Chapter Text
Peter had become very good at making himself small.
It wasn't something he'd consciously decided to learn, nobody had ever sat him down and told him how to disappear, how to take up as little space as possible, how to become the sort of person people looked straight through. It had simply happened over time until he could walk through a crowded street without anyone remembering he'd been there five seconds later.
It was useful.
Being forgettable meant people didn't ask questions.
They didn't ask where he lived, they assumed he stayed with his family. They didn't ask why he was always carrying the same battered backpack, because plenty of teenagers carried backpacks. They didn't ask why he never seemed to have plans after work, or why he sometimes looked exhausted enough to fall asleep standing up, or why he had stopped mentioning school entirely.
Peter had discovered that if you acted normal, people generally assumed you were.
So, at 7:43 on a cold Tuesday morning, Peter Parker stood behind the counter of a small cafe on the edge of Queens and smiled at a woman ordering a cappuccino as though his entire life wasn't currently stuffed into the backpack he’d chucked in the back before pulling his apron on.
He had always been good at that.
The cafe was called Harper's, although Peter had never understood why. There was no Harper anywhere on the staff, never had been. The owner was a man who had inherited the place from his older brother, and the only explanation Peter had ever received was that his brother had liked the name.
Peter liked the cafe regardless.
It was small enough that he knew every corner of it, but busy enough that he could disappear into the rhythm of work. There were six small tables along the front windows, four more squeezed against the opposite wall, and a long counter with mismatched stools that looked as though they'd been collected individually over several decades. The coffee machine was older than Peter was and made a noise like an aeroplane taking off every time someone ordered anything involving steamed milk.
The windows looked out onto a street that was always moving. Cars. Buses. Cyclists. People walking quickly with their heads down against the cold. New York never really stopped. Peter liked that, it meant he never had to feel as though he was the only person awake.
He glanced at the clock. 7:51.
His shift didn't finish until three. After that, he had nowhere to be. He'd learned not to think about that too much.
"Peter!"
He looked up at his co-worker, Michael, who was standing in the doorway leading into the kitchen, holding a cardboard box. "You got deliveries?"
"Unfortunately."
Peter grinned. "What'd you do to deserve that?"
"Existing." He dropped the box onto the counter and pointed at it. "Can you take those into the back?"
"Course." He hadn't meant to lift it quite so easily. Peter froze for half a second, then he coughed. "Adrenaline."
Michael stared.
"Early-morning adrenaline."
"Right."
"Very common."
"Sure."
Peter smiled. Michael shook his head and walked away. He carried the box into the storeroom and placed it on the floor. For a moment, he just stood there in the narrow room, surrounded by sacks of coffee beans, listening to the muffled sounds of the cafe outside.
Then he reached into his backpack. His fingers found the small photograph tucked into the inside pocket. It was old. Not ancient, but old enough that the edges had begun to soften from being handled too often.
May was smiling in it.
Peter didn't let himself look at it for long. He'd discovered that there was a difference between simply remembering someone and letting yourself miss them.
Remembering was manageable. Missing wasn't.
He slipped the photograph back into the pocket and zipped the bag closed. "Okay," he whispered to himself.
Then he went back to work.
By eleven, the morning rush had finally died down.
Peter was wiping down one of the tables when the bell above the front door rang. He didn't look up immediately. "Morning, sit anywhere you like."
The door closed. There was a pause, making Peter look over.
The man who had walked in was difficult not to notice. Not because he was dressed particularly strangely. In fact, Peter would have struggled to describe what he was wearing beyond dark jeans, a heavy jacket and a weathered cap pulled low over his hair.
It was more the way he carried himself. He stood just inside the door as though he'd forgotten what he was supposed to do next. His eyes moved around the room. Windows. Door. Counter. Other customers.
Peter noticed, he didn't know why he noticed. He just did.
The man eventually chose a table in the corner, one that gave him a clear view of most of the cafe.
Peter went back to wiping the table. He'd almost finished when the man raised a hand. "Coffee."
His voice was rough.
