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The city was loud that night.
Too loud.
The hum of neon lights, the high-pitched screech of traffic below, the low buzz of electricity coursing through the old signs — all of it pressed down on Peter’s skull like someone was dragging nails along the inside of his head. His mask was off, forgotten somewhere behind him on the rooftop, and he sat hunched with his knees pulled to his chest, his breathing shallow and uneven.
His senses wouldn’t shut up.
Every sound, every vibration, every glint of movement in the distance hit him at once.
He’d tried grounding himself — the old tricks Tony taught him, the ones that used to work. Focus on three things you can touch, two you can smell, one you can hear. But everything he touched hurt. His own fingertips, sticky with drying blood, dug into the skin of his arms where he’d scratched raw lines across his forearms trying to make it stop.
He didn’t even remember doing it, not really. He just knew the noise in his head needed somewhere to go.
Then the comm in his ear clicked.
“Spider-Man, respond.”
“Come on, kid. This ain’t the time to go radio silent.”
Sam’s voice. Too sharp, too close. Peter flinched, ripped the comm out, and tossed it aside. It landed with a faint clink on the gravel.
He pressed his palms against his eyes, trying to block out everything, every flickering streetlight, every passing helicopter blade in the distance.
Down below, Sam turned to Bucky with a frown. “He’s not answering. He was supposed to check in after the recon sweep.”
Bucky’s jaw was tight, his gloved hands curling and uncurling by his sides. He knew exactly why Peter wasn’t answering.
He knew what it sounded like when Peter got overstimulated — the silence that wasn’t really silence, the quiet panic buried under trembling breath.
“Maybe he’s just cooling off somewhere,” Sam said, already unfolding a holo-map. “You said you saw him on the east side rooftops?”
Bucky leaned over, nodded absently — and then pointed somewhere else. “Closer to the river. Check there.”
Sam blinked. “You sure?”
“Yeah.”
Lie.
Bucky was already moving before Sam could question it, his metal arm glinting in the low light.
When he reached the right rooftop, he didn’t announce himself. Didn’t even make a sound. He just climbed up the ledge and stood still, taking in the sight of Peter — shoulders trembling, head buried in his knees, red streaks down his arms.
Bucky’s stomach twisted.
He’d seen that before. The shaking hands, the self-harm from sensory overload, the panic spiraling into exhaustion. Tony used to call him in sometimes — when Peter’s powers overloaded, when the kid’s brain couldn’t handle the noise of the world. Bucky had seen Tony wrap Peter in one of those weighted blankets, hold his hands still, whisper things like “Breathe, baby bug. You’re safe. I got you.”
No one said those words anymore.
“Pete,” Bucky said softly.
Peter jerked, head snapping up. His pupils were blown wide, face pale with exhaustion. He blinked hard, confusion bleeding through the static in his mind. “Mr. B—” He stopped himself. He wasn’t supposed to remember anyone. No one remembered him.
But Bucky did.
“It’s me,” Bucky said quietly, raising both hands. “Just me, kid. No one else.”
Peter’s breathing hitched. “I— I didn’t— I didn’t mean to scratch, I just—”
“I know.” Bucky’s voice stayed low, steady, even though his chest hurt like hell. He crossed the rooftop slowly, like approaching a cornered animal. “You’re not in trouble, alright? You’re safe now.”
Peter shook his head. “It’s— it’s too loud.” His fingers twitched, curling against the raw skin of his arms. “Everything’s so loud, Bucky, I can’t— I can’t think—”
“I know,” Bucky murmured again, crouching down in front of him. “You’re okay, kid. Focus on my voice.”
Peter’s breaths came out in sharp, broken bursts. He tried, he really did — but his spider-sense flared again, a stuttering shock that made him flinch violently, hand darting toward his temple.
Bucky caught his wrist mid-swipe, careful but firm. “Hey, none of that.”
“I just— it won’t stop—”
“I know.” Bucky guided his hand down, pressed it against the vibranium plates of his arm instead. “Here. Feel that? Cold. Solid. Real. That’s me. Just focus on that, alright?”
Peter’s breathing slowed — not steady, but less panicked. His gaze flickered up, uncertain, lost.
“You remember me?” Peter whispered.
Bucky hesitated. “Yeah, kid. I do.”
Peter’s eyes filled before he could stop it, and his lip trembled. “Nobody— nobody else—”
“I know.” Bucky swallowed hard, fighting back his own burn behind his eyes. “They can’t, Pete. The magic— it took that. But it didn’t take me.”
Peter’s fingers gripped tighter onto Bucky’s arm, trembling. “Tony— he used to— he’d help me when this happened—”
“Yeah,” Bucky said softly. “I know how he did it.”
He took off his jacket, wrapped it around Peter’s shoulders, and pulled the kid gently against his chest. Peter resisted for a second — instincts screaming at him to stay on guard — but then the warmth, the weight, the familiar hum of Bucky’s heartbeat under his ear broke through the noise.
“I got you,” Bucky murmured, pressing a hand against the back of Peter’s neck. “You’re not alone, you hear me? You’re not alone anymore.”
