Chapter Text
Bucky walks home, the wind blaring in his ears. The damp smell of rain filters through his nose. There is something calm in the air before a storm. He always had liked it. Even when he was not allowed to like things. How the trees blew, the way it is as though nothing is moving and yet everything is restless. Like waiting for a pin to drop.
His arm is hidden beneath a leather jacket, gloves on both hands. Small trees lining the sidewalks roars like oceans in the wind.
He thinks of talking to Steve, calling him up as some people will say. He does not. No, he goes home. He has a lot waiting at home. His sad, depressing apartment that does not hold a bed.
Work was easy. Small problems and working with his hands. It keeps his mind busy most days. Not everyone can have a free place to stay, being an Avenger.
Bucky walks on the street, hoping to get home before the storm starts. Nothing he wants truly goes how he plans when the first drops of water fall down onto him. Shit.
Zipping up his jacket, he can see the apartment in the distance. Thunder strikes far away, but the rain stays at a small pattering pace down upon him.
"Stop it," he hears just as he is about to go up the stairs to the building. Halting in his steps, he waits a moment, deciphering where the sound had come from.
A loud thud and shuffling emerges from the alleyway beside him. Turning, he goes down the steps, going towards the pleas of mercy.
He thinks momentarily about what he is doing. Robberies happen all the time in the city, there is nothing he can do. Even if he stops this one, another is happening just down the block. Still, he does not stop moving towards the noise.
He sees a Chevrolet truck and a burly man roughly handling what looks to be an eleven-year-old boy. The boy's shoes are gone, staining his white socks. Peter is sprawled across the hood, one hand raised defensively as though he genuinely believes he can fight the man off. Bucky assumes this should be the part where he can step in.
"Always something happening in this damn city," he starts, yanking the man off. Using more force than he thought, the man smacks cleanly against the brick wall.
Pricks trying to rob children being low lives.
Just as pathetic as Bucky thought the man was, he does not rise from where he fell. He is alive, from what Bucky can tell. Still breathing but will have a sore morning when he comes to.
The boy stares at him. Blinking rapidly as he tries to recover his breath. His eyes drift over to Bucky as he moves closer to him. Bucky cannot comprehend if the look in the boy's eye is scared of him or the situation. He came to the rescue harsher than intended.
"You good?" He questions, watching the boy stare at him in awe, a shine taking over his eye. His face is pale but Bucky is unsure if it is the moon reflecting off him, or the rain dripping down his head. "Are you okay?"
The boy nods slowly. "I am," he confirms. "Thank you, sir."
Bucky sighs, turning to leave the alleyway. Before he does, he twists his head to look at him. "Go home, kid."
He can hear scampering behind him. "Wait!" The boy comes back to face him, he hops on one leg as he hurries to get his untied shoe back on. "I'm looking for my dad, he was supposed to come back home weeks ago. I'm looking for him right now, but I can't go back home, it's too far."
"That's not my problem, go find someone else to help you," he pushes the boy aside, using his right hand. Not wanting anyone to have to interact with his left arm. The arm that killed so many, hurt so many more.
Scoffing, the boy gets to him once more, stopping Bucky in his tracks. "I tried. He brought me here. To Queens." He gestures to the truck. "Can't you at least help me a little bit? He's a scientist… my dad that is."
Bucky wonders where he is truly from, how far he travelled. None of it concerns him so, but he will bite. Just a tiny bit off to be a good samaritan.
"Please," he tries again, voice growing small, a pout forming on his lips.
"Fine," Bucky relents, "I will help. What is his phone number?"
The boy grows red, sheepishly looks away, twiddling with his thumbs, "I don't know, I never needed to call him."
Kids and their baby like attention spans where they cannot remember nine fucking digits. Still, he cannot just leave the kid here, to be attacked by some other robber or creep. Or both. Rumbling that he first mistakes as the sky, realizing that it is the boy in front of him.
"Let's get dinner, we'll talk about whatever is going on then."
The boy smiles, a toothy grin appearing just as fast as the pout. "I have a bike, so you will have to hold on tight, okay?" Bucky continues. He does not wait for a response, instead, going to the underground parking garage.
He follows behind Bucky. Leading the way, Bucky hears behind him.
"I'm Peter, by the way."
Peter.
"Bucky," he returns. It is only fair, though there is not much of fairness in this equation.
They get to his motorbike. There are no helmets, Bucky himself does not have one. He mounts the bike, balancing it. Peter stands awkwardly, staring at the vehicle. He makes no indication to move.
"I don't have all night," Bucky urges, getting Peter in action. The boy sits stiffly straight. "You'll fall off like that."
The boy grumbles, his hands going to Bucky's shoulders, gripping onto them with a surprising strength. The engine revs and he leaves the parking garage.
Finding a 24 hour diner with neon lights and a gimmick of being stuck in the eighties. Bucky and Peter sit in front of one another.
The lights are bright against the storm outside. The waitress bored on her phone.
Peter looks at the menu when she comes up to their table.
