick!”

Peter barely registered it at first. Someone must’ve messed up, he thought, the words drifting through the fog in his head. Hey, at least now I’m not the only—

His thought shattered as a hand clamped down hard on his shoulder, his bruised, more like broken, shoulder. Pain shot through his chest like lightning, and he had to bite down on a gasp, his breath catching in his throat.

The foreman’s voice was suddenly right behind him, sharp and unforgiving. “Hey! You deaf? I’m talking to you.”

Peter froze.

For a split second, the name didn’t register. It echoed in his ears like static, like something half-remembered from a dream. Fitzpartick. Mason Fitzpartick. Right. That was the name he’d been giving people. The one he’d scribbled on the warehouse intake form. The one he’d used at the diner. The one he’d said out loud when someone asked who he was—save for Ms. Pérez.

She’d caught on when he’d tried to remember the name he’d been using but didn’t pry, and for that, he’d told her his first name, it was a nice feeling and she’d never even asked for his last so he took it as a win.

He’d picked it carefully. First name after May’s deceased uncle, and the last name was his mother’s maiden name; a way to remind him of home, to comfort him when he felt there was no way he’d ever feel that warmth again. It wasn’t clever. It wasn’t even consistent. But it was safe. Safer than Peter Parker. Safer than risking someone hearing it and feeling something stir. A flicker of recognition. A memory that shouldn’t exist. A name that could unravel everything.

He wasn’t sure what would happen if someone remembered. If the spell cracked. If the multiverse began to bleed again.

So he didn’t use it. Not unless he had to. And now, in the middle of this warehouse, surrounded by crates and noise and pain, he’d forgotten it. Just for a second. Just long enough for panic to bloom in his chest.

He blinked, throat dry, and nodded slowly. “Sorry,” he muttered, voice hoarse.

“You mislabeled the shipment to Dock 3,” the foreman snapped. “That’s the third time this week. You trying to sabotage us!?”

Peter opened his mouth, but the words didn’t come. His voice was stuck somewhere behind the pain and the fear. He nodded again, apologetically, and shuffled toward the mislabeled pallet.

By the time the shift ended, his body felt like it had been wrung out and left to dry. His legs were jelly, his back a knot of fire, and his hands were scraped raw from the rough edges of the crates. He didn’t even bother clocking out properly. He just tapped the screen with a shaky finger and limped toward the exit, one hand pressed to his side, the other clutching his backpack like it was the only thing keeping him upright.

No one said goodbye. No one looked twice.

It was like he didn’t even exist. And, technically, he didn’t. But that just made it feel all the more worse.

—————

Outside, the sky was gray. Rain threatened. The city moved around him, indifferent.

Cars honked. People shouted into phones. Someone laughed too loudly from a rooftop bar. A dog barked at a pigeon. Life pulsed forward, chaotic and unbothered, as if Peter wasn’t even there. As if he hadn’t just spent the last twelve hours bleeding into his hoodie, hauling crates with broken ribs, and trying not to pass out in front of coworkers who didn’t know his name.

Peter’s thoughts spiraled as he walked. Every mistake replayed in his head like a broken reel. Every dropped box. Every snapped web. Every missed punch. Every moment he’d hesitated. Every time he’d failed.

You’re not strong enough.

You’re not smart enough.

You’re not a hero.

He passed a storefront window and caught his reflection, just for a second. Hollow cheeks. Bloodshot eyes. A hoodie stretched over a frame that looked more like a shadow than a boy. His posture was hunched, his gait uneven.

You almost destroyed the world, the universe.

You don’t deserve to be remembered.

You deserve pain and suffering.

For all the harm you’ve caused.

For all the people that died for you.

Because of you.

He clenched his jaw, forcing the thoughts down. But they lingered. They always lingered. Like a parasite burrowed deep in his chest, feeding off guilt and exhaustion. He tried to breathe through it, tried to focus on the rhythm of his steps, the feel of the sidewalk beneath his feet. But even that felt unstable. Like the ground might give way at any moment.

Peter was crashing. Fast.

His body was wrecked. His mind was fraying. And tomorrow? He’d have to do it all again. The bodega. The warehouse. The diner. The patrol. The silence. The aching, endless silence.

It was killing him.

But maybe this was what he deserved.

Maybe this was the cost of all his mistakes.

Maybe this was the price of keeping the world intact.

He turned the corner, shoulders hunched against the wind, and disappeared into the crowd.

No one noticed.

No one ever did. Anymore.

He walked with his head down, hood pulled tight, the bakery bag from yesterday still folded in his pocket. The sun was high but hidden, smothered behind a thick quilt of gray clouds. The air hung heavy with the threat of rain, humid and sour, like the city was holding its breath. It was just past noon, and the streets were alive, too alive. But he moved through them like a ghost.

Vendors shouted over crates of produce near the farmers’ market. A man in a neon vest argued with a delivery driver. A kid dropped a mango and burst into tears. The city pulsed around him, chaotic and indifferent. He kept his head down, hoodie pulled tight, ribs aching with every step.

His ribs ached. His shoulder throbbed. His left hand was now twitching, curled inside his hoodie pocket like it was trying to hide from the world. It was worse than it would've been given he was running on fumes, both mentally and physically, and he had strained his body at the warehouse. He hadn’t even slept. Not really. Just drifted in and out of shallow dreams, each one worse than the last.

A shout cut through the noise.

Peter’s head snapped up.

It came from the alley just ahead: sharp, panicked, followed by a crash and the sound of someone scrambling. A woman’s voice. Then a man’s. Angry. Demanding.

Peter slowed, heart pounding.

He edged closer, just enough to see.

Two men. One had the woman by the arm, yanking her purse. The other was blocking her path, shouting something Peter couldn’t make out. She was fighting back, but not well. Her elbow caught one of them in the ribs, and he shoved her hard against the wall.

Peter flinched.

His fingers twitched toward his pocket. The web shooter was right there. One cartridge left. But his grip was weak. His shoulder was wrecked. His ribs were barely holding together. He couldn’t even lift a crate yesterday without nearly blacking out.

He could hear her breathing, fast, ragged. Her heart pounding.

He could hear theirs too. One was erratic, adrenaline-fueled. The other was calm. Cold.

He could stop them. Maybe. If he was fast. If he was lucky.

But if he wasn’t—

If he failed—

If someone saw—

If someone recognized him—

If the spell cracked—

If the world unraveled again—

Peter stepped back.

The woman screamed. The sound was short, cut off by a grunt as she hit the pavement.

Peter turned away.

He walked faster.

The guilt hit instantly. Like acid in his chest. Like knives in his lungs.

You’re weak.

You’re pathetic.

You’re a coward.

He clenched his jaw, tried to force the thoughts down. But they clawed their way up anyway.

You let her get hurt.

You let them win.

You’re evil.

He passed a storefront window and caught his reflection.

You’re a monster.

He kept walking.

The market was louder now. People shouted prices. Children laughed. A man played guitar near the corner, his case open for tips. Peter didn’t hear the music. Just the echo of that scream. Just the sound of her heart, still pounding, still afraid.

He didn’t even realize he’d reached the bakery until something familiar tugged at his senses.

A heartbeat.

Steady. Rhythmic. Familiar. That slightly too erratic beat that his ears would immediately pick up on it.

Ms. Pérez.

Peter stopped.

He closed his eyes, focused.

There it was. The soft thump of her heart, calm and constant, like a metronome in the chaos. He could hear her moving; light footsteps, the scrape of a tray, the hum of the oven. The scent hit him next: sugar, flour, cinnamon, citrus.

His body moved before his mind did.

He stepped toward the door.

The bell jingled softly as he pushed it open, the sound oddly gentle against the harshness of the afternoon. The scent hit him instantly: warm sugar, toasted flour, cinnamon, and something citrusy baking in the back. It was the kind of smell that made you forget, just for a second, that the world was cruel.

But Peter didn’t forget.

He stepped inside, shoulders hunched, hoodie pulled tight around his face. The bakery was quiet this early, just a few trays of fresh pan dulce cooling on the counter and the soft hum of the oven in the back. Ms. Pérez looked up from behind the register, her eyes narrowing the moment she saw him.

“Mi niño,” she said, voice low but firm. “You look worse than yesterday.”

Peter offered a weak smile, the kind that didn’t reach his eyes. “I’m fine.”

She stepped out from behind the counter, wiping her hands on her apron. Her gaze swept over him, taking in the bruises blooming across his jaw, the way his left hand stayed tucked in his pocket, twitching slightly. His limp was more pronounced today, and the way he leaned against the doorframe made her frown deepen.

“You’re limping. Your hand is shaking. And you look like you haven’t slept in a week.” She folded her arms. “Siéntate.”

Peter hesitated. “I can help with the boxes—”

“No,” she snapped, pointing to the stool near the counter. “You will sit. You will eat. And you will not lift a single thing in this place today.”

He blinked, startled by the force in her voice. She was small, barely five feet tall, but she had the kind of presence that could silence a room. He shuffled over to the stool and sat down, wincing as his ribs protested.

She moved quickly, pulling a bag from beneath the counter and filling it with pastries. Not the usual stale leftovers. These were fresh, still warm, golden, soft. Conchas with perfect sugar shells, croissants that flaked at the touch, and a few chullos tucked in with practiced care.

Peter watched her, guilt gnawing at his stomach. “You don’t have to—”

“I do,” she said, cutting him off. “Because you won’t ask. And because I know what it looks like when someone’s starving.”

She placed the bag in front of him, then reached into the fridge and pulled out a small container of arroz con leche. “Eat. Slowly. You’ll make yourself sick if you rush.”

She walked it over to the microwave, her slippers scuffing softly against the tile. As the machine hummed to life, she glanced back at him, her expression softening.

“You always look like you haven’t eaten in days,” she murmured. “Like someone forgot you.”

Peter didn’t answer. He just kept chewing, letting the warmth of the croissant settle into his chest like sunlight. His hands trembled slightly as he held it, flakes falling onto his lap. He didn’t brush them away.

The microwave beeped. Ms. Susanna opened the door, stirred the rice pudding gently with a spoon, then plated it carefully in a ceramic bowl. She added a sprinkle of cinnamon, placed the spoon beside it, and set it in front of him with quiet precision.

“There. Now breathe.”

Peter did. Slowly. The steam rose into his face, curling around his nose and cheeks. He inhaled deeply, the scent grounding him in the moment. He took a bite. It was warm, creamy, just sweet enough. His throat tightened.

Ms. Susanna sat across from him, watching silently. She didn’t speak right away. Just let him eat. Let him exist.

Peter stayed there longer than he meant to. The stool was hard, the bakery quiet, but the warmth wrapped around him like a blanket. The food, the silence, the smell of sugar and citrus, it all felt like a pause in the chaos. Like a moment carved out of time just for him.

After a few minutes, she spoke again. “You remind me of mi hijo. My son. He used to come home looking like you. Always said he fell off his bike. But I knew better.”

Peter didn’t respond. He just kept eating, the warmth of the food slowly pushing back the cold in his chest.

“You don’t have to tell me,” she said gently. “But you should know—whatever you’re carrying, you don’t have to carry it alone.”

Peter’s throat tightened. He nodded, barely.

She stood, brushing crumbs from her apron. “I packed extra. You’ll take it with you. And you’ll rest. No chores today.”

He wanted to argue, to insist he could still help. But the truth was, he couldn’t. Not today.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

She smiled, soft and sad. “Go. Before this city eats you alive.”

Peter didn’t move right away. He stayed seated, letting the warmth linger. Letting the food settle. Letting her words echo in the quiet.

He didn’t feel better. Not really.

But he felt seen.

And for now, that was what he’d needed.

———————

Peter stepped outside, the evening air warm against his skin. The streets were busier now, the city continuing on through its routines and spontaneity. Horns blared in the distance. A delivery truck rumbled past, its tires hissing against damp asphalt. Somewhere nearby, a street musician was playing a song, the notes of a saxophone drifting through the air like smoke.

His body protested every movement, but the food had helped. Just a little. The arroz con leche sat warm in his stomach, a fragile buffer against the ache in his ribs and the hollow in his chest. He clutched the bakery bag under his arm like a lifeline, the scent of sugar and cinnamon still clinging to the paper.

He’d been walking for a while now, weaving through side streets and quieter blocks, avoiding the main roads. He was near the city’s farmers’ market—he could hear the chatter, the clatter of crates, the calls of vendors hawking fresh produce and handmade soaps. The hum of traffic and voices pressed against his ears, too loud, too much. His ribs ached with every step, and his left hand twitched inside his hoodie pocket, still spasming, refusing to be of any help to him. He kept his head down, hoping to pass unnoticed, unlike before.

He turned down an alley, a shortcut to the next block, one he’d taken before. It was narrow, lined with dumpsters and graffiti, the kind of place that always smelled faintly of oil and wet cardboard. But it was quiet. Too quiet.

Too… empty.

Peter slowed, senses prickling. The noise of the market faded behind him, swallowed by the alley’s silence. His breath caught. He heard the footsteps before he saw them—fast, deliberate, echoing off the brick walls like a warning.

He turned, heart already racing.

Two men stepped into view.

One tall and broad, face half-covered by a mask, eyes cold, dark, and calculating. The other was thinner, twitchy, his hands constantly moving, eyes darting like he was scanning for exits.

Peter’s eyes narrowed instinctively, but his body—his senses—were already screaming at him to run.

“Nice bag,” the tall one said, stepping closer. “Hand it over.”

Peter backed up, pulse pounding. “I don’t want any trouble.”

“Too late,” the twitchy one said, pulling something from his coat. A gun. Small, but clearly lethal. The metal caught the light, flashing like a threat.

Peter’s fingers twitched toward his pocket, where a single web cartridge remained. But his grip was weak. His ribs screamed. He couldn't handle this right now. Not now.

The tall one lunged, grabbing at the bag.

Peter twisted, trying to pull away, but the movement sent a jolt of pain through his side. He stumbled, nearly falling.

The twitchy one moved in, gun raised. “Don’t make this harder than it has to be.”

Peter’s breath came in short bursts. He could feel the panic rising, the helplessness clawing at his throat. He wasn’t Spider-Man right now. He was just a kid with bruises and a bag of bread.

The tall man shoved him hard against the wall. Peter’s shoulder slammed into the brick, and he tried to bite back a cry—it was futile but he tried nonetheless. The sound was swallowed by the alley’s silence.

The twitchy one stepped closer, pressing the gun against Peter’s chest. His hand trembled slightly, just for a second. He didn’t want to do this it seemed. But there was also the desperation in their eyes. Yet now, looking at Peter up close, he knew they could see the bruises. The cuts. The way his hoodie hung off a frame that looked more like a shadow than a boy.

“Just give us the bag,” he muttered, voice lower now. “We don’t wanna hurt you.”

The tall one reached for the pastries.

Peter’s body betrayed him.