Peter choked on a sob.
Bucky kept him there, humming something low and familiar — an old lullaby from before Hydra, before everything. He didn’t care that his comm was buzzing with Sam’s voice asking for coordinates. He didn’t care that the Thunderbolts were probably tracking them.
All that mattered was the trembling kid in his arms, the one who had been left behind by magic and memory and loss, shaking apart on a rooftop with no one to call home.
When Sam finally found them an hour later, Bucky didn’t let go.
Peter was asleep against his chest, small cuts still drying on his arms, his breathing finally even.
Sam opened his mouth to speak — and froze when Bucky shot him a look that silenced him instantly.
“Later,” Bucky said quietly. “Let him rest.”
And for the first time in a long time, Bucky felt something that almost resembled peace.
He couldn’t give Peter back the world he’d lost — but he could keep him safe, for now.
That would have to be enough.
The city had quieted a little by the time Bucky climbed down from the rooftop, Peter held securely in his arms.
He’d forgotten how light the kid was. Spider strength and speed meant nothing when your body was running on fumes and exhaustion — and Peter had clearly been running on both for too long.
His skin was clammy, his head tucked against Bucky’s chest, breaths shallow and uneven. The blood from the scratches had started to dry, crusting in dark lines down his arms.
Bucky moved fast, using back alleys instead of main streets, avoiding the glare of passing headlights.
Sam was waiting by the Quinjet ramp, jaw tight, confusion and guilt flashing across his face when he saw the state Peter was in.
“Jesus, Buck— what happened to him?”
Bucky didn’t answer immediately. He walked straight past Sam, into the quiet med bay of the jet. The overhead lights were dim — thank God — and the hum of the engines was low enough not to set Peter off again.
“Just get me the med kit,” Bucky said finally, his voice calm but threaded with tension.
Sam did as he was told, handing over the compact first aid case before stepping back. “You want me to—”
“No.” Bucky glanced over his shoulder, tone softer but firm. “Just… give us a minute.”
Sam hesitated, then nodded and quietly stepped out, shutting the door behind him.
Bucky laid Peter down on one of the medical stretchers. The kid didn’t even stir — just let out a small sound, something between a sigh and a whimper, as his arm shifted.
Bucky’s chest ached.
He’d seen battlefield wounds, Hydra scars, injuries far worse — but something about this hit harder. The way Peter’s skin was shredded in uneven, frantic lines. The quiet self-destruction of it. The mark of someone who didn’t want to die but didn’t know how else to survive the pain.
“Kid,” Bucky murmured softly as he opened the med kit. “You weren’t supposed to handle all this alone.”
He worked carefully — as if any sudden move might wake Peter or startle him. The disinfectant stung just from looking at it, so Bucky dampened gauze with saline first, wiping away the dried blood in slow, circular motions.
Peter twitched once, murmuring something incoherent. Bucky froze until the boy’s breathing evened again.
“Shh, you’re alright,” he whispered, more to himself than Peter. “Just sleep, kid.”
He finished cleaning the worst of it, then reached for the antibiotic cream and sterile bandages. His vibranium fingers moved with surprising gentleness, wrapping the cuts one by one, making sure the fabric was loose enough not to tug at the raw skin.
By the time he was done, Peter’s arms looked more like the aftermath of a medical exam than the aftermath of a breakdown. Clean, covered, safe.
But Bucky couldn’t shake the tremor in his hands.
Because it wasn’t supposed to be him doing this. It was supposed to be Tony — Tony with his steady hands and steady voice, whispering reassurances and cracking jokes about “kid, I told you the scratching thing doesn’t help.”
But Tony was gone.
And Peter was still here — still fighting, still bleeding, still trying to hold himself together in a world that didn’t remember him.
Bucky sat on the bench beside the stretcher, elbows on his knees, staring at Peter’s sleeping face.
There were dark circles under his eyes, faint traces of old exhaustion that never seemed to fade. His curls stuck to his forehead, and his lips were slightly parted, mumbling soft fragments of words only he could hear.
Bucky leaned back with a quiet exhale. “You did good, kid,” he murmured. “You made it through the night.”
He reached over, brushing a stray curl off Peter’s temple, then tugged a thin blanket up to his shoulders.
He didn’t notice Sam standing in the doorway until he felt the shift of air.
Sam’s voice was low. “You gonna tell me what that was about?”
Bucky didn’t look up. “He gets overstimulated. Always has. Tony used to handle it.”
Sam frowned. “Tony Stark?”
Bucky nodded. “Before the spell. Back when the kid still had people.”
“Wait— you remember him?”
“Yeah.” Bucky’s eyes flicked up finally, tired and steady. “Hydra messed with my mind enough that Strange’s magic didn’t stick the same way. Guess there’s perks to being broken.”
Sam blew out a slow breath. “Man… no wonder you ran ahead.”
“I couldn’t let anyone else near him,” Bucky said quietly. “When he gets like that, too much noise makes it worse. He could’ve hurt himself worse than this.”