Peter nodded. "Sure. What kind?"
The man paused. "Black."
"Easy enough."
Peter went behind the counter and filled a cup. When he carried it over, the man reached into his pocket. Peter waved him off. "You're good." The man's hand stopped.
Peter nodded toward the cup. "First one's free."
The man's eyebrows pulled together. "Why?"
He shrugged. "Because it's Tuesday." The man stared at him. Peter smiled. "Tuesday is a terrible day."
Something shifted in the man's expression. Not quite a smile. Almost though. Peter gave himself a mental high-five.
"Thanks."
"No problem." Peter turned away and got three steps before the man spoke again.
"You work here everyday?"
Peter looked over his shoulder. "Usually."
"Usually?"
"Sometimes I pretend I don't." The man's mouth twitched. Peter pointed at him. "See? You almost smiled."
"I didn't."
"You did."
"No."
"I have photographic evidence."
"You don't."
"I could get some."
"Don't."
Peter grinned. "Okay." He walked back behind the counter.
The man looked down at his coffee.
Peter returned to cleaning. It should have ended there. Usually it did.
Customers came in. Customers left. Peter made coffee, wiped tables, took orders and occasionally talked too much to people who clearly hadn't asked him to.
But the man stayed. He noticed that, too. One cup of coffee became another. Then another. He never ordered food. Around one, Peter carried a plate of fries to a table near the window.
When he came back, the man was still sitting in the corner.
Peter glanced at the untouched pastry sitting on the counter. Then at the man. Then back at the pastry.
He picked it up.
"Hey." The man looked up. Peter held out the plate. "Eat."
The man's expression immediately hardened. “I'm not hungry."
"Didn't ask."
"I'm fine."
"Didn't ask that either."
The man stared at him. Peter stared back. Eventually, he put the plate down. "On the house."
"I don't need charity."
Peter's smile disappeared slightly. There was something in the man's voice that he understood. He knew that particular tone, he'd heard it in himself.
So he simply shrugged. "It's not charity."
"What is it?"
Peter thought about it. "Employee benefits?"
"You aren't the owner."
"No, but I'm very influential."
The man raised an eyebrow.
"I can make your coffee decaf."
For the first time, the man actually smiled. It was tiny. Barely there. But Peter caught it. "There," he said quietly. "See?"
The man looked down at the pastry. After a moment, he picked it up. Peter didn't say anything. He went back behind the counter.
His name was James.
Peter didn't know that yet.
As far as Peter was concerned, he was simply the quiet guy in the corner who came in a couple times a week, drank black coffee and looked like he hadn't slept properly in several decades.
He didn't know that James had spent most of his life learning to distrust people. He didn't know that James could read a room quicker than Peter could. He didn't know that the reason James had chosen that particular table was because it gave him the best view of the perimeter, including all possible routes to exit.
He didn't know that James had noticed his backpack. He didn't know that James had noticed he never went anywhere without it.
He didn't know that James had noticed the way Peter checked the clock whenever the cafe got quiet.
And he certainly didn't know that James had noticed something else. The kid was tired. Not ordinary tired. Not I stayed up too late studying tired.
Something deeper that had settled into the way he moved.
James knew tired; he recognised it.
Peter came around the counter carrying a bin bag. "Sorry."
James looked up. "For what?"
"Nothing." Peter stopped beside the table. "Actually, could you move your chair, please?"
James immediately stood.
Peter blinked. "Oh." He hadn't expected that. "Thanks." He dragged the bin past and James sat down again.
Peter disappeared into the back. When he came back, he was rubbing one hand against his opposite shoulder.
James watched him. "You hurt?"
Peter looked up. "What?"
"Your shoulder."
Peter stopped rubbing it. "Oh. No."
"You were favouring it."
Peter looked at him for a moment. Then smiled. "You pay a lot of attention."
James shrugged. "Occupational hazard."
"What occupation?"
James took a drink of coffee. "Nothing interesting."
Peter nodded. "Bet it would beat this though."