His reflexes kicked in—pure instinct. Like when Doctor Strange had tried to take the cube from him, even after separating his soul from his body. His limbs moved without permission, jerking the bag away just as the man’s fingers brushed it.

Pain shot through his shoulder like lightning. He gasped, trembling.

The tall one cursed. “What the hell—”

Peter clutched the bag tighter, hand locked around it like it was oxygen. His shoulder screamed. His ribs flared. But he didn’t let go.

The tall one shoved him again, harder this time, slamming him against the wall with a grunt of frustration.

Peter’s shoulder gave way with a sickening crunch.

Yup, he thought, biting down on the pain. That’s either broken or dislocated.

He tasted blood.

Still, he didn’t let go.

The twitchy one’s patience snapped.

He raised the gun.

And brought it down.

Hard.

The metal struck the side of Peter’s head with a dull, brutal crack—not a shot, not a warning, just a blow meant to end the resistance.

Peter’s world exploded.

White light. Static. A sharp, electric jolt that raced down his spine. His ears rang. His knees buckled. The alley twisted sideways, then vanished entirely.

He didn’t fall so much as collapse, his body folding in on itself like a puppet with its strings cut. The bag slipped from his arms. His head hit the pavement with a soft thud. And then—

Nothing.

Just black.

Just silence.

Just the distant echo of footsteps and the sound of his own heartbeat, slow and uneven, like it wasn’t sure it wanted to keep going.

The darkness consumed him.

Chapter Text

Peter didn’t know how long he was out. A minute? Two? Maybe more. Time didn’t feel real. It felt like drowning in static.

When he came back to it, everything was wrong.

The light was too bright. The air too cold. His head throbbed like someone had driven a railroad spike through his temple. His vision doubled, then tripled, then finally settled into a blurry mess of shapes and shadows.

He was still on the ground.

His cheek was pressed to the wet cement, the cold seeping into his skin. His limbs felt heavy, disconnected. His shoulder screamed with every breath. His ribs ached. His fingers twitched uselessly against the pavement.

The bag of food was gone.

The tall guy was holding it, inspecting it like he couldn’t believe this was what they’d just fought for.

And the twitchy one—

He was crouched beside Peter, gun raised, pointed directly at his face.

Peter blinked slowly, trying to focus.

The twitchy one’s hand was shaking.

He didn’t want to shoot.

But he didn’t know what else to do.

Peter’s lips parted, but no sound came out. Just a shallow breath and the taste of blood.

And then—

A blur.

A crash.

The tall man was ripped away from Peter’s view like a ragdoll, slammed into the opposite wall with a sickening thud. He crumpled instantly, unconscious before he hit the ground. As he fell, the bakery bag slipped from his limp hand and landed on the cold, wet cement with a soft, defeated rustle.

The twitchy one spun, gun raised, but a gloved hand caught his wrist mid-air and twisted. The weapon clattered to the ground. A metal fist followed—one, two, fast and brutal. The man dropped like a stone.

Peter blinked, breath caught in his throat.

He was still on the ground, still dazed, still trying to piece together what had just happened. His body refused to move. His head throbbed with every heartbeat. His vision swam.

Standing between him and the unconscious muggers was a man in a dark jacket, metal arm gleaming in the morning light with that sickening color of a blood red star on his shoulder.

Bucky Barnes.

Oh my gods. Oh my gods. Oh my gods. Oh my gods. Oh my gods. Oh my gods. Oh my gods. Oh my gods. Oh. My. Gods. No. Fucking. Way.

Peter’s brain short-circuited at the sight. Standing between him and the unconscious muggers was a man in a dark jacket, metal arm gleaming in the morning light with that sickening color of a blood red star on his shoulder.

His heart hammering against his ribs like it was trying to escape, each beat louder than the last, echoing in his ears like a siren. His limbs twitched, but he couldn’t sit up. Couldn’t even lift his head more than a few inches. His body was still rebooting. His mind more preoccupied by the fact that one of the few people he’s made it his mission to avoid, for valid reasons, is now standing directly in front of him. Heck, that same man just saved him.

That’s him. That’s actually him. The Winter Soldier. THE James “Bucky” Barnes. Standing right there. In front of me. In real life. In this alley. Why? How? What? What the hell is happening?!

Peter’s eyes darted over the man’s frame: dark jacket, combat boots, metal arm gleaming with that unmistakable star. The same arm that had just knocked two grown men unconscious like they were made of paper. The same arm that he had once caught before. The best friend of the same man who’d—

Nope. Don’t think about that. Don’t think about the videos. Don’t think about the history channel specials. Don’t think about the detention or gym recordings. Don’t think about the nightmares.

Why is he here? What is he doing here? Is he tracking someone? Is he tracking me? Oh my gods. Oh my gods. Oh my gods. Oh my gods. Oh my gods.

Peter had always tried his best not to cuss. Aunt May had raised him on polite language and gentle corrections. “Smart people don’t need to swear,” she’d say, handing him a dictionary and a cookie. But certain situations called for such matters, and he was currently in one of those situations.

Shit. SHIT. This is bad. This is so bad. This is the kind of bad that gets written into history books. This is the kind of bad that ends with me in a government facility or a multiversal implosion or—

He was still frozen, still spiraling, when Bucky turned around, slowly, eyes scanning the alley. Then, they landed on Peter. His brows furrowed and his expression hardened, with what exactly, Peter couldn’t tell. His expression was unreadable—somewhere between concern and calculation maybe. He didn’t speak right away. Just looked at Peter like he was trying to figure out what to do.

Then Bucky moved.

He crossed the distance in a few quick strides and dropped to a crouch beside Peter, his movements fast but careful, like he was approaching something fragile.

“Hey,” he said, voice low but urgent. “You alright?”

Peter tried to answer, but the words caught in his throat. He managed a weak smile, but it was shaky at best.

Bucky didn’t wait. He reached out, slow and deliberate, and gently slid an arm behind Peter’s back.

“Easy,” he murmured. “Let’s get you up.”

Peter winced as Bucky helped him sit up against the wall, the cold brick pressing into his spine. His shoulder screamed in protest, and his head lolled slightly before he forced it upright. The movement made his stomach flip, and for a second, he thought he might throw up. But he didn’t. He just clenched his jaw and rode it out.

“There we go,” Bucky said, adjusting his grip to keep Peter steady. “Just breathe.”

Peter’s breath came in shallow, uneven gasps. His vision was still blurry, but the world was starting to settle. The pain was sharp and immediate, but at least it was familiar.

Bucky stayed crouched beside him, one hand braced lightly against Peter’s back, the other resting on his knee. He didn’t speak again right away. Just watched him, eyes scanning for signs of deeper damage.

Peter could feel the weight of that gaze. Not judgmental. Not cold. Just… focused. Like Bucky was trying to figure out what kind of damage had already been done.

After a moment of silence, Bucky finally spoke.

“Can you stand?”

Peter blinked, disoriented. “I—I think so.”

Bucky nodded, then shifted closer. “Let me help.”

He slid an arm behind Peter’s back, careful not to jostle the injured shoulder, and gently lifted him off the pavement. Peter winced, breath catching, but didn’t resist. His limbs felt like lead, his head still swimming. Bucky guided him slowly, steadily, until Peter was upright and leaning against the alley wall.

The brick was cold against his spine, but it helped anchor him. His legs stretched out in front of him, one knee bent slightly. He felt like a marionette someone had just propped up—barely held together, but still standing.

“You alright, kid?” Bucky asked again, voice low but steady.

Peter nodded, too fast, too shaky. “I’m—fine.”

The world spun. His vision blurred again, edges going soft and gray.

Bucky’s eyes narrowed. “Sure,” he said, skeptical. “Can I check your head?”

Peter hesitated, then gave a small nod.

Bucky leaned in, brushing Peter’s curls aside with careful fingers. His touch was clinical, but not cold. There was a steadiness to it—like he’d done this before, like he knew exactly what to look for.

His fingers moved slowly, methodically, combing through Peter’s hair with practiced care. He checked the scalp for swelling, tenderness, bleeding. His thumb pressed gently behind Peter’s ear, then traced along the hairline. Peter flinched when Bucky’s knuckle grazed a spot just above his temple—a jagged, half-healed wound. He winced, biting back a groan.

Bucky paused. “Sorry,” he murmured, voice softer now. “Didn’t mean to hit that.”

Peter nodded, jaw tight.

Bucky continued, more carefully now. He checked for signs of bruising beneath the hair, ran his fingers along the occipital bone, then tilted Peter’s chin gently to examine his pupils. He held up two fingers.

“Follow my hand,” he said.

Peter did, eyes tracking the movement—slow, sluggish.

“Any nausea?”

Peter hesitated. “A little.”

“Blurred vision?”

“Mhm.”

“Headache?”

Peter gave a weak laugh. “That’s putting it mildly.”

Bucky didn’t smile. He held up a finger. “How many?”

Peter squinted. “Three…?”

“Good. Any ringing in your ears?”

Peter signed. “Since I woke up.”

Bucky leaned back slightly, his expression grim. “You’ve got a concussion,” he said quietly. “And this—” He gestured to the wound above Peter’s temple. “This should’ve been stitched.”

Peter knew exactly what he was talking about. That spot—just above his temple—had been throbbing more than the rest of his head since the fight with Mantis. He hadn’t had time to check it out, not really. He’d barely made it home that night, let alone tended to anything properly. A shower, a strip of tape around his ribs, and that was it. He’d hoped it was just a bump. Something minor. But now, hearing it confirmed in Bucky Barnes’ voice, it felt heavier. More real.

He didn’t respond. Just stared at the ground, jaw tight.

Bucky didn’t push. He sat back slightly, still watching him.

Peter knew the bruises on his face were fresh. The way he held his side, the tremble in his hand, the sunken look in his eyes. The hoodie couldn’t hide everything. Not the bruising that bloomed from his shoulder up to his neck and jaw, a sickly mix of purple and yellow that crawled toward his ear. Not the cut on his forehead, just visible beneath the edge of his hairline. Not the cluster of smaller scrapes across his cheek and temple—too many to be brushed off as clumsy accidents, but not quite enough to look self-inflicted. Though that wouldn’t have been any better—Peter knew it all painted a picture Bucky didn’t know how to read.

“You don’t look too good,” Bucky said again, softer this time.

Peter opened his mouth, but the words didn’t come. He didn’t know what to say. Didn’t know how to explain. He exhaled shakily.

Bucky looked over Peter’s form again, Bucky’s eyes catching the way his shoulder shook, then back at Peter’s face. “You need a hospital.”

Peter immediately shook his head. “Can’t.”

Bucky didn’t press. He just nodded once, then reached out carefully. “Can I…?”

Peter blinked at him, confused, tilting his head slightly. The question hung in the air, vague and open-ended.

Bucky clarified, “Your shoulder. It looks pretty bad.”

Peter’s stomach dropped. Oh. Right. That.

He hadn’t even thought about it—had been so caught up in the panic, the pain, the fact that Bucky Barnes was crouched in front of him—that he’d forgotten about the mess that was his shoulder. And now Bucky wanted to see it.

Peter hesitated. Every instinct screamed to say no. Not because he didn’t trust Bucky’s skill—he did, maybe more than he should—but because letting him help meant more interaction. More time. More risk. He couldn’t exactly look Bucky in the eye and say, “Hey, so, I don’t want you to take a look at my very obviously dislocated/ possibly broken shoulder because that requires you interacting for me longer than I’d like and I can’t really have you interacting with me at all since that could pose the risk of you possibly remembering who I am, which could lead to the unraveling of a reality-altering spell cast by a sorcerer (read: wizard) to make the entire world forget who I am—who Peter Parker is—and I can’t have that.”

Yeah. That’d go over well.

He was spiraling again, thoughts stacking on top of each other like a collapsing tower, when he realized Bucky was still waiting. Still watching him. And he still hadn’t answered.

Peter’s face flushed with heat. He gave a curt nod, trying to play it off like he hadn’t just been internally monologuing himself into a panic. The motion made his head spin again, but he forced himself to stay upright.

Wordlessly, he reached up and peeled back the edge of his hoodie, wincing as the fabric tugged against the swollen joint. The pain was immediate, sharp and biting, but he didn’t flinch away.

Bucky leaned in slightly, metal arm resting against Peter’s side, human hand reaching out with surprising care. But then—

He paused.

Just for a split second.

His hand hovered in the air, unmoving. His eyes locked onto Peter’s shoulder, and something in his expression shifted. It wasn’t subtle. It wasn’t guarded. It was raw.

Peter couldn’t place it. Couldn’t tell what had made Bucky freeze like that as he watched Bucky’s eyes flicker.

It was hard for him to tell what Bucky was thinking, but the look in his eyes—it was almost akin to shock. Not horror. Not pity. Just… surprise. Deep, quiet surprise. The kind that slipped past the mask before someone could stop it.

Peter had only seen that look once before.

Germany. The airport. That moment when he’d caught Bucky’s metal arm mid-swing, and Bucky had stared at him like he wasn’t sure what he was looking at.

He hadn’t seen that expression since.

So whatever had Bucky this stunned—whatever had cracked through that soldier’s calm—it had to be something big.

Peter’s stomach twisted.

But Bucky didn’t say anything. He blinked once, cleared his throat, and the moment passed.

His fingers resumed their movement, cool and precise, pressing gently around the joint, testing the damage with practiced ease.

“Dislocated,” Bucky murmured. “I need to reset it. It’ll only take a second, so try to hold still, okay?”

Peter immediately braced himself, jaw clenched, breath shallow.

He’d done this before. Too many times. In stairwells. Rooftops. Bathroom mirrors. He’d learned how to grit his teeth and shove the bone back into place, how to bite down on a towel to keep from screaming. It was always brutal. Always messy. Always something he had to do alone.

So when Bucky moved—quick, practiced, efficient—Peter was ready for agony.

But it didn’t come.

The pain was sharp, yes. Immediate. But it wasn’t the kind that made his vision go white or his knees buckle. It was controlled. Clean. The joint popped back into place with a sickening sound, but the relief that followed was so sudden, so complete, that Peter gasped.

Not from pain.

From surprise.

He blinked, stunned, as the ache in his shoulder dulled to a manageable throb. His body sagged slightly, like it didn’t know what to do with the absence of suffering.

Bucky steadied him with one hand on his back. “Breathe.”

Peter did. Slowly. The air tasted different now—less like rust and panic, more like something he could survive. His head felt a little better too. Lighter, even. Like something had been lifted.

He looked at Bucky.

No one had ever helped him like that before. Not since—

He swallowed hard, cutting off that train of thought before it led somewhere he didn’t really feel like going right now. Not in front of Bucky, at least.

“Thanks,” he whispered.

Bucky didn’t say anything. Just nodded once, then stepped back, giving Peter space. He glanced at the bag of pastries on the cement, bent down to pick it up, then looked back at Peter. “Do I know you?”

Peter’s heart stuttered. He hadn’t expected that.