He glanced down at Peter’s arms, jaw tightening.
Sam nodded slowly, understanding. “Alright. You did the right thing.”
Bucky huffed out something close to a bitter laugh. “Doesn’t feel like it. Feels like I’m trying to fill a spot I’ve got no right to fill.”
“Someone’s gotta,” Sam said simply. “And you’re the only one who remembers he even exists. That’s gotta count for something.”
Bucky didn’t reply, just let his gaze fall back to the boy on the stretcher — small, worn down, finally sleeping without trembling.
He sighed and reached for a cloth, gently wiping the last traces of blood off Peter’s fingers.
“Get some rest, kid,” he muttered, voice soft enough to barely carry. “I got you this time.”
Peter didn’t respond, but he didn’t need to. The way his face relaxed, the way his shoulders unclenched just slightly, told Bucky enough.
For the rest of the night, Bucky sat there, one hand resting lightly on Peter’s wrist — grounding, protective, steady.
Every so often, he caught himself glancing toward the Quinjet’s window, half expecting to see Tony’s reflection staring back, telling him he was doing fine.
But there was only the night sky, quiet now, and the slow rise and fall of Peter’s chest under a blanket too big for him.
And for once, that was enough.
The Quinjet was quiet.
Too quiet.
The engines hummed beneath the floor, low and steady, a kind of mechanical heartbeat that should have been comforting — but wasn’t. Not to Bucky. Not when his eyes kept drifting to Peter’s arms.
He’d done everything right. Cleaned the wounds, dressed them, made sure the bandages weren’t too tight. Peter was sleeping peacefully now, his breathing soft and even beneath the blanket. But Bucky couldn’t stop staring at the white strips of fabric that crossed over skin far too thin, far too fragile.
And beneath them — where the bandages didn’t reach — were the old scars.
Faint lines. Some faded into soft silver. Others newer, jagged, like spiderweb cracks running across porcelain.
Bucky reached out without thinking, his gloved hand hovering just above Peter’s arm. He didn’t touch. He couldn’t. His fingers trembled in the air, frozen an inch away from skin that had already suffered too much.
“Kid…” he whispered, his voice rasping low. “What did they do to you?”
But he already knew the answer.
They didn’t do this. The world did. The magic. The loneliness. The loss.
The silence of being forgotten by every voice that used to call his name.
Bucky leaned back, rubbing his face with his metal hand. The cold vibranium didn’t do anything to cool the heat behind his eyes. He blinked hard, jaw clenching, throat tight.
He should’ve been faster.
He should’ve gotten there before the blood dried, before Peter’s nails tore into his own skin before the panic turned into punishment. He should’ve been there when it started, not after. Not always after.
Because that’s what he was good at, wasn’t it? Showing up too late.
He did it with Steve. With Tony. With everyone who ever mattered.
Now Peter.
And the scars — those faint, old ones — said this wasn’t the first time.
Bucky stared, guilt gnawing deep and sharp. He could almost hear Tony’s voice in his head, soft but edged with worry. “When he gets like that, Barnes, you have to keep him grounded. Don’t let him spiral. Keep his hands busy. Make him feel something real.”
But there hadn’t been anyone left to do that for years.
Bucky’s hands tightened into fists, leather creaking. His chest felt too small for his heart, too heavy for his breath. He wanted to take those scars away — every cut, every mark, every piece of proof that Peter had ever been left to hurt alone.
He leaned forward again, elbows on his knees, and let out a shaking exhale.
“I’m sorry, kid,” he said quietly. “You shouldn’t have had to deal with this by yourself.”
Peter didn’t stir. He just shifted slightly in his sleep, the movement tugging the edge of the blanket down and revealing a bit more of the pale skin beneath — more scars, thinner, older, running almost to his wrist.
Bucky swallowed hard.
Hydra had carved pieces out of him — out of his mind, his body, his past — and left him to bleed metaphorically for decades. But somehow, seeing those scars on Peter hurt worse. Because Peter hadn’t been made into a weapon. He’d just been forgotten.
Bucky pressed a hand over his mouth, breathing through his fingers. He felt that grief again — the one that didn’t make noise, the kind that just sat heavy in his bones.
He stayed like that for a long time, watching the rise and fall of Peter’s chest, the faint twitch of his fingers, the soft sound of his breathing. The world had taken too much from the kid already. Magic had stolen the rest.
“I’ll do better,” Bucky murmured finally. “Next time, I’ll be there before it gets this bad. I promise.”
The words didn’t make him feel better. But they were the truth. Or, at least, what he needed to believe.
Because Peter deserved someone who showed up in time for once.
And Bucky was determined to be that someone — even if it was all he could give.
He leaned back in the chair, eyes never leaving the bandages.
And when Peter’s fingers twitched again — reaching unconsciously toward the air — Bucky caught his hand gently, careful not to wake him, and held on.
“I got you, kid,” he whispered. “You’re safe now. I swear it.”
The city moved on outside, but Bucky stayed there — keeping watch over the scars he couldn’t erase, and the boy who had too many of them.