There was another pause. He looked around the cafe. Then, apparently unable to help himself, he said, "I'm Peter."
James looked at him.
Peter realised that perhaps he'd volunteered that information for no reason. He shrugged. "Thought you should know."
The man studied him for a moment. "James."
Peter nodded. "James."
"Yeah."
"Like James Barnes?"
The man went completely still. Peter immediately realised he'd said something wrong. "Sorry. Weird question."
Bucky stared at him. Peter pointed vaguely at him.
"I mean, I know that sounds incredibly creepy. I just... there's a guy called James Barnes and you're called James and- "
"How do you know that name?"
Peter's mouth opened. He closed it again. "Um." He glanced toward the TV mounted above the counter. "News."
He looked at the TV. Then back at Peter, who shrugged. "You've got a pretty recognisable face."
James' expression changed. Peter immediately regretted it. "Not in a bad way."
"Right."
"I mean, you're handsome." James blinked. Peter's eyes widened. "I'm not- I mean, objectively. Not that I’m objectifying you, you're- " He stopped and covered his face with one hand. "Please let me die."
That earned him another almost-smile. Peter dropped his hand. "So you're him?"
James was quiet for a moment. "Might be."
Peter looked at him with something approaching awe. "Wow."
He frowned. "That's it?"
"What else am I supposed to say?"
"I don't know."
Peter leaned against the counter. "I've never met an Avenger before."
James looked at him carefully. "I'm not an Avenger, kid."
Peter shook his head. "I'd say you were."
There was something oddly sincere about the answer. No excitement, no demand for a photograph. No questions about Steve Rogers or the Winter Soldier or the war or anything else he had become accustomed to people asking.
Just curiosity.
Peter glanced toward the window. "I mean, I've seen you on TV." James nodded. "But never met an Avenger in person."
"You're not missing much."
Peter smiled. "I don't know. Captain America seems pretty cool."
He snorted. Peter grinned. "You disagree?"
"I've known him a long time."
"That doesn't answer the question."
James took another drink. "He's annoying."
Peter laughed. The sound was bright and completely unexpected. James found himself watching him for a second longer than he meant to. Peter was young, younger than he'd initially thought. He had assumed twenty, maybe nineteen.
Now, sitting there in a cafe uniform with his hair sticking up in several directions, he looked much younger. A teenager, perhaps. Too young to be working full-time. Too young to look so exhausted.
Peter noticed him staring. His posture changed immediately. Just slightly. But James saw it. "You waiting for someone?"
Peter shook his head. "No."
For several seconds neither spoke. Then Peter glanced at the clock. "Your coffee's still free if you want another."
James looked down at the empty cup. "Sure."
Peter smiled. "See? Knew you liked it."
At 14:58, Peter clocked out.
Michael had already gone home. The afternoon employee had arrived twenty minutes earlier, so Peter pulled his jacket on and retrieved his backpack from the back.
James was still there. Peter looked at him. "You've been here for five hours."
"Coffee's good."
"You've had like five."
"six."
Peter stared. "Six?"
Bucky nodded.
"You're going to vibrate."
"I'm fine."
"That's what everyone says before they vibrate."
James actually laughed. It was quiet, but it was real. Peter smiled. "See you tomorrow?" He seemed to realise what he'd said. "Sorry. Assuming you come back again."
"I might."
"Okay." Peter adjusted his backpack. "Have a good day, James."
"You too. And you can call me Bucky, my friends do."
Peter pushed through the door, nodding to him with a smile wide on his face. Bucky watched him disappear down the street. He didn't know that Peter had nowhere to go, neither did he know that the backpack contained everything he owned.
And Peter didn't know that the man he'd just spent five hours talking to was one of the most dangerous people in the world. Or rather... he did, but chose to dismiss it. He could handle himself if push came to shove.
For now, they were simply two strangers who had shared a table in a little cafe on the edge of Queens.
And for Peter, that was enough.
He walked until he was out of sight of the cafe before pulling his hood over his head. The days are getting colder, he thought with a sigh as he shoved his hands into his pockets and kept walking. He had another six hours before he needed to decide where he was sleeping.