Did the spell not work? No, it definitely did. Then what was he talking about? Why would he ask such a question? I could lie. I could run. Certainly can’t fight but I doubt it would come to that. Would it? Nah. It’s Bucky for gods’ sake. But, what if this was a misunderstanding. Then what? Would I be forced to fight? But I can’t. Not like this.

His breath was picked up, along with his heartbeat, his ribs aching with every inhale. He clutched the hem of his hoodie tight, like it might anchor him to the moment.

“You used to,” Peter had said. Oh, no.

He hadn’t meant to let that slip. He hadn’t meant to say anything at all.

Bucky’s eyes narrowed, the gears clearly turning behind them.

And then— “Wait,” Bucky said, voice low. “You’re the kid from the market.”

Peter’s eyes flicked up, just for a second.

“You waved,” Bucky continued, voice low. “But said something about how I wouldn’t remember you.”

Peter’s throat tightened. He could feel the panic rising again, curling around his ribs like a vice.

“I looked for you,” Bucky said. “You… disappeared.”

Peter’s lips parted, but the words came out before he could stop them. “You’ve always been good at losing people, Mr. Winter Soldier, s-sir…”

He’d finally caught himself at the end but the words had already slipped. The name hung in the air like a slap.

Bucky froze.

Peter’s eyes widened. Shit.

He tried to recover, but it was too late.

Bucky’s voice dropped. “...What?”

Peter took a step back. “I—sorry, I meant—”

“You just—,” Bucky said, eyes narrowing.

Peter’s mind scrambled for an exit. “I—I heard it online. Someone said it in a podcast or something.”

Bucky didn’t blink. “No one said that in a podcast.”

Peter’s heart pounded. He could feel the weight of every bruise, every mistake, every second of this conversation pressing down on him.

“You know Sam,” Bucky said quietly. “You know me.”

Peter’s mouth opened, but nothing came out.

Then, faintly—barely audible over the hum of the city—came a voice.

“Bucky!”

It was far off. At least two blocks away. Too far for a normal person to hear.

But Peter turned toward the sound instantly. His head snapped in the direction of the call like a reflex.

Bucky’s eyes widened. He clearly hadn’t expected that.

Peter’s eyes snapped right back to Bucky’s face. He saw the look. Saw the way Bucky’s expression shifted from confusion to something sharper. Something more profuse.

And Peter thought, Oh, I’m so fucked.

A second later, the voice came again. Louder this time. “Bucky! Where are you!?”

And this time, Bucky turned toward it.

Peter didn’t wait.

He bolted.

His legs screamed in protest, his ribs flared with every breath, but he didn’t stop. He ducked around the corner, past a stack of crates, through a narrow gap between buildings. His hoodie snagged on a rusted nail and tore, but he didn’t stop. He couldn’t.

Behind him, he heard Bucky’s voice—confused, sharp, half a curse.

“What the he—”

Peter didn’t hear the rest.

He was already gone.

Chapter Text

The day had started like most days at the Tower: loud, chaotic, and entirely too early.

Bucky Barnes had barely made it to the kitchen when the noise hit him like a slap. Not gunfire, not alarms—just voices. Sharp, overlapping, and already grating.

Alexei and John were at it again.

“You don’t even know how to use a dishwasher. Matter of fact, you probably don’t even know what it is,” John snapped, arms crossed like he was preparing for a tactical briefing. His voice had that clipped, military edge that made everything sound like an accusation.

“I fight in wars before you were born,” Alexei barked, waving a spoon like it was a weapon. His voice was thick with his Russian accent, every syllable heavy and theatrical. “I don’t need machine to clean plate. I can do myself!”

“That’s not the point,” John growled. “You left raw chicken in there overnight. That’s not a mistake. That’s a biohazard.”

“It is protein,” Alexei said, dead serious. “Good for bones. Good for muscles. You Americans are too soft.”

Bucky sighed and opened the fridge, hoping for something—anything—to justify staying in the kitchen. It was empty. Of course.

Yelena was perched on the counter, scrolling through her phone with the kind of casual detachment that made Bucky wonder if she even registered the chaos around her. One leg swung lazily, her boot tapping against the cabinet in rhythm with the argument. Her accent was subtle, but still there—soft Russian vowels tucked into clipped English. She didn’t look up.

Ava stood nearby, arms folded, watching the scene like it was a mildly interesting nature documentary. Bob was already halfway through a bowl of cereal, spoon clinking rhythmically against the ceramic, completely unfazed.

“Are we out of eggs?” Bucky asked, already knowing the answer.

“Yup,” Bob said, not looking up. “Also milk. And bread.”

Bucky pinched the bridge of his nose. “Fine. I’ll make something.”

He ended up cobbling together a breakfast out of leftover rice, canned beans, and the last of the hot sauce. It wasn’t gourmet, but it was edible. Mostly. Alexei complained the whole time that it needed more meat.

“Where is sausage?” he muttered between bites. “This is prison food. I have eaten better in gulag.”

John rolled his eyes. “You’ve never been in a gulag.”

“I have been in many places,” Alexei said, mouth full. “You do not know my life.”

Yelena stole a bite and declared it “aggressively average.” Bob gave it a thumbs-up without breaking eye contact with his cereal.

After everyone had eaten, Bucky retreated to the living room with a book. He didn’t even remember what it was. Something about espionage. Or maybe gardening. He hadn’t gotten past page five before the bickering started again.

This time it was about laundry.

“You can’t just throw leather in the dryer,” Ava snapped, her voice sharp and precise.

“It’s tactical gear,” John argued. “It’s built to withstand heat.”

“Not that kind of heat,” Yelena muttered, not looking up from her phone. “You will melt it. Like cheese.”

Bucky closed the book and stared at the ceiling. He could feel the headache forming behind his eyes. He needed out. He needed quiet. He needed something that didn’t involve assassins, lab experiments, and emotionally constipated super soldiers—and Bob.

And they were out of food anyway.

“I’m going grocery shopping,” he announced, standing up.

Bob looked up. “Could you take Alexei and John with you?”

Bucky blinked. “Why?”

“They’re pissing everyone off,” Yelena said, not missing a beat. “They need fresh air.”

“And supervision,” Ava added.

Bucky stared at them. “You want me to take the two loudest people out in public?” He gestured vaguely toward Alexei, who was now licking hot sauce off his spoon like it was a delicacy, and John, who had started reorganizing the spice rack with military precision. “They’re not just loud. They’re untrained. Socially. Like, feral.”

“Yup,” Yelena said, already walking away.

Ava nodded. “They need exposure therapy.”

Bob shrugged. “You’re the most stable one here.”

Bucky blinked. “That’s terrifying.”

Alexei perked up. “I will drive.”

“No,” Bucky said immediately.

“I am excellent driver,” Alexei insisted. “I once drove tank through Siberian forest. No map. No headlights. Just instinct.”

John snorted. “That explains a lot.”

Bucky didn’t argue. He just grabbed his jacket and headed for the elevator, Alexei and John trailing behind him like bickering shadows.

———————

The elevator ride down from the Tower was long. Not in time, but in patience.

Bucky stood with his arms crossed, hood up, metal arm tucked beneath his jacket. He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. Alexei and John were already filling the silence.

“I am telling you, Cinnamon Toast Crunch is superior,” Alexei declared, gesturing with both hands like he was delivering a TED Talk. “It has texture. It has flavor. It has soul.”

John scoffed. “It’s sugar and cardboard. You want real cereal? You go with something that fuels performance. Wheaties. Protein granola. Something with actual macros.”

“Macros?” Alexei repeated, like the word offended him. “You sound like one of those influencers. Do you also drink powdered mushrooms and call it breakfast?”

Bucky closed his eyes briefly. He’d made a mistake. A tactical error. He should’ve left alone. Should’ve taken the motorcycle. Should’ve pretended to be asleep. Anything but this.

The elevator dinged. Ground floor.

“Let’s just get this over with,” Bucky muttered, stepping out.

Outside, the city was alive. Midday traffic hummed along the avenue, horns blaring, pedestrians weaving through crosswalks like schools of fish. The sun was high but filtered through a haze of clouds, casting everything in a soft gray light.

Alexei immediately veered toward the passenger side of the SUV.

“I drive,” he announced.

“No,” Bucky said, already opening the driver’s door.

Bucky didn’t argue. He just started the engine and pulled into traffic, letting the noise of the city drown out the conversation behind him.

For the first few blocks, it was quiet. Blessedly quiet.

Bucky kept his eyes on the road, hands steady on the wheel, metal arm hidden beneath his jacket. The SUV hummed along, engine low, tires rolling over cracked asphalt. The city passed by in a blur of gray buildings and faded murals. He didn’t care about macros or cereal or whatever stupid thing it was that they were arguing about now. He just wanted to get through the day without incident. Without noise. Without anyone recognizing him.

Then Alexei leaned over from the passenger seat, voice loud and proud.

“You know, in Russia, we do not have farmers markets. We have babushkas. They sell potatoes and vodka from crates. No labels. No prices. Just trust.”

John grimaced from the back seat. “That sounds unsanitary.”

“It builds character,” Alexei said, gesturing with both hands. “You learn to survive. You learn to appreciate the mystery of food. Sometimes it is potato, sometimes it is not.”

John sighed, clearly aggravated. “That’s not character. That’s food poisoning.”

Alexei turned in his seat. “You Americans are too soft. You need everything sterilized and labeled. You need instructions to boil water.”

“I was a soldier,” John snapped. “I’ve eaten MREs in the middle of a war zone. I know how to survive.”

“MREs are cardboard,” Alexei said. “They are not food. They are punishment.”

“They’re engineered for efficiency.”

“They are engineered for sadness.”

Bucky exhaled slowly through his nose. He didn’t interrupt. He didn’t engage. He just drove. But the headache behind his eyes was starting to pulse.

John leaned forward now, voice rising. “You think you’re some kind of expert because you grew up in Soviet Russia? That doesn’t make you better. It makes you outdated.”

Alexei grinned. “Outdated? I am classic. Like vinyl. Like leather. Like good vodka.”

“You’re a walking Cold War relic.”

“And you are a walking protein shake.”

Bucky’s grip on the wheel tightened.

John wasn’t done. “You know what builds character? Discipline. Structure. Accountability. Not mystery meat and vodka crates.”

Alexei scoffed. “You sound like my old commander. He was shot in foot by own rifle.”

“Maybe he was trying to get away from your cooking.”

Bucky’s jaw clenched.

The phone rang.

Sharp. Piercing. Cutting through the argument like a blade.

He didn’t need to check the screen. He knew the ringtone. Knew the timing. Knew the weight behind it.

Sam.

Bucky groaned.

He knew exactly why Sam was calling. It was about the announcement. The press conference. The whole mess Val had stirred up when she’d stood in front of a podium and declared them the “New Avengers.”

Bucky hadn’t watched it live. He’d seen the clips. The headlines. The way his name had been plastered across the screen like a brand. Like a label he hadn’t asked for.

He hadn’t responded to Sam’s texts. Hadn’t answered the last two calls. He wasn’t ready to talk about it. Not with Sam. Not with anyone.

Especially not today.

Especially not with John and Alexei in the car.

He pulled over.

No warning. No explanation. Just a sharp turn into a side street and the engine cutting off.

John blinked. “Uh… what are we doing?”

Bucky opened the door and stepped out.

Alexei followed immediately, boots hitting the pavement with a thud. “Is this tactical maneuver? Is it ambush?”

John climbed out, frowning. “Seriously, what’s going on?”

Bucky didn’t answer. He just started walking.

The city stretched ahead—concrete, noise, motion. The farmers market was still forty-five minutes away on foot. Maybe more. But he didn’t care. He needed the air. He needed the silence. He needed to move.

John jogged to catch up. “Are we walking the rest of the way?”

Bucky didn’t stop. “Yes.”

Alexei shrugged, boots thudding against the pavement. “Good. I like walking. Builds leg strength. Clears mind. In Russia, we walk everywhere. Even to war.”

John looked between them, exasperated. “We’re seriously walking because of a phone call? You do know how long this is going to take, right?”

Bucky didn’t break stride. “We’ve got about 3,000 yards to cover. So, I suggest you get a move on.”

John blinked. “Yards? You know there are better ways to measure distance, right? Like minutes. Or blocks. Or miles. Or clicks. Or literally anything normal.”

Alexei snorted. “Clicks? Bah. In Soviet Union, when I was Red Guardian, in prime, we measured walk by cigarettes. One cigarette? Short walk. Three cigarettes? You pack snacks. You bring vodka. You maybe fight bear.”

Bucky muttered, “I was in the military… in the 40s. Do the math.”

John groaned. “You could’ve just ignored the call.”

“I did.”

“Then why—”

“Stop talking,” Bucky said, voice low, steady. “Before I decide to do something I know one of you will hate.”

He didn’t specify which one.

He didn’t need to.

The silence that followed was blessed.

—————

They reached the farmers market in fifty minutes. It was nestled between two long blocks of brownstones and cafés, a stretch of tents and stalls spilling onto the sidewalk. The air smelled like citrus and roasted peanuts. People milled about, clutching canvas bags and iced coffees, chatting with vendors, sampling fruit.

Bucky parked in a side lot and stepped out, scanning the crowd. No cameras. No press. No one looking twice. Good.

Alexei stretched dramatically. “Ah, fresh air. Smells like capitalism.”

John rolled his eyes. “Let’s just get what we need.”

They moved through the market in a loose formation—Bucky at the front, Alexei drifting toward anything that smelled like meat, John trailing behind with a clipboard app open on his phone.

“Organic eggs,” John muttered. “Free-range chicken. Gluten-free bread. Who even wrote this list?”

“Yelena,” Bucky said.

“Figures.”

Alexei stopped at a stall selling smoked sausages. “This,” he said, pointing, “is real food. Not your protein dust.”

The vendor blinked. “Uh… would you like to try a sample?”

Alexei grabbed one before the man could finish. “Delicious,” he declared, mouth full. “I will take ten.”

John frowned. “We don’t need ten sausages.”

“We need joy,” Alexei said. “You are joyless.”

Bucky tuned them out, moving toward a produce stand. He picked up a carton of strawberries, inspecting them with the same intensity he used to scan weapons caches. The vendor smiled nervously.

“You, uh… looking for anything specific?”

“Just fresh,” Bucky said.

The man nodded quickly. “These were picked this morning.”

Bucky paid in cash, tucked the carton into his bag, and turned to find Alexei now arguing with a woman selling honey.

“This is robbery,” Alexei said. “In Russia, honey is gift. Not twenty dollars.”

“It’s local,” the woman said, clearly exhausted. “It’s raw. It’s organic.”

“It is bee spit,” Alexei countered.

John stepped in. “We’ll take one jar,” he said, handing over a twenty before Alexei could escalate.

Bucky watched them, jaw tight. This was supposed to be simple. In and out. No drama. No spectacle.

Then he saw it.

A bodega across the street.

Familiar.

Quiet.