"Bucky, can you, I don't know what to get here. Can you order for me?" He requests, his voice airy as he mumbles.
Bucky does so. Ordering what he thinks an eleven year old would like.
"Don't get out much?" He questions once the waitress walks away with their menus.
Peter shakes his head. "Not really. I don't like it here." He plays with the straw in his drink, the ice clinking against the glass, condensation dampening on the table.
He is small, Bucky remarks in his head. Still, there is no good reason for a kid this young to be outside so late, in the pouring rain. If the kid's dad is missing, maybe Bucky can find a way to help out. Give back to the world he had helped damage. One lost kid at a time.
When the waitress arrives, she gives Peter a vanilla milkshake with a cherry on top.
Bucky has coffee because there is a sneaking suspicion of the night going on longer than he had originally thought.
Peter tries the milkshake, popping the cherry in his mouth, tasting the whip cream. "It's very sweet," he comments, "I don't know if I had this before."
"You don't like it?" Bucky asks, trying his own coffee. It is not the greatest cup of coffee in the world. Not even in New York.
The boy shakes his head, "No, I do. Thank you," he smiles, sipping the shake as they fall into a silence.
The waitress walks back to the table, serving Peter's double patty cheeseburger with extra fries. Placing the plate down, Bucky looks at the time. Would the kid really eat all of that at one in the morning? He must be hungry anyhow. His bones are jutting from his collarbones, his wrists like skeletons.
"Is there anything else I can get you?" There is a tired look in her eye and Bucky cannot blame her.
"No," they both say in unison.
Bucky sips at his bitter coffee, watching as Peter digs into his food. Devouring the cheeseburger and eating the fries. He must be starving.
"How long did it take you to get to Queens, you said?" Bucky questions, waiting for Peter to finish drinking the milkshake.
"I think… four hours? Five? Well by car I guess," he answers, slurping at the drink.
So he was in a car with that man for that long. "Where are you from?"
"I don't know, but Skip, that's my foster dad. He works in the city and he does… experiments, I guess."
Bucky stares deadpan at him. "That is about the least helpful description I have ever heard of." He crosses his arms, as Peter looks down to his plate with a frown. "Is he missing? How long has he been gone?"
Peter takes another sip to delay his response. "I don't know."
"You don't know?"
Peter shrugs, taking a long fry to his mouth. Realizing that his plate is empty, there is nothing left there. "I'm sorry, for eating so fast," he says, "I didn't realize how hungry I was."
Bucky ignores the comment, leaning forward in the booth. "So you can't remember your dads phone number, or where you live… where do you go to school? We could check there and get his contact information."
"Oh, I didn't go to school, Skip said I was smarter than that, I'm mostly homeschooled." He quickly says with a smile, earning an eyebrow raise from Bucky, "I am homeschooled."
This kid… Bucky thinks, no connections, no anything. He is practically a ghost. Slumping into his seat, every question leading to a dead end with many more questions to be asked.
Bucky has half a mind to think this Skip guy abandoned him, ran away. Looking at Peter who talks of him, makes him believe Skip truly is in trouble.
He groans at the emerging headache, shutting his eyes tightly as every answer just leads to more questions, and if he is not careful, he will be going on a wild goose chase all night. "So, do you have any leads on where he is?" Peter blinks plainly. "I thought not… how old are you? Eleven?"
"I'm fourteen," Peter frowns, "a teenager, I'm not ten."
Bucky's eyes scan over Peter's frail frame, his small wrists, his twig-like arms. How his clasps on the milkshake glass with two hands. He had guessed eleven, twelve at most. Fourteen, he should have gotten some growth spurts by then.
Maybe he is wrong. Maybe he is just stuck in the past and boys get growth spurts later in life. Who is he to judge.
"Are you done?" When Peter signals that he is finished, Bucky continues sullenly, "I'll get the bill."
Taking out his wallet, he leaves his card on the table, waiting for the waitress to get it. Peter rocks in his seat, staring directly at Bucky the entire time. It gives him an unnerving feeling, but it cannot be helped. Homeschooled children are like that.
When the waitress returns the card, he signs the receipt. Getting up, he goes to the door, hand rubbing at his forehead from an emerging headache beginning to form.
"Wait!"
Bucky turns around, Peter still sat, legs out to the side. He is looking down to his shoes. "I need to tie my shoes." His face is red again.
He waits standing. Watching as Peter does nothing to tie his own shoes. "Are you going to do it?"
Peter does not move, instead, his face goes red like a dying sun. His mouth opens, but no words come out.
He wants to hurry the kid, but he gives him time. If ten more seconds go on with nothing happening, Bucky will be ready to pull the kid out and maybe have a talk about urgency.
"I don't know how to tie them," he admits as if it is painfully being pulled from his teeth. "Can you just… can you just tie them for me? I'm afraid they will get trapped in the wheels of the bike."
Bucky stares at him, trying desperately not to show any judgment towards him. He must have failed due to Peter's ever growing redness in his cheeks. His resistance to look him in the eye. He goes to get up, but Bucky intercepts him, going to his knee and tying the shoelace. He double-knot them for security.