For the moment, though, he was hungry. So he turned down a side street, climbed a fire escape and disappeared onto the rooftops.
New York didn't notice. It rarely did.
And somewhere several blocks away, Bucky Barnes sat alone, staring absently at the door Peter had walked through, wondering why he had the strange feeling that he'd just met someone he was going to become well acquainted with.
Peter was hungry. Not 'sure, I could eat' hungry. Not 'I skipped lunch' hungry. Hungry enough that his stomach had stopped bothering with the usual complaints and had settled into a dull, hollow ache that seemed to sit somewhere beneath his ribs.
He had eaten half a bagel that morning. Half. He'd been about to eat the other half when Michael had come into the cafe early and Peter had noticed him looking at the clock.
"You can go," Michael had said.
Peter had shaken his head. "I'm fine."
"You've already done three hours."
"I know."
"Peter."
"It’s fine." He hadn't been. But the bagel had gone into his backpack anyway, wrapped carefully in a napkin, because Peter had learned that food was more useful later than it was right now.
Now it was nearly midnight. The bagel was gone. So was the granola bar he'd found at the bottom of his backpack.
His stomach had begun to ache again.
Peter swung between two buildings and tried very hard not to think about it. The city looked different from above. It always did. Down on the streets, everything was noise and people and traffic lights. From the rooftops, New York became something else entirely. A collection of glowing windows, distant sirens and endless streets stretching further than Peter could see.
It was easier up here.
Nobody expected anything from Spider-Man.
Spider-Man didn't need a home or food. Spider-Man didn't need to explain why he was still awake at midnight. Spider-Man just needed to keep moving.
He landed on the edge of a building and crouched, just as his stomach growled. He looked down at the street. There were only a few people around. A taxi. A couple walking home. A man standing outside a closed shop, smoking.
Nothing unusual.
Peter's spider-sense didn't react. He was just about to jump when he heard something.
A metallic clang. Then another.
Peter's head snapped toward the sound. Three blocks away. He could hear voices, angry ones. He didn't hesitate as he jumped.
The voice modulator built into his mask crackled faintly when he landed.
"Okay," Spider-Man called, trying to sound more confident than he felt. "That sounds like a problem."
The voices stopped. Peter crouched on the edge of the roof and looked down into the alley. Three men stood beside a van. One of them was holding a metal case. Another had a gun tucked beneath his jacket.
The third looked up. "Who the fuck are you?"
Peter tilted his head. The modulator shifted his voice just enough to make it difficult to place. It wasn't deep, exactly, but it wasn't recognisably young either. Just a faint electronic distortion layered over every word. "That's a little personal for a first meeting."
The man with the gun pulled it free.
Peter sighed. "Okay, apparently we're skipping introductions."
He jumped. The first man barely had time to raise his weapon before Peter's webbing snapped around his wrist and yanked the gun away. Peter landed on the side of the van, ran two steps across it and kicked the second man backward into the brick wall.
The third man dropped the case and reached for something inside his coat.
Peter's spider-sense screamed. He twisted aside as a blade flashed past his shoulder. "Wow," he said, landing in a crouch. "You guys really don't like talking things out."
The man lunged again. Peter caught his wrist, spun him around and webbed him to the side of the van. The other two were already getting back up.
He fired two webs in quick succession, pinning one man's feet to the pavement and sticking the other's hands together. "See?" he said. "That wasn't so hard."
A metallic clang sounded from the mouth of the alley. Peter turned. More men were coming.
He stared at them. "That feels unfair."
One of them raised a weapon. Peter's spider-sense flared. He moved just as the shot rang out.
The bullet struck the van behind him.
Peter fired a web and pulled himself upward, landing on the roof of the vehicle. He could hear the men shouting below him, their voices overlapping as they spread out. There were too many.
His stomach cramped.
He ignored it. He had done this before. He could handle it. He just needed to keep moving.