The same one from a few weeks ago.

His breath caught.

He remembered the kid. The hoodie. The eyes.

———

It had been a quiet afternoon. Rare. Unremarkable. The kind of day that didn’t usually stick in Bucky’s memory. But this one did.

He’d been walking past a bodega, hands in his pockets, hood up, metal arm tucked beneath his jacket. The streets were busy, but he moved through them with practiced ease—like a shadow, like a man who knew how to disappear without ever leaving. No one looked twice. No one ever did. Not unless they were trained to. Not unless they were looking for him.

And then he saw him.

A kid. Skinny. Hoodie too big for his frame. Head down, shoulders hunched, moving like someone who didn’t want to be seen but couldn’t help being noticed. Bucky’s eyes caught on him the way they always did when something didn’t fit. Not because the kid was suspicious. Not because he was dangerous. But because something about him felt… familiar.

The kid looked up.

Bright eyes. Brown. Wide. Too wide.

He waved.

Bucky slowed. Just a fraction. Just enough to register the motion. His instincts flared—not in warning, but in confusion. He didn’t know this kid. He was sure of that. He would’ve remembered. He remembered everything. Every mission. Every face. Every scream. His mind was a vault of things he wished he could forget, and this kid wasn’t in it.

But the eyes. The eyes were wrong. Or maybe too right.

The kid started toward him, then stopped. Froze. His expression shifted—hope, then panic, then something else. Something Bucky couldn’t name. Grief, maybe. Recognition. Loss.

“Oh, wait,” the kid muttered. “He won’t be able to remember me.”

Then he turned and vanished into the store.

Bucky stood there for a long time.

He didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just stared at the door the kid had disappeared through, his mind already dissecting the moment like a crime scene.

The voice. The posture. The way the kid had moved—hesitant, but practiced. Like someone who’d been trained to run. Like someone who’d had to.

The phrase echoed in his head: He won’t be able to remember me.

It wasn’t casual. It wasn’t rhetorical. It was said like a fact. Like a wound.

Bucky’s first instinct had been Hydra. A ghost from the Winter Soldier days. Someone he’d hurt. Someone who remembered.

But the kid was too young. Too small. Too… not that.

Still, the feeling didn’t leave.

He scanned the storefront. Windows. Reflections. Angles. He moved toward the door, slow and deliberate, every step calculated. He ducked inside, pretending to browse. Chips. Canned soup. A rack of cheap sunglasses. His eyes swept the aisles, cataloging every face, every movement.

No sign of the kid.

He checked the back exit. The rooftops. The fire escape. Still nothing.

He asked the cashier, casually. “Kid in a hoodie come through here? Kind of small. Brown eyes.”

The guy shrugged. “Lots of kids come through here.”

Bucky lingered outside for another ten minutes, watching the flow of pedestrians, hoping for a glimpse. But the kid had vanished. Like smoke.

And still, he couldn’t let it go.

His brain wouldn’t shut off. It never did. He’d been trained to observe, to analyze, to overthink everything. Every detail mattered. Every anomaly could be a threat. Or a clue. Or a trap. He couldn’t turn it off. Not even now. Not even when he wanted to.

The way the kid’s face had lit up. The way it had fallen. The way he’d looked at Bucky like he mattered. Like he was someone. Like he was known.

It didn’t make sense.

Bucky didn’t do known. He did shadows. He did silence. He did the kind of existence that left no footprints.

So why had this kid looked at him like he was real?

He replayed the moment again. And again. And again.

The hoodie. The voice. The way he’d said it—He won’t be able to remember me. Not you. Not Bucky. Just he. Like Bucky was a placeholder. Like he was part of a system that had failed.

It gnawed at him.

He didn’t tell anyone. Not Sam. Not Yelena. Not even Bob. It wasn’t a mission. It wasn’t intel. It was just a moment. A glitch in the matrix. A ghost in the alley.

But it stayed.

It stayed in the back of his mind, tucked between memories he didn’t want and instincts he couldn’t shake. It stayed like a scar. Like a whisper. Like something unfinished.

And now, walking through the market with Alexei and John bickering behind him, Bucky felt it again.

That same pull. That same itch.

He glanced across the street.

The bodega.

Same one.

His breath caught.

He didn’t know what he was looking for. He didn’t know what he’d do if he saw the kid again. But he knew one thing:

He hadn’t imagined it.

And if the kid was real—if that moment was real—then something was wrong.

Something was broken.

And Bucky Barnes didn’t like broken things.

Not anymore.

He was still replaying it when he heard it.

A sound.

Quick. Muffled. Painful.

A cry.

Someone trying not to scream.

Bucky’s body snapped into motion before thought could catch up.

He ran.

Boots pounding against pavement, heart hammering, instincts flaring like a flare in his chest. The sound had cut through the noise of the market like a blade—sharp, muffled, unmistakable. A cry. Not loud. Not theatrical. The kind of sound someone makes when they’re trying not to scream. He knew that sound. He’d made it. Heard it. In interrogation rooms. In war zones. In dreams that never ended.

He rounded the corner into the alley, breath tight, vision narrowing.

A tall man. Aggressive stance. Arm raised.

A smaller figure slammed against the wall.

Hoodie. Curled posture. Familiar.

The kid.

Chapter Text

The kid’s shoulder hit the brick with a sickening thud, and he bit back a cry, but not fast enough.

The moment he heard the sound—sharp, muffled, wrong—Bucky moved.

He didn’t think. He didn’t hesitate. His body snapped into motion like a switch had been flipped. Boots hit pavement. Eyes locked forward. The alley narrowed ahead, shadows stretching long across the concrete. He knew that sound. He’d made that sound. Heard it often, in nightmares, in those rooms. Someone trying not to scream.

And as he ran, his hand shot to his shoulder, gripped the seam of his jacket, and tore.

The fabric gave way with a sharp rip, sleeve splitting clean from the shoulder down. It wasn’t planned. It wasn’t tactical. It was instinctual. Maybe subconscious. Maybe something old and buried. Maybe it was to scare the muggers—show the metal, show the history, show the threat. Or maybe it was just habit. The kind of habit you don’t question until it’s already done.

The red star gleamed in the morning light.

He didn’t stop.

He grabbed the man by the collar and yanked him back with enough force to send him airborne. The body hit the opposite wall with a thud: bone, brick, gravity. Unconscious before he hit the ground. The bag he’d been holding slipped from his hand and landed on the wet cement with a soft rustle.

The second one spun, gun raised.

Bucky caught his wrist mid-air. Twist. Disarm. The weapon clattered to the ground.

Metal fist. One. Two. Fast. Brutal.

The man dropped like a stone.

Silence.

Bucky stood there, breath steady, heart slow. The adrenaline didn’t spike anymore. Not like it used to. His body had learned to absorb it, to file it away, to keep moving.

He turned.

The kid was still on the ground. Curled. Dazed. Eyes wide and unfocused. His limbs twitched, but he couldn’t sit up. Couldn’t lift his head more than a few inches. His body was still rebooting. Bucky recognized the signs, concussion, shock, adrenaline dump. He’d seen it in soldiers. In civilians. In mirrors.

He stepped forward, slow now. Controlled.

Careful, like approaching a wounded animal; one that might bolt, or lash out, or collapse if touched wrong. His movements were deliberate, stripped of threat, calibrated for fragility.

Then hesitated.

The bruises on the kid’s face were fresh. The way he held his side, the tremble in his hand, the sunken look in his eyes. It all painted a picture Bucky didn’t know how to read.

He’d seen kids hurt before. He’d seen kids scared. But this one looked like he’d been through a war and was still losing. It was concerning.

The hoodie couldn’t hide everything. Not the bruising that bloomed from his shoulder up to his neck and jaw, a sickly mix of purple and yellow that crawled toward his ear. Not the cut on his forehead, just visible beneath the edge of his hairline. Not the cluster of smaller scrapes across his cheek and temple, too many to be brushed off as clumsy accidents, but not quite enough to look self-inflicted. Though that wouldn’t have been any better.

The morning light caught his arm—metal, matte, the red star gleaming. He saw the kid’s eyes lock onto it. Saw the recognition hit like a punch.

Bucky knew that look.

Fear.

Awe.

Panic.

Horror.

He’d seen it in classrooms. On news broadcasts. In the eyes of people who didn’t know him but thought they did.

The Winter Soldier.

He crouched beside the kid, movements deliberate. Fast but careful. Trying to seem open. Not something to be feared, he didn’t want to be seen as that anymore. Not anymore.

“Hey,” he said, voice low but urgent. “You alright?”

The kid tried to answer. Didn’t manage it. Just gave a shaky smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

Bucky didn’t wait.

He slid an arm behind the kid’s back, slow and steady, feeling the tension in his muscles, the way his body flinched at contact. Not fear—pain. The kind that radiated from the spine outward. He’d felt it before. He knew how to move around it.

“Easy,” he murmured. “Let’s get you up.”

He lifted him gently, guiding him to sit against the wall. The brick was cold, he knew, but the kid needed to be sat down, not lying against the wet floor as if he’d been abandoned. The kid winced, shoulder screaming in protest. His head lolled before he forced it upright. Bucky watched him ride it out, jaw clenched, breath shallow, eyes swimming.

“There we go,” Bucky said, adjusting his grip to keep him steady. “Just breathe.”

The kid’s breathing was uneven. Blurred. But it was coming back. The world was starting to settle around him. Pain sharp and immediate, but survivable.

Bucky stayed crouched beside him, one hand braced lightly against his back, the other resting on his knee. He didn’t speak again. Just watched. Scanned. Assessed.

He cataloged everything.

Dilated pupils. Shallow breaths. Minor abrasions. No visible fractures. No blood pooling. No signs of internal bleeding. But the shoulder was bad. Possibly dislocated. Maybe worse.

He didn’t recognize the kid. Not at all. But something tugged at the back of his mind. A flicker. A thread.

The way he’d looked at him.

Like he knew him.

Like he’d been avoiding him.

Bucky had seen that too. In people who’d read too much. In people who’d lost someone. In people who’d survived things they shouldn’t have.

He didn’t ask questions. Not yet.

He just kept his hand steady, kept his voice low, kept his presence calm.

The kid was spiraling. Bucky could see it. The way his eyes darted, the way his breath hitched, the way his body locked up like it was bracing for impact.

He didn’t interrupt it.

He let it run its course.

Because sometimes, the worst thing you could do was try to pull someone out too fast.

He’d learned that the hard way.

So he waited.

Watched.

Then, the adrenaline faded, silence settled like dust.

Bucky crouched beside the kid, scanning his posture, his breathing, the way his eyes kept flickering like faulty wiring. He’d seen this before: shock, concussion, pain layered over exhaustion. The kind that didn’t come from one hit, but from too many. The kind that built up over time until the body just stopped keeping score.

After a beat of silence, Bucky asked, “Can you stand?”

The kid blinked, still disoriented. “I—I think so.”

Bucky didn’t buy it. Not for a second. But he nodded anyway and shifted closer.

“Let me help.”

He slid an arm behind the kid’s back, careful not to jostle the shoulder, already favoring it, already screaming beneath the surface. The movement was slow, deliberate. He lifted him off the pavement like handling something fragile. Not weak. Just worn thin.

The kid winced, breath catching, but didn’t resist. His limbs were heavy, uncooperative. Bucky guided him upright, steady and slow, until he was leaning against the alley wall.

The brick was cold. Good. Grounding. His legs stretched out in front of him, one knee bent like a marionette someone had just propped up. Barely held together. Still standing.

“You alright, kid?” Bucky asked again, voice low.

The nod came too fast. “I’m—fine.”

There it was.

That word.

Bucky felt it hit like a soft echo in his chest. I’m fine. He’d heard it a thousand times. From soldiers. From civilians. From Steve.

Especially from Steve.

It was the kind of answer that meant nothing and everything. A reflex. A shield. A lie told with good intentions.

He didn’t believe it. Not for a second. But he let it sit. Let himself remember, just for a moment, the way Steve used to say it—bloodied, bruised, half-conscious, still trying to stand taller than he should. It was irking, sure. But it was also familiar. And familiarity had its own kind of comfort.

The kid’s vision was still swimming. Breath shallow. Edges soft and gray.

“Sure,” Bucky said, skeptical. “Can I check your head?”

There was hesitation. Then a nod.

Bucky leaned in, brushing curls aside with steady fingers. He checked the scalp for swelling, tenderness, bleeding. Pressed behind the ear. Traced the hairline. His knuckle grazed a spot above the temple—a jagged, half-healed wound.

The kid flinched.

Bucky paused. “Sorry,” he murmured. “Didn’t mean to hit that.”

The kid nodded, jaw tight.

But Bucky saw it.

That flicker.

Guilt.

It was fast—barely a second. But Bucky caught it. The way the kid’s eyes dropped. The way his mouth pressed into a line. Not just pain. Not just discomfort. Guilt.

He knew that look. He’d worn it himself. After missions. After mistakes. After waking up in places he didn’t remember with blood on his hands and no one to explain it.

This wasn’t fresh damage. This was old. Neglected. Covered up with tape and hope.

Bucky continued the exam, slower now. Fingers combing through curls with practiced care. He checked for bruising beneath the hair, ran his fingers along the occipital bone, then tilted the kid’s chin gently to examine his pupils.

“Follow my hand.”

The kid’s eyes tracked the movement—slow, sluggish. Not delayed enough to panic, but not sharp either. Bucky noted it.

“Any nausea?”

“A little.”

That was one. He logged it.

“Blurred vision?”

“Mhm.”

Two.

“Headache?”

The kid gave a weak laugh. “That’s putting it mildly.”

Three. Bucky didn’t smile.

He held up a finger. “How many?”

The kid squinted. “Three…?”

Pupil response was uneven. Focus soft. Four.

“Good. Any ringing in your ears?”

“Since I woke up.”

Five.

Bucky leaned back slightly, eyes narrowing. The checklist was complete. Sluggish tracking. Nausea. Blurred vision. Headache. Auditory distortion. All textbook. All familiar.

Concussion. No question.

And not fresh, either. The way the kid moved, the way he braced—this had been sitting for a while. Untreated. Ignored.

He didn’t say it out loud yet. Just let the conclusion settle in his chest like a weight. He’d seen concussions mishandled before. He knew what they could turn into.

This kid needed rest. Medical attention. Backup.

“You’ve got a concussion,” he said. “And this—” He gestured to the wound above the temple. “This should’ve been stitched.”

There it was again.

That flicker.

The guilt.

The kid didn’t respond. Just stared at the ground, jaw locked.

Bucky didn’t push. He sat back slightly, still watching. Still cataloging.

This wasn’t fresh damage. This was accumulation. The kind of wear that came from running too long, too hard, without backup. Without rest.

He didn’t know the kid’s name yet. But he knew the look.

And he knew what it meant.

So he stayed close.

Silent.

Present.

And waited.

The silence stretched on, far too long for his liking as he took note of the kid.