Strange child. Strange child that cannot tie his shoes or remember phone numbers or figure out where he is from despite managing to get to Queens by himself.
The other half of his mind thinks something is truly wrong. How, he is not sure. Who does not teach their kid how to tie shoes.
He can feel Peter's eyes stare bullets as Bucky is focused on tying the other shoe. It stays silent and Bucky can hear his steady breathing.
By the time Bucky gets up, Peter stares directly into eyes, the blush on his cheeks dissipated.
"Let's get to the bike," Bucky starts, "you have an aunt around here? An uncle?"
Peter shakes his head, following him out of the door. "Thank you," he says, "I don't know how to repay you… I don't have money."
Bucky frowns, sitting onto the bike. Peter hesitates but Bucky motions from his head to signal to him to get on.
When Peter is settled and holding onto his shoulders, Bucky asks, "what was your plan?" Turning the engine on, the headlights turn on. "Hold on tightly."
"I just wanted to find Skip," he says, wrapping his arms around Bucky's neck.
Bucky shifts his arms so they do not choke him. Balancing the bike as he does so. "What would you have done if you couldn't find Skip? Where would you have slept tonight?"
There is a long pause where Peter does not say anything. Bucky is about to speak again until he is interrupted, "I hadn't thought of that."
Sparing Peter a glance, his doe eyes looking back at him. He would be eaten alive within twenty-four hours of coming to Queens. He is paler than usual, from the short amount of time Bucky has known him.
Bucky lifts the kickstand for the bike and begins the voyage back to the apartment.
"Can you pull over?" He hears Peter whisper, barely hearing it over the roaring wind in his ears.
Bucky stops the bike at the corner of some gas station. Peter throws himself off, almost taking Bucky down with him.
He coughs when he reaches the ground, vomiting his dinner onto the pavement. Bucky looks away, creating a faux interest in the sky above.
The kid coughs a few more times before looking up, tears staining under his eyes. "Thank you… for looking away."
"Can you handle being on the bike or do you need a minute?" He rather not have him throwing up at every intersection they reach. Bucky is not made for this.
"I can do it," he coughs, wiping his eyes.
"Take a moment, it's fine."
Peter sighs, head leaning back to look up to the sky. A frown forms on his face. "There are no stars here. Not a single one."
He briefly looks up as well, noting the light pollution. Glancing back down when Peter continues, "I ate too much, I am sorry about that."
"You good to go?"
Peter nods, dusting off his knees and saddling back behind Bucky. He goes to put his arms around his neck but he makes a disapproving grunt signalling to put his arm around Bucky's torso instead.
Getting to the apartment is not a hassle. He has been riding motorbikes and cars for as long as he can remember. Still, the constant grip of Peter's hands loosening around him causes him to slow down. As though a pattern. They will tighten and loosen. He will drive faster then slower.
Parking the bike in the garage lot, he takes the keys from its slot, allowing Peter to get off first to balance the vehicle.
The apartment is shabby, he could afford a better place to live but what would he do in a fancier place. It is not worth it. Not for him.
Going to the entrance door, pressing the magnetic key to unlock the front entrance. He holds the door for Peter, leading them to the elevator.
Peter sticks close to him, close to his back. Bucky sees how Peter watches his every move. From pressing the button, to the button lighting up. The floors changing.
It is not a long elevator ride. Only four floors up. Peter feels as though a ghost is attached to him. Silent but there like a weight on his shoulder.
The doors ding, opening for them. The third floor. Peter moves to get out, walking past Bucky before he has to halt him, grasping onto his shoulder.
"Not yet."
A women who is clearly doing the walk of shame. "Going up?" She asks.
Bucky nods. She gets in, the far corner. He can hear her whisper about some good for nothing bastard. Peter stares at her from behind him.
She smiles and Peter somewhat smiles back. He looks back up to Bucky, mouth opening to say something. A ding and the doors open.
Getting to Bucky's apartment is quiet like it usually is. There is no one waiting at home. Not even a plant to be watered. He likes it this way. He opens the door, allowing Peter to go into the apartment first before Bucky enters.
Motioning to the couch, Bucky informs, "You can take that." He lets Peter wander the barren apartment, nothing in it besides the kitchen. He disappears into the other room where Bucky keeps some work tools, he supposes he could make it a bedroom, but it does not sit right with him. He finds some blankets lying around, setting the make-shift bed.
"Thank you," Peter comes back to the main room, eyes darting around. "Did you just move in?"
"No."
They fall back into another silence, Peter going to the couch, sitting on the cushions. "Is it time for bed?" He questions.
Bucky thinks it an odd question but he nods. "We will figure this out in the morning."
He leaves to the other room, deciding to sleep on the floor for the night. It is not forever this kid is staying, he has dealt with worse living conditions.
What an odd boy, he keeps thinking. Questions flutter in his mind, never ending to impossible answers. Tomorrow, before work, he will figure things out.