Bucky’s jaw tightened. The bruises were fresh.

Bucky could see it in the way the kid held his side, the tremble in his hand, the sunken look in his eyes. The hoodie didn’t hide much. Not the bruising that bloomed from his shoulder up to his neck and jaw—a sickly mix of purple and yellow crawling toward his ear. Not the cut on his forehead, just visible beneath the edge of his hairline. Not the cluster of smaller scrapes across his cheek and temple. Too many to be brushed off as clumsy accidents. Not quite enough to look self-inflicted. But still—too much.

It painted a picture Bucky didn’t know how to read. Not yet.

“You don’t look too good,” he said again, quieter this time.

The kid opened his mouth, but nothing came out. Just a shaky exhale.

Bucky scanned him again. The way his shoulder shook. The way his breath hitched. The way he kept trying to sit upright like it was a test he couldn’t afford to fail.

“You need a hospital.”

The reaction was immediate. A sharp shake of the head. “Can’t.”

The motion was too sharp. Bucky saw the pain ripple through him—his head dipped, his eyes unfocused. He was trying to stay upright, but his body was failing him in real time. Bucky didn’t know what kind of healing factor he had, but it clearly wasn’t working fast enough.

He didn’t push. But he noted it. Filed it away.

The kid’s stomach dropped. Bucky saw it. That flicker of realization. Like he’d just remembered something he didn’t want to.

Then the hesitation.

Bucky waited.

Still. Watching.

So Bucky nodded once, then reached out slowly. “Can I…?”

The kid blinked, confused. Tilted his head slightly.

“Your shoulder,” Bucky clarified. “It looks pretty bad.”

The kid froze. Bucky could see the hesitation in his eyes—something deeper than pain. Something tangled. He didn’t know what it was, but it made the kid stall, like he was weighing more than just physical discomfort.

Eventually, he nodded. Quick. Embarrassed. And clearly regretting it, because his vision swam again and he had to blink hard to stay present.

Bucky watched him peel back the edge of his hoodie, slow and reluctant. The fabric bunched awkwardly at his collarbone, revealing the shoulder beneath.

And Bucky froze.

Just for a second.

The skin was marred. Not just bruised—scarred. Thin lines, jagged edges, faded burns. Some old. Some ancient. Some recent enough that they hadn’t healed right. Hadn’t healed at all, really. And that was just the part he could see.

Almost every inch of visible skin was marked.

And if this was what the kid showed him, what was hidden?

Bucky’s breath caught. He didn’t mean to let it show, but he knew he did. That flicker of surprise—shock, even—slipped past his guard.

He didn’t know this kid. Not his name. Not his story. Nothing.

And yet, something about him felt… off. Like a puzzle with half the pieces missing. Like Bucky had walked into the middle of a movie he didn’t remember starting.

It didn’t make sense.

And yet, it did.

Something was wrong. Something had been done.

Bucky didn’t know how. Didn’t know why.

But he knew one thing: this wasn’t the first time they’d met. No, he’d known this kid—before the bodega.

He cleared his throat and leaned in, letting the moment pass.

He rested his metal arm lightly against the kid’s side and reached out with his human hand, fingers cool and steady. He pressed gently around the joint, testing the damage. It was dislocated—maybe broken too. The swelling was bad, the tissue hot under his fingertips. The way the kid flinched told him everything he needed to know.

God, Bucky thought. What has this kid gone through?

“Dislocated,” he murmured. “I need to reset it. It’ll only take a second, so try to hold still, okay?”

The kid nodded, bracing himself.

Bucky moved quickly—precise, practiced. The joint popped back into place with a sickening sound, but the kid didn’t scream. He gasped.

Not from pain.

From surprise.

His body sagged slightly, like it didn’t know what to do with the absence of agony.

Why? Bucky’s mind snagged on it. Why was that the reaction he gave? That’s not normal. Normal people would’ve screamed. Would’ve cried, yelled, shouted—something. They would’ve given some kind of reaction of that sort. Not… that.

Not silence.

Not relief.

Bucky kept a hand on his back. “Breathe.”

The kid did. Slowly. The surprise in his eyes dulled to something quieter. His head tilted, just slightly, like he was seeing Bucky differently now.

“Thanks,” he whispered.

It didn’t sound casual. It didn’t sound automatic. It sounded like he wasn’t used to saying it—wasn’t used to people helping him, to not feeling pain, to what usually happened when someone got hurt. Like he didn’t expect kindness to follow injury. Like he didn’t expect anyone to stay.

Bucky didn’t answer right away.

He just looked at the kid—really looked—and wondered how long he’d been surviving like this. How long he’d been patching himself up in silence. How long he’d been alone.

Bucky didn’t say anything. Just nodded once, then stepped back, giving the kid space.

His eyes drifted to the bag of pastries on the cement. He bent down, picked it up, then looked back at the kid—still slumped against the wall, still clutching his hoodie like it was the only thing keeping him tethered.

“Do I know you?” Bucky asked.

The kid flinched.

Not visibly. Not dramatically. But Bucky saw it—the way his breath hitched, the way his grip on the fabric tightened, the way his eyes darted, calculating.

Something was wrong.

The kid looked like he was trying to solve a puzzle with no edges. Like he was weighing options—lie, run, fight. Bucky could read it in the tension in his jaw, the way his ribs moved with each shallow breath.

“You used to,” the kid said.

Bucky’s eyes narrowed.

Bucky’s eyes narrowed.

He hadn’t expected that. Hadn’t expected anything, really. But that—those words—landed like a dropped knife.

Bucky’s mind spiraled.

Used to? What the hell did that mean? Had they met before? Had he forgotten? Was this some mission fallout, some Hydra ghost, some civilian casualty he’d missed?

His thoughts scrambled, reaching for something solid, something tangible.

The bodega.

That had to be it. The kid had slipped up there—almost approached him, said something strange, then vanished. Bucky had searched for him after that. No name. No trail. Just a flicker of something that didn’t make sense.

He grabbed onto that memory like a lifeline.

“Wait,” Bucky said, voice low. “You’re the kid from the market.”

The kid’s eyes flicked up. Just for a second.

And then Bucky remembered.

Not just the face.

The words.

“You waved,” he said slowly. “But said something about how I wouldn’t remember you.”

And just like that, everything started to click.

The hesitation. The panic. The way the kid looked at him like he was dangerous and familiar all at once.

“I looked for you,” Bucky said. “You… disappeared.”

The kid’s lips parted, and then the words came out—fast, unfiltered.

“You’ve always been good at losing people, Mr. Winter Soldier, s-sir…”

Bucky froze.

The name hit like a slap. Not because it was wrong. Because it was too right. Too specific. Too personal.

“…What?” he said, voice dropping.

The kid stepped back. “I—sorry, I meant—”

“You just—” Bucky said, eyes narrowing.

The kid scrambled. “I—I heard it online. Someone said it in a podcast or something.”

Bucky didn’t blink. “No one said that in a podcast.”

He could feel it now—the tension in the air, the way the kid was unraveling. Every word, every movement, every breath was a tell. He wasn’t just scared. He was cornered.

“You know Sam,” Bucky said quietly. “You know me.”

The kid’s mouth opened, but nothing came out.

Then Bucky heard it—a voice, faint, distant.

“Bucky!”

That accent. It was Alexei. Far off. At least two blocks away. Too far for a normal person to hear. But he caught it, what, with his enhancements and all—courtesy of Hydra.

But the kid turned toward it instantly. His head snapped in the direction of the call like a reflex.

Bucky’s eyes widened.

What the fuck?

He hadn’t expected that.

His expression shifted—from confusion to something sharper. Something more profuse. Further confusion, yes, but now with a hint of wariness curling beneath it. Like a wire pulled too tight.

The kid’s eyes snapped back to Bucky’s face. And Bucky saw it—saw the shift. The panic. The calculation. The way the kid looked at him like he’d just confirmed something terrible.

And Bucky thought, What the hell is going on?

A second later, the voice came again. Louder. Closer.

He could hear the footsteps now—two sets, closing in fast. He zoned in on the cadence, the weight. John and Alexei.

“Bucky! Where are you!?”

This time, Bucky turned toward it.

Fuck. He’d forgotten all about them. Let’s hope the blasted idiots haven’t killed someone yet. Or burned the city down. No one knew what to expect with those two—together, no less.

Bad idea.

The kid didn’t wait.

He bolted.

One second, he was standing there. The next, he was gone.

Bucky spun back just in time to see him vanish around the corner, legs moving like they were made of fire and desperation—vanishing into the alley’s shadows with a speed that didn’t match the limp or the bruises or the exhaustion. He ducked past a stack of crates, through a narrow gap between buildings. His hoodie snagged on a rusted nail and tore, but he didn’t stop.

Bucky stared after him, heart thudding.

That kid had just heard something he shouldn’t have.

And he’d spoken of something he shouldn’t have known.

Something wasn’t adding up.

Not at all.

“Hey—!” Bucky started, voice sharp, confused, a shout. “What the hell?”

But the kid was already gone.

Gone. Like smoke.

Chapter Text

Bucky stood there for a long moment, staring at the empty alleyway where the kid had disappeared. The shadows swallowed him whole, like they’d been waiting.

The silence pressed in around him, thick and unmoving. The city noise beyond the alley felt like it belonged to another world. Here, in this narrow stretch of concrete and brick, time had slowed. His breath was steady, but his pulse hadn’t settled. Not from the fight. That had been nothing.

It was the kid.

The way he’d looked at him.

Panic.

Recognition.

And something else. Something… deeper.

Bucky’s eyes stayed fixed on the spot where the kid had vanished, as if staring long enough might undo it. Might rewind the moment. Might bring him back.

He replayed the conversation in his head, line by line.

Mr. Winter Soldier, s-sir.

You used to.

You’ve always been good at losing people.

The words echoed, each syllable sharper than the last. Not just the phrasing. Not just the tone. But the weight behind them.

That name. That joke. That reflexive turn toward Alexei’s voice—two blocks away, muffled by traffic and city noise. No way a normal kid should’ve heard that.

And yet, he had.

Bucky’s jaw clenched. His eyes dropped to the unconscious muggers sprawled across the alley floor. One of them was twitching slightly, a muscle spasm in the leg. The other was still, arms splayed, mouth slack.

He crouched beside the still one, fingers pressed to the neck. Pulse was strong. Breathing steady. No fractures, no blood pooling. Just unconscious. Good. He didn’t need another body on his conscience.

The twitchy one groaned faintly, head lolling to the side. Bucky didn’t look at him.

His mind was elsewhere.

That kid had known him. Not just his name. Not just his face. He’d known him. The kind of knowing that came from shared history, not headlines. And the joke about Sam? That was personal.

He stood, brushing dust from his jacket. The torn edge of his sleeve fluttered slightly, the fabric frayed where he’d ripped it off earlier. The metal arm caught the light, gleaming faintly.

He turned toward the street, footsteps slow, deliberate.

But his mind didn’t follow.

It stayed in the alley.

Tracing the kid’s escape route. Replaying the moment he’d bolted. The way his body moved: fluid, fast, desperate. The limp had vanished. The exhaustion had vanished. He’d moved like someone who knew how to run. Like someone who’d done it before. A lot.

Bucky’s eyes scanned the alley walls, the fire escapes, the rooftops. No sign of movement. No sign of the kid.

But the feeling lingered.

That flicker of recognition. That edge of guilt. That moment when the kid had looked at him like he was something broken and familiar.

Bucky’s fingers curled into a fist. He could still feel the weight of the kid’s shoulder beneath his hand, the heat of the swelling, the tremble of pain. He could still hear the gasp. Not from agony, but from relief. That wasn’t normal. That wasn’t right.

He turned back toward the alley, eyes narrowing.

The kid had moved too fast.

The bruises had been real. The exhaustion had been real. But the speed—the precision—that was something else. Something trained. 

He crouched again, scanning the ground. Footprints. Scuff marks. A smear of blood near the wall. The kid had been hurt. Badly. But he’d still moved like a soldier.

Bucky followed the trail—faint, but present—toward the gap between buildings. The hoodie had snagged here. A thread hung from the nail, fluttering slightly.

He reached out, plucked it free, held it between his fingers.

Red. Faded. Cheap fabric.

He pocketed it.

Then he looked up.

The gap was narrow, but passable. The kid had slipped through here, probably turned left, maybe vaulted the fence at the end. Bucky followed the path, slow and methodical. He wasn’t chasing. He was tracking.

The fence had fresh scratches. The dumpster beside it had a dent—small, recent. The lid was slightly ajar.

Bucky climbed over, landing with a soft thud on the other side.

The alley opened into a wider street. Still no sign of the kid.

He stood there for a long moment, letting the silence settle around him.

Alexei’s voice rang out again, closer now.

“Where is that guy?! We’ve been waiting forever!”

Bucky didn’t respond. Not yet.

His eyes scanned the crowd, the storefronts, the rooftops. No sign of the kid. No flash of a red hoodie. Just the city, indifferent and loud.

The sidewalk was crowded. People moved in clusters, heads down, phones out, coffee cups clutched like lifelines. A dog barked from somewhere behind him. A cyclist swerved past, muttering under his breath. A delivery truck honked twice, impatient.

But Bucky’s focus was razor-thin.

He scanned every face. Every alley mouth. Every rooftop ledge. He knew how people disappeared. He’d done it himself. But this kid hadn’t just disappered—he’d evaporated. Limp or not, bruised or not, it was as if he was there one moment, and then gone the next.

Bucky’s jaw tightened.

He replayed the moment again. The way the kid had flinched at his voice. The way he’d turned toward Alexei’s call like it was a trigger. The way he’d looked at Bucky. Not with fear, not exactly, but with something heavier. Something tangled.

You used to.

The words echoed, sharp and quiet.

He didn’t know what they meant. Not yet. But they weren’t random. They weren’t meaningless. They were a breadcrumb. A thread. And Bucky had been taught to follow threads.

Finally, he turned the corner and found Alexei and John bickering near a fruit stand.

Alexei was gesturing wildly, a banana in one hand, while John looked like he was ready to throw it at him.

“You two done?” Bucky asked, voice flat.

Alexei turned, eyebrows raised. “Finally. What took you so long?”

Bucky didn’t answer.

He was still thinking about the alley. About the kid. About the way his voice had cracked when he said, Mr. Winter Soldier, s-sir.

He stepped closer, eyes flicking to the fruit stand. The vendor was watching them with mild concern, one hand hovering near the register like he wasn’t sure if this was about to escalate.

John gave Bucky a once-over. “You look like you saw a ghost.”

Bucky didn’t respond.

Alexei tossed the banana back onto the pile. “We were ‘bout to send a, eh, search party. Thought, maybe, mugged.”

Bucky’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t get mugged.”

“Mn, well,” Alexei said, shrugging. “You do disappear.”

John snorted. “Like a moody ninja.”

Bucky ignored them.

His gaze drifted past the fruit stand, down the street, across the intersection. He was still searching. Still scanning. Still hoping for a glimpse of red fabric, a flash of movement, a mistake.

Nothing.

Just the city. Indifferent. Loud.

Alexei stepped closer, voice dropping. “You okay?”

Bucky nodded once. “Fine.”

That word again. It tasted like ash.

John raised an eyebrow. “You sure? You seem… off.”

Bucky didn’t answer.

He was thinking about the way the kid had moved. The way he’d ducked through the alley, past the crates, through the gap. The way his hoodie had snagged on the nail. The way he hadn’t stopped. Not once. Not even when his shoulder was screaming.

That wasn’t normal.

That was learned.

That was taught.

That was trained.

Alexei leaned against the fruit stand, arms crossed. “So, what happen?”

Bucky glanced at him. “Ran into something.”

“Something?” John echoed. “Or someone?”

Bucky didn’t respond.

Alexei frowned. “You are being confusing again.”

John rolled his eyes. “Great. He’s in ‘brooding mode.’”

Bucky’s fingers flexed at his side. He could still feel the weight of the kid’s shoulder under his hand. The heat. The tremble. The way the joint had popped back into place and the kid hadn’t screamed—just gasped. Like pain was familiar. Like relief was the surprise.

He didn’t like how that felt.

Didn’t like what it implied.

Behind him, John and Alexei started arguing again.

“Okay, but seriously,” Alexei said, gesturing with both hands like he was conducting an orchestra, “what is this ‘broding mood’?”

John turned toward him slowly, eyebrows raised, mouth falling open in silent disbelief. Then, without a word, he mouthed it back—broding mood—like he was trying to process the sheer violence Alexei had just committed against two perfectly normal words spoken not even two seconds ago.

Yet Alexei continued, completely ignoring John’s reaction, “you say this every time he is quiet. Maybe he is just thinking. Maybe he is just… digesting.”

He blinked once. Twice.

Then: “Okay. One—it’s brooding mode. Brooding. Mode. Not ‘broding mood.’ You sound like you’re naming a perfume.”

Alexei shrugged. “Maybe it is perfume. Very dramatic. Smells like leather and sadness.”

John stared at him. “Two—digesting?” he echoed, incredulous. “He’s not a snake, Alexei.”

“You do not know this,” Alexei said, dead serious. “Maybe he is snake. Emotional snake.”

John blinked. “You think Barnes is an emotional snake.”

Alexei nodded. “Yes. He is quiet. He is cold. He sheds metaphorical skin. Very snake.”

John opened his mouth, then closed it again. “That’s… not how snakes work.”

Alexei waved him off. “I am not zoologist.”

“No kidding.”

Alexei huffed, folding his arms with a dramatic shake of his head. “You do not know how snakes think. Maybe they have rich inner world. Maybe they feel deeply. You ever see snake cry? No. Because they are strong.”

John stared at him, utterly baffled. “What are you even talking about?”

“I am saying, maybe Bucky is like snake. Silent. Coiled. Full of secrets.”

“I don’t need to know how snakes think,” John muttered. “I know how Bucky thinks. And this—” he pointed at Bucky’s back, “—this is textbook brooding. Silent. Staring into the distance. Probably narrating his own trauma in his head.”

Alexei squinted. “You think he is… narrating?”

“Yeah. Like, internally. Like, ‘The shadows swallowed him whole,’ kind of thing.”

Alexei blinked. “That is very dramatic.”

“Exactly.”

Alexei crossed his arms. “So you think he is… what, writing poetry in his brain?”

“Not poetry. Just… brooding. It’s a vibe.”

Alexei snorted. “In Russia, we do not brood. We drink. We punch wall. We move on.”

“Yeah, well, in America we process our feelings. We sit with them. We reflect.”

“You process too much. You process like, eh, broken printer—always jammed.”

John raised an eyebrow. “You’re one to talk. You once stared at a toaster for twenty minutes because it reminded you of your childhood.”

“It was emotional toaster. It had dent like my father’s car.”

“Oh, my god.”

John turned to the fruit vendor, who was now watching them with the wary patience of someone who’d seen too many arguments over bananas and emotional snakes. “Can you believe this guy?”

The vendor blinked. “I just sell fruit.”

Alexei pointed at a bunch of bananas. “Even banana does not brood. Banana is happy, it is simple.”

John gave him a look. “Bananas are mushy. They bruise if you breathe on them. And they smell disgusting.”

Alexei blinked, offended. “Disgusting? No. They are perfect combat snack. Portable. Full of potassium. You eat one, you feel strong. Fast. Ready to crush skull.”

John snorted. “They smell like gym socks and sugar.”

“You are wrong,” Alexei said, puffing up. “Banana is noble fruit. You always pick sad snacks. Dry protein bar. No flavor. No soul. You eat like accountant.”

“Says the man who once ate pickled herring out of a Ziploc bag on a stakeout.”

“It was efficient.”

“It was traumatizing.”

Alexei lifted a finger. “It had protein. Very good for brain. You should try sometime.”

“It smelled like a crime scene.”

“You exaggerate.”

“I had to roll down the window in January.”

“You are weak.”

“I’m not weak. I just have a functioning nose.”

Alexei leaned in, voice dropping like he was about to share a classified file. “You know what is real sadness? American granola bar. You bite, it crumbles. You chew, it sticks to teeth. You finish, you feel nothing.”

John stared at him. “You need therapy.”

“I had therapy,” Alexei said proudly. “She said I was ‘too much.’ She cried.”

“Of course she did.”

Alexei turned back to the bananas, picked one up reverently. “This is fruit of champions. You think Captain America never ate banana? Of course he did. Probably two. Before every mission.”

John’s jaw tightened. “Don’t bring him into this.”

Alexei grinned. “Why not? You are new Captain, yes? You should eat banana. Maybe it help you smile.”

John muttered, “I hate this team.”

Bucky tuned them out.

He turned away from them, eyes scanning the street again. The crowd had shifted. A bus pulled up, brakes hissing. A group of teenagers spilled out, laughing too loud. A man in a suit cursed at his phone. A woman dropped her coffee and swore under her breath.

But no kid.

No red hoodie.

No brown, unruly, curly hair.

And then—he felt it.

The weight in his hand.

He looked down.

The bakery bag.

Still there. Crumpled slightly from the fight, but intact. The paper was warm, faintly greasy, the top folded neatly. He hadn’t dropped it. Hadn’t handed it off. Hadn’t even thought about it.

The kid had never taken it.

Bucky had never given it back.

He stared at it for a moment, the realization settling like dust.

It was small. Insignificant, maybe. But it felt like something. Like a thread left dangling. Like a promise half-kept.

He’d grabbed it off the ground after the fight, out of habit more than anything. But now it felt heavier. Like it meant something. Like it belonged to someone who hadn’t meant to leave it behind.

His grip tightened around the bag.

He could still see the kid’s face—pale, bruised, eyes wide and swimming. He could still hear the way his voice cracked when he said, You used to.

Bucky didn’t know who the kid was.

But he was going to find out.

He was sure of that.

———————

The elevator doors slid open with a soft chime, and the noise hit like a wave.

Alexei was still talking—loudly, animatedly, about bananas and combat nutrition and how John’s protein bars were “coward food.” John was ignoring him, jaw tight, muttering under his breath about potassium and therapy and how he was going to requisition a separate fridge just to avoid the smell of pickled fish.

The moment they stepped into the tower, the atmosphere shifted.

Yelena was sprawled across the couch, one arm draped over her eyes, the other clutching a half-empty mug. She didn’t even look up.

“Finally,” she muttered. “I was starting to think you had all died.”

Ava was perched on the windowsill, legs tucked up, eyes half-lidded. At the sound of Alexei’s voice, she let out a sigh so deep it could’ve cracked glass.

Bob was standing in the corner, arms crossed, eyes closed. Peace had settled over the tower like a rare snowfall. He’d been basking in it. Now, with the return of chaos, his expression shifted from serene to sour.

“Do you people ever come back quietly?” he asked, voice low and gravelly.

Alexei dropped the grocery bags onto the counter with a dramatic flourish. “We bring sustenance! And stories! And potassium!”

John followed, tossing his bag down with less flair and more frustration. “We bring noise pollution.”

Bucky didn’t say a word.

He stepped in last, the bakery bag still clutched in his hand. He moved like a shadow—silent, deliberate, detached. He didn’t put the groceries away. Didn’t acknowledge the others. Just dropped the bag onto the counter, turned, and walked toward the far wall.

Yelena peeked out from under her arm. “You okay?”

Bucky didn’t answer.

She didn’t push.

He crossed the room, boots quiet against the tile, and settled down hunched at the terminal. The screen was dark. He tapped the keyboard once, and it flickered to life.

The hum of the tower faded behind him. Alexei was still talking. John was still muttering. Ava had vanished into the shadows. Bob was brooding in the corner. Yelena had gone back to pretending to sleep.

But Bucky’s world had narrowed.

Just the screen.

Just the bag.

Just the kid.

He placed the bakery bag beside the keyboard, fingers brushing the crumpled paper. It was still warm. Still faintly greasy. The logo was faded, the ink smudged. But it was something. A thread.

He scanned the bag—logo, address, timestamp. There was no receipt stapled to the side of the barely legible store name. He keyed in the bakery name, cross-referenced it with the city grid, pulled up the location.

Lower East Side. Corner of 12th and Avenue B. Six Sister’s Bakery.

He stared at the map for a long moment.

Then he opened the surveillance feed.

The bakery had a camera—cheap, grainy, but functional. He scrubbed through the footage, timestamp by timestamp, looking for the kid. Looking for that red hoodie. That limp. That face.

Nothing.

He expanded the search. Nearby shops. Street corners. Traffic cams.

Still nothing.

He leaned back, jaw tight.

Then he opened the facial recognition software.

He’d used it before. For missions. For tracking targets. For finding ghosts.

He uploaded a sketch—rough, quick, built from memory. The kid’s face. Pale. Bruised. Curly hair. Wide eyes. He adjusted the parameters, narrowed the search radius, set the filters.

The system churned.

No matches.

He adjusted again. Broadened the scope. Removed the filters. Let it run wild.

Still nothing.

Bucky’s fingers hovered over the keyboard.

This didn’t make sense.

The kid had existed. He’d touched him. Heard him. Seen him vanish. He’d held his shoulder. Reset the joint. Felt the tremble. Heard the gasp.

He wasn’t a ghost.

He wasn’t a hallucination.

So why couldn’t the system find him?

He opened a new window. Started digging manually. Hospital records. School databases. Social media. News archives. Anything.

Still nothing.

Behind him, the tower buzzed.

Alexei was singing now—something vaguely Russian and definitely off-key. John was threatening to throw a banana at him. Yelena had migrated to the kitchen and was now poking through the groceries with the enthusiasm of someone who hadn’t eaten in twelve hours. Ava reappeared, ghostlike, and stole a protein bar from John’s stash. Bob hadn’t moved.

But Bucky didn’t hear any of it.

He was somewhere else.

Back in the alley.

Back in the moment.

Back in the flicker.

You used to.

The words echoed again.

He opened another tab. Started cross-referencing bakery customers. Pulled up receipts, timestamps, credit card logs. Looked for anomalies. Looked for patterns.

Still nothing.

He stared at the screen, eyes burning.

This wasn’t just a missing person.

This was something else.

Something wrong.

Something broken.

He reached for the bakery bag again, fingers tracing the edge. There was a smudge near the bottom—something faint. Ink? Dirt? Blood?

He scanned it. Ran it through the database.

No match.

Of course.

He leaned back, exhaled slowly.

Then he opened the audio logs.

He’d recorded the alley—standard protocol. He scrubbed through the file, isolated the kid’s voice, ran it through the system.

Still nothing.

No ID.

No match.

No record.

It was like he didn’t exist.

Bucky stared at the waveform.

Then he played it again.

You used to.

The voice was soft. Cracked. Familiar.

He closed his eyes.

Tried to remember.

Tried to feel it.

But there was nothing.

Just the echo.

Just the absence.

Just the weight of the bag in his hand.

He opened one last tab.

Now, Bucky didn’t believe in ghosts.

But Hydra makes them.

His mind went to the way they cataloged everything. To the way they watched. To the way they buried what they couldn’t control.

If this kid had moved like that—trained, fast, precise—then maybe he hadn’t just slipped through the cracks.

Maybe he’d been placed there.

Bucky opened the encrypted archive. One of the few systems they’d managed to recover after the last Hydra sweep. It was fragmented and corrupted, but still working. He keyed in the bakery’s location, the timestamp, the alley coordinates. Cross-referenced it with known surveillance zones Hydra had once monitored.

Nothing.

He tried something else.

He uploaded the sketch of the kid’s face.

He ran it through Hydra’s facial recognition grid.

The system churned.

Then it stopped.

One result.

Bucky leaned in.

The image was grainy, black-and-white, clipped from a surveillance feed. The kid was younger. Cleaner. No bruises. No limp. But it was him. Same hair. Same eyes. Same mouth, caught mid-sentence.

Below the image: a name.

Mason Fitzpatrick.

Bucky frowned.

He didn’t recognize it.

He clicked into the file.

There wasn’t much. Just a few lines. Hydra’s summary.

Subject: Mason Fitzpatrick. Possible alias. Possible asset. Unknown origin. No digital footprint. No birth record. No school record. No medical history. No confirmed residence. No known affiliations. No traceable family.

Conclusion: Anomaly. Possible deep-cover operative. Possible memory manipulation. Possible internal breach.

Bucky stared at the screen.

No digital footprint.

No birth record.

No school record.

No medical history.

No confirmed residence.

No known affiliations.

No traceable family.

It was like the kid didn’t exist.

Hydra had flagged him as a ghost. A glitch. Something that shouldn’t be there.

And Bucky knew what that meant.

He’d been that once.

He leaned back, jaw tight.

If Hydra had flagged this kid, if they’d tracked him, if they’d tried to make sense of him—then maybe he was one of theirs. Maybe he’d been trained. Planted. Used.

Maybe he was dangerous.

Bucky opened a new tab.

Started digging.

He searched for Mason Fitzpatrick across every known database—SHIELD, CIA, NSA, Interpol. Nothing. No record. No trace.

He searched school systems. Hospital logs. Social media. Credit reports. DMV. Census data.

Still nothing.

He checked Hydra’s internal logs again. Looked for mission reports. Field sightings. Handler notes.

Nothing.

Just the one image.

Just the one name.

Just the one file.

It didn’t make sense.

If the kid was an asset, there should’ve been more. Training logs. Psychological profiles. Deployment records.

But there was nothing.

Just a ghost.

Just a name.

Just a face.

Bucky’s fingers moved faster now, frustration mounting. He opened Hydra’s deep archive—buried files, redacted reports, encrypted fragments. He ran the name again. Ran the image again. Ran the timestamp again.

Still nothing.

He checked the metadata on the photo. Location: Queens. Date: three years ago. Source: unknown.

He scrubbed the image for clues. Background signage. Street layout. Clothing brands. Nothing useful.

He checked the bakery bag again. The logo. The timestamp. The ink smudge.

Still nothing.

He checked the surveillance feed from the alley. Replayed the moment. The kid’s voice. The way he’d said Mr. Winter Soldier, s-sir.

That wasn’t how a Hydra asset spoke.

That was how someone who'd known him spoke.

Bucky’s jaw clenched.

He didn’t understand.

He didn’t like not understanding.

Twenty minutes passed.

He didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

Just sat there, staring at the screen, fingers twitching, eyes burning.

The tower moved around him.

Alexei was still talking somewhere in the background—probably about Russia and his Red Guardian days. John was probably threatening to slit Alexei’s throat. Ava had vanished again. Bob was brooding in the corner. Yelena had gone quiet.

But Bucky didn’t hear any of it.

He was somewhere else.

Back in the alley.

Back in the moment.

Back in the flicker.

He opened the image again.

Stared at the kid’s face.

Mason Fitzpatrick.

It didn’t fit.

It didn’t feel right.

But it was all he had.

He tried to run a voice match again. Nothing.

He tried to cross-reference the name with known aliases. Nothing.

He tried to trace the image’s origin. Nothing.

He tried to decrypt the file’s source. Nothing.

He sat there, silent, unmoving, brooding.

The screen flickered.

The cursor blinked.

The bakery bag sat beside him, untouched.

Then—

Footsteps.

Soft. Near silent. Slow. Familiar.

Yelena.

She stopped a few feet behind him, arms crossed, head tilted.

“You’ve been sitting there like statue,” she said. “You are being dramatic and it’s so sad that it is grating on my nerves. Spit it out. What’s wrong?”

Bucky didn’t respond.

She stepped closer, peered over his shoulder.

“What is this?” she asked. “Are you looking at a mugshot?”

He didn’t answer.

She leaned in. “Who’s the kid?”

“I don’t know,” Bucky said quietly.

Yelena frowned. “Then why are you staring at him like he owes you money?”

“I ran into him,” Bucky said. “In an alley.”

Yelena blinked. “Today?”

“Yes.”

“And now you’re… what, stalking him?”

“He knew me.”

She paused. “Knew you how?”

“I don’t know. But he knew me.”

Yelena’s expression shifted.

She looked at the screen again.

“Mason Fitzpatrick,” she read. “That’s a fake name.”

“I know.”

“No record?”

“None.”

Yelena squinted. “Hydra?”

“Maybe.”

She leaned back. “You think he’s one of theirs?”

“I don’t know.”

“You think he’s dangerous?”

“I don’t know.”

Yelena crossed her arms. “You are saying ‘I don’t know’ a lot for someone who’s been typing crazy for a half hour.”

“I’m trying to find him.”

Yelena was quiet for a moment.

Then—

Another set of footsteps.

Ava.

She slid in like smoke, silent and curious, eyes sharp.

“What’s Grandpa doing?” she asked, voice dry.

Yelena smirked. “Trying to hack.”

Ava stepped closer, peered at the screen.

“That’s a kid,” she said.

“I know,” Bucky muttered.

“Why are we stalking a kid?”

“No one is stalking anyone.”

Ava raised an eyebrow. “Right. So, what’s up with him? Did he rub you the wrong way? What, stare at you for too long?”

Bucky glared back at the screen, refusing to look back at the two women behind him.

“You’re not being very helpful.”

“I’m not trying to be.”

Yelena leaned against the desk. “You’re spiraling.”

“I’m investigating.”

“You’re struggling.”

“I’m working.”

Ava squinted. “You’re brooding.”

“I’m fine.”

Yelena exchanged a look with Ava.

Then she reached out and gently moved the bakery bag aside.

“Start from the beginning,” she said. “What happened?”

Bucky stared at the screen and sighed deeply.

Then he started talking.

Chapter Text

What the fuck?

What the fuck?

What the fuck?!

What the FUCK!?!

Peter’s spidey-sense was screaming.

Not buzzing. Not nudging. Screaming.

It wasn’t danger—it was a get out, now, run, get away, don’t stop. It hijacked his body before his brain could catch up, overriding logic, overriding pain, overriding everything. His thoughts were still stuck in the alley, in the moment his voice cracked, in the way Bucky had looked at him. But his body was already moving.

He didn’t have a route.

His spidey-sense did.

It yanked him down side streets, away from cameras, away from open spaces, away from anything that could track him. He vaulted fences without thinking, ducked under scaffolding, slipped through gaps between buildings that he hadn’t even noticed before. It was like his instincts had drawn a map in real time—one that made no sense to his conscious mind but felt right.

He couldn’t afford logic.

Not now.

His thoughts were a mess of panic and regret and static, so he shoved them aside and let the sense take over. Let it steer him like a second spine. Let it drag him through the city like a live wire.

But then, Peter’s thoughts began screaming louder than his footsteps as he tore down the street, weaving through pedestrians, ignoring the startled looks and shouted curses. His legs moved on instinct, faster than they should’ve, faster than he realized. His ribs burned, his shoulder throbbed, but none of it registered. Not yet.

He was running.

Running like hell.

Running like the universe depended on it.

Because maybe it did.

His breath came in short, sharp bursts, each one scraping against the bruises blooming across his ribs. His hoodie clung to his back, damp with sweat, flapping wildly as he cut through the city like a live wire. Horns blared. Tires screeched. A cyclist swerved to avoid him, shouting something Peter didn’t hear.

He didn’t even notice the speed at first. Didn’t notice the blur of buildings, the way the wind clawed at his hoodie, the way his feet barely touched the ground. He just ran. Past storefronts, traffic lights, honking cars. Past the bakery, past the warehouse, past the bodega, past the apartment, past everything.

Twenty-seven blocks.

That’s when it hit him.

He was moving too fast.

Not just fast—inhuman.

His breath caught. He ducked into a narrow alley, skidding to a stop behind a dumpster, chest heaving. His heart pounded like a drumline in his ears. He pressed a hand to the wall, trying to steady himself, trying to think.

What did I do? What did I say?

“You used to.”

“You’ve always been good at losing people, Bucky.”

Gods, what the hell is wrong with me?

His mind raced, faster than his legs ever could. Every word he’d let slip replayed in his head like a broken tape. The name. The joke. The reflex. The panic.

He knows. He knows. My Gods, he KNOWS.

And then what?

What happens if Bucky remembers?

Would the spell break?

Would the universe start to collapse again?

Would the world be forced to forget all over again?

Would Bucky?

Would Dr. Strange?

Would Ned?

Would MJ—

Peter’s breath hitched. He squeezed his eyes shut, forcing the thought away.

I wasn’t supposed to be remembered. That was the deal. That was the cost.

He stumbled forward, deeper into the alley, ignoring the ache in his legs. He had to keep moving. Had to stay hidden. Had to disappear.

It’s my fault. All of it. I broke it. I broke everything.

He turned sharply, scaling a chain-link fence with practiced ease, then darted across a narrow rooftop. His spidey-sense buzzed faintly, warning him of a camera nearby. He ducked low, slipped behind a chimney, then leapt to the next building.

His body was running on fumes, but his instincts were still sharp. He moved like muscle memory, like survival.

The rooftops blurred beneath him—tar paper, gravel, rusted vents. He didn’t stop to think. Didn’t stop to breathe. Just kept going. One leap. One roll. One sprint. One leap. One roll. One sprint. His shoulder screamed every time he landed, but he didn’t care.

He couldn’t care.

Finally, after another block or two, he found a rooftop with no cameras, no windows, no prying eyes. Just cracked concrete and a rusted vent.

And he collapsed.

Hard.

His knees hit first, then his palms, then his chest. He rolled onto his back, gasping, staring up at the sky like it might offer answers.

It didn’t.

The clouds drifted overhead, indifferent. The wind tugged at his hoodie. A pigeon landed on the ledge nearby, blinked at him, then flew off.

His mind wouldn’t stop.

What if Strange finds out? What if the spell unravels? What if I ruin everything again?

He curled in on himself, hoodie pulled tight, fingers trembling.

I was supposed to be forgotten. I was supposed to disappear.

But he hadn’t.

Not completely.

And now?

Now he was a glitch in the system.

A ghost with a heartbeat.

And Bucky had seen him.

James “Bucky” Barnes.

THE Winter Soldier.

Saw him.

Saw Peter.

The ghost.

He was so screwed.

Peter lay there, staring at the sky, trying to breathe through the panic clawing at his chest. His lungs felt tight. His throat felt raw. His thoughts were a mess of static and memory and fear.

He hadn’t meant to say it.

He hadn’t meant to slip.

But the words had come out anyway, like they’d been waiting.

He’d seen the way Bucky looked at him. The flicker. The hesitation. The confusion.

And maybe, just maybe, the recognition.

Peter sat up slowly, wincing as his ribs protested. He pulled his knees to his chest, wrapped his arms around them, and buried his face in the fabric of his ripped, bloodied hoodie.

He was shaking.

Not from pain.

From fear.

Because if Bucky remembered, if even a piece of him remembered, then what did that mean?

What did that do?

Peter had spent months rebuilding his life from scratch. No name. No friends. No family. No history. Just a studio apartment and a stack of overdue bills and a job(s) that barely paid enough to keep the lights on.

He’d made peace with it.

Sort of.

He’d told himself it was worth it.

That MJ and Ned were safe. That May’s sacrifice hadn’t been for nothing. That the world was better off not knowing who he was.

But now?

Now he wasn’t sure.

Because Bucky had looked at him like he knew him.

And Peter had looked back.

And something had cracked.

He pulled out his phone, stared at the screen. No messages. No missed calls. No notifications.

Of course not.

No one knew him.

No one remembered.

Except maybe Bucky.

Peter dropped the phone beside him, let it clatter against the concrete.

He didn’t know what to do.

Didn’t know where to go.

Didn’t know how to fix this.

He’d broken the rules.

He’d said too much.

And now?

Now he was spiraling.

He lay back down, arms folded over his chest, eyes fixed on the sky.

The wind picked up.

The clouds shifted.

The city moved beneath him: cars honking, people shouting, life continuing.

But Peter stayed still.

A glitch in the system.

A ghost with a heartbeat.

And Bucky Barnes had seen him.

Peter was so screwed.

———————

After what felt like an eternity, his phone vibrated against the asphalt rooftop.

Peter didn’t move at first.

The sound was distant, muffled by the ringing in his ears and the dull throb of his heartbeat. His body felt like it had been buried under the concrete, limbs heavy, breath shallow. The vibration buzzed again, closer this time, like it was trying to claw its way into his awareness.

He groaned, dragging himself halfway upright. Every muscle protested. His ribs flared with pain. His shoulder had a dull ache to it. His hoodie clung to him, damp with sweat and panic and the weight of everything he couldn’t seem to outrun.

His fingers fumbled for the phone, brushing against the edge of the screen just as it slid half a foot away. He let out a low, exhausted growl and flopped forward, crawling the last few inches like a man stranded in the desert.

When he finally yanked the phone off the floor, he stared at it like it had personally betrayed him.

It buzzed again.

A text.

From the diner manager.

Where are you?

You were supposed to clock in 30 minutes ago.

If you’re not here in the next 10, don’t bother coming in.

Peter stared at the message, blinking slowly.

He was a good thirty blocks in the wrong direction. His legs felt like wet noodles. His ribs were still screaming. His hoodie was soaked through. He didn’t even have enough web fluid to swing halfway there, and even if he did, he wasn’t sure his arms would cooperate.

He let the phone drop beside him once more.

“Guess I’d better go job hunting tomorrow,” he muttered, voice hoarse.

The words felt hollow. Like a joke with no punchline.

He laid back down on the rooftop, arms sprawled out, the cracked concrete pressing into his spine. The sky above was a dull gray-blue, the kind of color that made everything feel like it was stuck in limbo, too late for daylight, too early for stars.

The city hummed around him, distant and uncaring. Somewhere below, people were living lives. Eating dinner. Laughing. Existing.

And here Peter was, just laying there.

He could hear the muffled sounds of traffic, the occasional bark of a dog, the faint thump of bass from a car stereo. A siren wailed in the distance, then faded. A helicopter passed overhead, its blades chopping the air in slow, rhythmic pulses.

None of it touched him.

His fingers curled against the rooftop, nails scraping against the grit. He didn’t cry. He didn’t have the energy. He just stared up at the sky, eyes dry, chest tight.

He’d lost the job. Not that it had been much of one. Minimum wage, long hours, a manager who barely looked him in the eye. But it had been something. A tether. A routine. A way to keep the lights on.

Now it was gone.

Just like everything else.

He thought about May.

About the way she used to hum while she cooked her horrible attempts at edible food—burnt lasagna, underseasoned soup, the infamous “experimental” meatloaf. He’d eaten it all nonetheless, grinning through every bite, but it didn’t change how bad she was at cooking. About the way she’d squeeze his shoulder when she passed him in the kitchen. About the way she’d looked at him, really looked at him, even when he was lying through his teeth.

He thought about Ben.

About the way he used to knock on Peter’s bedroom door with his knuckles, three short taps, always the same rhythm. About the way he’d sit on the edge of the bed and talk like Peter was already grown, like his thoughts mattered. About the way he’d say, “You don’t have to be perfect, kid. Just try to be decent.” About the way he’d laugh—deep, warm, like it came from somewhere solid. About the way he’d hold May’s hand when they thought Peter wasn’t looking.

He thought about Ned.

About the Lego Death Star. About the handshake they’d made up in sixth grade, so dumb it made them laugh every time. About the way he used to say “Dude, you’re Spider-Man!” like it was the coolest thing in the world. About how he’d cover for him when he was late, when he was bruised, when he was barely holding it together. About the way Ned used to talk about MIT like it was a dream they were building together.

Now Ned didn’t even know his name.

He thought about Flash.

Not the loudmouth, snobby bully. Not the rich kid with a podcast. The real Flash. The one who shoved Peter into lockers but also kept him out of fights. The one who called him names but flinched when he saw blood. The one who’d loved Spider-Man, fanboying over the vigilante/hero, but never quite knew what to do with Peter Parker.  The one who didn’t know how to be kind, but tried anyway, in his own broken, sideways way. The one who looked at Peter like he was both a rival and a mirror.

He thought about MJ. About her laugh. About the way she used to roll her eyes when he said something dumb but smile anyway. About the way she’d lean against the lockers, arms crossed, eyebrow raised, waiting for him to catch up. About her sketches: sharp lines, soft shadows, always a little off-center, like she saw the world tilted About the way she’d held his hand after May died, silent, steady, like she was anchoring him to the earth. About the way she’d kissed him on the rooftop, just once, like it was the last time.

It had been.

They were all gone.

Not dead. Not all of them. Not really.

Just… gone.

Erased.

Forgotten.

And he’d let it happen.

No—he’d asked for it.

Because it was the only way to save them.

Because it was the only way to fix what he’d broken.

Because he couldn’t bear the thought of them dying because of him.

But now?

Now he was alone.

Utterly, completely alone.

And Bucky Barnes had looked at him like he knew him.

Like something had cracked.

Like something had slipped.

Peter closed his eyes.

He didn’t want to think about it.

Didn’t want to think about what it meant. About what it could cause. About what it could cost.

He just wanted to stop.

Stop running.

Stop hiding.

Stop pretending like he was okay.

The wind picked up, tugging at his hoodie, whispering through the vents. It was cool. Not cold. But to him, it felt like ice. His spider physiology made him more efficient, more durable, more everything. But it also made him more sensitive and stripped him of his ability to thermoregulate. What most people would call a breeze; his body interpreted as a threat. A chill that sank into his bones and clung to his skin like frostbite.

He didn’t move.

Didn’t care.

The cold gnawed at him, but it was distant. Background noise. Just another discomfort layered onto the rest.

He could feel the bruises blooming across his ribs, the dull throb in his shoulder, the ache in his legs. His body was a map of pain—purple and red and raw—but it was familiar. Manageable. Easier than the ache in his chest.

He thought about the kid he used to be.

Bright-eyed. Hopeful. Desperate to prove himself.

He didn’t know where that kid had gone.

Maybe he’d died on the bridge.

Maybe he’d vanished with the spell.

Maybe he’d never existed at all.

Peter’s eyes fluttered shut.

His body gave in.

He didn’t mean to sleep.

He just… stopped.

———————

Peter woke up to the sound of wind and the distant hum of traffic.

His limbs were stiff. His mouth was dry. His head pounded like someone had stuffed cotton behind his eyes and then hit him with a brick. For a moment, he didn’t move. Just lay there, blinking up at the sky, trying to remember where he was—why the concrete beneath him felt like it had grown teeth.

The rooftop was darker now. The sky above had shifted to a deep navy, the last traces of twilight long gone. But the city still glowed. Neon signs buzzed in storefront windows. Streetlights flickered in rhythmic pulses. A car passed below, headlights sweeping across the alley like a searchlight.

He turned his head slowly, wincing at the pull in his neck. His phone was still beside him, screen dark, battery probably dead. His fingers twitched toward it, then stopped. What was the point?

He’d already lost the job.

He’d already lost everything.

Peter exhaled, long and slow, and let his eyes drift shut again.

He thought about staying there.

Just… staying.

Letting the city move on without him. Letting the world forget him the way it was supposed to. Letting the ache in his chest finally settle into something still.

But his body wouldn’t let him.

The cold had crept in while he slept, and now it gnawed at his joints, his spine, the back of his skull.

It felt like winter.

He didn’t move.

Couldn’t really be bothered to care.

He lay there, staring up at the sky, watching a plane blink across the horizon. He wondered where it was going. Who was on it. If they were thinking about anything other than survival, other than themselves.

He wasn’t.

He was thinking about how long he had before his body gave out. Before the bruises stopped healing. Before the next fall didn’t end with him getting back up.

He was thinking about how long he could keep pretending he was okay.

And then, without meaning to, his mind drifted.

To the tower.

He hadn’t thought about it in weeks. Had trained himself not to look at it. Not to want it. Not to remember what it had meant—what it had been.

But now the thought came uninvited.

Sharp. Clear.

———

It had been raining that morning. Not a downpour, just a soft, misty kind of drizzle that made the city feel quieter than usual. Peter had stared out the car window the whole ride, watching the blur of traffic lights and umbrellas, trying not to fidget.

Happy was driving. Of course Happy was driving. He hadn’t said much—just the usual grunts and half-hearted attempts at small talk. Peter had tried to fill the silence with nervous chatter, but even he could tell it wasn’t landing.

“So, uh, is there, like, a dress code? I mean, I know I’m not wearing the suit, obviously, but like—should I have worn a tie? I don’t even own a tie. I mean, I could own a tie. I could go buy one. Not now, obviously, but—”

“You’re fine,” Happy said, not looking up from the road.

Peter nodded, then immediately second-guessed himself. “Fine like fine, or fine like ‘you’re gonna embarrass yourself but I’m too tired to stop you’?”

Happy sighed. “Kid.”

“Right. Sorry.”

They pulled into the underground garage of Avengers Tower, and Peter’s stomach did a full somersault. He’d been here once before—briefly, awkwardly, the test Mr. Stark had set up. That didn’t count. That had been short. This was different. This was official.

This was real.

Happy led him through security, past sleek glass walls and polished steel corridors. Everything smelled like money and power and responsibility. Peter tried not to trip over his own feet.

They were halfway to the elevator when they ran into her.

Pepper Potts.

She was dressed in a sharp navy blazer, heels clicking against the marble floor, tablet in hand. She looked like she ran the world. Probably because she did.

“Oh,” she said, pausing mid-step. “Happy. Peter.”

Peter froze.

“Ms. Potts,” Happy said with a nod.

Peter tried to mimic it. “Ms. Potts. Ma’am. Hello. Hi. Good morning. Or afternoon. I didn’t check the time. Sorry.”

Pepper smiled, amused. “It’s still morning. Barely.”

“Right. Cool. Morning.”

“I was just heading up to meet Tony,” she said, gesturing toward the elevator. “Mind if I join you?”

Happy shrugged. “Sure.”

Peter nodded too quickly. “Yes. Absolutely. Please.”

They stepped into the elevator, and Peter immediately regretted everything. The space was too small. Too quiet. Too full of people who weren’t panicking.

Pepper glanced at him. “So, Peter. How’s school?”

“Oh, uh, good. Great. I mean, it’s school. Tests. Homework. Cafeteria food. You know. I got a B-plus in chemistry last week, which was kind of a tragedy, but I’m coping.”

Pepper smiled again. “Sounds like you’re doing fine.”

“Trying,” he said, then added, “I mean, I’m trying not to blow anything up. That’s the bar, right?”

Happy snorted.

Pepper tilted her head. “Tony says you’re smart. Really smart.”

Peter flushed. “He said that?”

“He did.”

“Oh. Wow. That’s—uhm. That’s really nice. I mean, he’s smart. Like, genius smart. I’m just—y’know—Queens smart.”

Pepper laughed softly. “I think you’re underselling yourself.”

Peter shrugged, suddenly shy. “I guess I just don’t want to get cocky. Or, like, accidentally invent a murder drone.”

Pepper raised an eyebrow. “That’s a very specific fear.”

“Yeah, well. I’ve seen things.”

The elevator dinged.

They were halfway up.

Peter shifted awkwardly, then cleared his throat. “Ms. Potts. Ma’am.”

Pepper looked at him.

He hesitated. “Should I call you something else? I mean, I don’t want to be rude. Or disrespectful. But I also don’t want to be too formal. I just—uh—I wasn’t sure.”

Pepper smiled. “You can call me Pepper.”

Peter blinked. “Uhm, no… No, I think I’d like to stay with Ms. Potts.”

She laughed. “It’s not rude. Or disrespectful. You can just call me by my first name.”

Peter nodded slowly. “O-oh. Oh, okay. Thanks, Virginia.”

Pepper froze.

Happy turned his head.

Peter’s eyes widened. “Wait. That is your first name, right? I didn’t just—oh God, did I just guess?”

Pepper blinked. “No, you’re right. That is my first name.”

Peter looked mortified. “I’m so sorry. I wasn’t trying to be weird. It’s just—MJ talks about you all the time. She’s always going on about how your real name is Virginia and how it’s so weird that everyone just calls you Pepper because of Mr. Stark. She thinks that’s kind of stupid, honestly. She’s always like, ‘Yeah, Virginia Potts is my mentor in life. I think she’s really cool.’ So I guess it just… popped out.”

Pepper laughed again, softer this time. “It’s fine. Really.”

Peter fidgeted. “So… Virginia?”

“Mm-hmm.”

“Do people call you that?”

“Not really.”

“Oh.”

She glanced at him. “When I was a kid, people used to call me Ginny.”

Peter gasped. “Can I call you Ginny?!”

Pepper looked genuinely surprised. Then she smiled. “Sure. If you want.”

Peter grinned. “Ginny. That’s so cool. It’s like—like a nickname from a movie. Or a book. Or a really classy diner waitress who secretly runs the whole town.”

Happy groaned. “Kid.”

Pepper laughed. “I’ll take it.”

The elevator dinged again.

They stepped out into the upper levels of the tower: sleek, sunlit, humming with quiet energy. Peter’s eyes went wide. He’d seen pictures. He’d seen glimpses. But being here? Really here?

It was overwhelming.

Pepper led the way toward Tony’s office, chatting with Peter about her childhood in Connecticut, about how she used to sneak into her dad’s study and rearrange his files just to see if he’d notice.

“He never did,” she said. “But I always felt like I was getting away with something.”

Peter nodded, hanging on every word. “I used to do that with Aunt May’s spice rack. She’d get so mad when the oregano ended up next to the cinnamon.”

Pepper smiled. “You’re a troublemaker.”

“I prefer ‘creative disruptor.’”

Happy rolled his eyes.

They reached the office.

Tony wasn’t there yet.

Pepper checked her tablet. “He’s probably in the lab. I’ll go find him.”

Peter nodded. “Thanks, Ginny.”

She smiled again. “You’re welcome, Peter.”

And then she was gone.

Peter stood there, alone for a moment, soaking it all in.

The tower. The view. The weight of it.

The office was sleek and sprawling, lined with glass and brushed steel, humming with quiet tech. There were holograms paused mid-animation, blueprints scattered across the desk, and a coffee mug that read “Genius at Work (Please Don’t Interrupt)” sitting beside a half-eaten protein bar.

Peter didn’t touch anything.

He just stood there, hands in his pockets, trying to look casual and failing miserably.

Then the door slid open.

Tony walked in, Pepper trailing behind him, her tablet tucked under her arm. She looked satisfied. Tony looked… well, Tony. No suit this time. Just a fitted charcoal tee with the sleeves pushed up, dark jeans, and a faint smudge of grease on his forearm like he’d just come from elbow-deep in some half-built reactor. His hair was tousled, his sunglasses perched on his head, and his whole vibe screamed I’ve been up for 36 hours and I’m still smarter than you.

“Alright, kid,” he said, clapping his hands once. “Let’s do this.”

Pepper gave Peter a small wave. “Bye, Pete.”

Peter lit up. “Bye, Ginny!”

Tony paused mid-step.

Turned.

Raised an eyebrow.

Pepper just smiled and walked out.

Tony stared at Peter for a beat longer, then shook his head. “You’re lucky she likes you.”

Peter blinked. “I—I didn’t mean to—she said I could—”

Tony waved him off. “Relax. She’s been called worse. Come on.”

He turned to Happy, who was still lingering near the door. “You’re good to head out. I’ll take it from here.”

Happy nodded, gave Peter a look that said don’t touch anything, and left.

Tony gestured for Peter to follow him into the inner office. “Alright, Spider-Boy. Let’s talk.”

Peter followed, trying not to trip over his own feet.

Tony dropped into the chair behind his desk, kicked his feet up, and tapped a few buttons on the console. The holograms flickered, minimized, and disappeared.

Peter hovered near the edge of the room, unsure where to sit.

Tony gestured vaguely toward the chair across from him. “You’re not radioactive. Sit.”

But Peter didn’t move. His brain was already spiraling.

“So, uh, technically I might be a little radioactive,” Peter blurted, hands flailing slightly. “Not in a dangerous way! I mean, I’ve never melted anything. Or anyone. I think? But the spider that bit me was genetically modified and had some kind of radiation signature, and I’ve read that mutations like mine can sometimes mimic low-level isotopic decay, which sounds bad, but it’s really just background noise. Like bananas. Bananas are radioactive. Potassium-40. It’s a whole thing. MJ thinks it’s hilarious. She calls me her walking banana sometimes, which is weird, but also kind of sweet—”

Tony blinked. “You’re what?”

Peter froze. “Not a banana. That was a metaphor. I think.”

Tony squinted at him. “You’re telling me you might be radioactive and you didn’t lead with that?”

Peter held up his hands. “It’s not dangerous! I’ve been around people long enough to know. No one’s exploded. I mean, I’ve exploded a few things, but not because of the radiation. That was more of an experimentation miscalculation.”

Tony rubbed his temples. “Okay, we’re getting sidetracked.”

He pointed firmly at the chair. “Sit.”

Peter sat.

Tony leaned back, studying him like he was trying to decide whether to call a hazmat team.

“You’re safe to be around, right?” he asked. “Y’know, the Avengers? People with fragile egos? The types to punch first, ask questions later?”

Peter nodded quickly. “Totally safe. I mean, unless someone’s allergic to spiders. Or bananas."

Tony gave him a long look. “You’re sure.”

Peter nodded again. “I promise. No glowing. No melting. No banana jokes.”

Tony smirked. “Definitely no banana jokes.”

Peter grinned, a little sheepish, and finally settled into the chair.

Tony tapped the desk. “Alright. Back on track. First official visit. How’s it feel?”

Peter shrugged. “Big. Fancy. Intimidating. I think the walls cost more than my apartment.”

Tony smirked. “They probably do.”

Peter fidgeted. “Thanks for inviting me.”

Tony waved a hand. “You’re in the system now. Might as well get the tour.”

Peter nodded, then hesitated. “Is this… like… an interview?”

Tony tilted his head. “You nervous?”

Peter laughed awkwardly. “Always.”

Tony leaned forward, elbows on the desk. “Okay, listen. You’re not here to impress anyone. You’re here because you’ve got potential. Because you’ve already proven you can handle yourself. But—”

Peter held his breath.

Tony continued, “—this place is complicated. Especially right now.”

Peter frowned. “Because of the fight?”

Tony nodded. “Civil War. Yeah. Things got messy. Lines were drawn. People picked sides. Some of us are still picking up the pieces.”

Peter looked down. “I remember. I mean, not everything. But enough.”

Tony sighed. “It’s not just politics. It’s personal. You’re gonna meet people tonight who don’t trust each other anymore. Who used to be family and now barely speak.”

Peter swallowed. “Should I… not be here?”

Tony shook his head. “You should be here. You just need to know what you’re walking into.”

Peter nodded slowly. “Okay.”

Tony studied him. “You’re good at reading people?”

Peter shrugged. “I try.”

“Good. You’ll need that.”

They sat in silence for a moment.

Then Tony stood, walked around the desk, and clapped a hand on Peter’s shoulder.

“You’ll be fine,” he said. “Just be yourself. Maybe dial it down to, like, sixty-five percent.”

Peter grinned. “I’ll try.”

Tony gave his shoulder a squeeze—a half-hug, half-pat—and gestured toward the hallway.

“Come on. Let’s go meet the chaos.”

Peter followed him out, heart pounding, nerves buzzing, but somehow… steadier.

He wasn’t just Spider-Man.

He was here.

And that meant something.