Peter launched himself from the van and caught one man across the chest with both feet. They went down together, and he rolled away before another attacker could bring a pipe down on his back.
He caught the pipe. For one second, he and the man holding it stared at each other. "Nice try." Peter yanked it free and webbed the man's hands to a nearby fire escape.
Then someone hit him from behind.
Peter stumbled forward. His shoulder slammed into the side of the van. Pain shot down his arm. The voice modulator crackled as he hissed. "Okay," he muttered. "That one was less nice."
He pushed himself upright. The men were closing in again. Peter's breathing had grown heavier. His arms felt strangely weak, and his vision blurred at the edges.
He had been fighting for too long. He needed to eat. He needed to stop.
He needed-
Something struck him hard enough to send him across the alley.
Peter hit the ground. For a moment, he couldn't move. His mask had shifted slightly, and the modulator gave a burst of static.
Footsteps approached.
Peter forced himself onto one elbow.
There were two figures at the mouth of the alley. One wore a dark jacket. The other was dressed in a dark tactical uniform.
Peter blinked up at them.
The man in the jacket stepped forward. "Hey!"
Peter tried to answer, but his voice came out distorted and breathless through the mask. "Hi." Then his arm gave out beneath him. He collapsed sideways. The last thing he heard before everything went dark was the faint electronic crackle of his own voice modulator.
Peter woke to the sound of voices.
They were quiet, muffled by distance or walls, and for a few seconds he couldn't make sense of what they were saying. His head felt heavy, his thoughts slow and scattered, and there was a strange warmth beneath him that definitely wasn't concrete.
He didn't move. That was deliberate. He had learned a long time ago that waking up somewhere unfamiliar meant you didn't immediately announce that you were awake.
Instead, he listened.
"...Should've taken him to a hospital.". Peter recognised the voice from somewhere between consciousness and memory.
The other voice was lower. "We couldn't." Bucky.
"Why?"
"You know why."
A pause, followed by a sigh. "S.H.I.E.L.D."
Peter's eyes remained closed. That got his attention.
"...They've been trying to find this kid for months."
"We don't know he's a kid."
"Compared to the rest of us he is."
There was another silence. Peter lay perfectly still. Oh. So they didn't know. That was good. He didn't know where he was, but apparently neither of them knew who he was. That meant he still had a chance to get out of this without anyone finding out.
He slowly opened his eyes. The room came into focus in pieces. A wooden ceiling. A dim lamp. A worn sofa against one wall, another one that he was currently on. A small kitchen beyond it. Curtains drawn tightly over the windows. There was a table in the middle of the room and two chairs.
It looked like a house. Not a hospital. Not a police station. Most importantly, not S.H.I.E.L.D.
Peter's shoulders relaxed slightly. Then he noticed who the other man was. Captain America himself stood against the door frame, arms folded across his chest, Bucky sitting opposite the sofa, watching him.
Both turned immediately when Peter moved. Peter blinked. Steve took a step closer. "Easy."
Peter tried to sit up. His head spun
Bucky leaned forward. "You with us?"
Peter swallowed. "Yep."
His voice came out marginally muffled causing him to immediately put his hands to his face. The mask was still there. Good.
He glanced down. His suit was still on and his web-shooters were still attached.
His backpack was hopefully still webbed to the abandoned apartment's rooftop he'd left it at. He couldn't risk them coming across it, knowing Bucky would instantly recognise it from the cafe.
Peter was beginning to realise that Bucky watched everything. It made him slightly uncomfortable.
"You passed out."
Peter looked away. "Looks that way. Sorry about that."
"Do you remember what happened?"
"Mostly."
"You got hit pretty hard."
"I'm okay." Bucky raised an eyebrow. Peter sighed. "Mostly okay."
Steve crouched a few feet away from him. "We brought you somewhere safe."
Peter looked around. "This your house?"
"One of them."
He blinked. "You have multiple houses?"
Bucky's mouth twitched. Steve ignored him. "It's a safe place. Nobody knows about it."
Peter nodded slowly. "Alright. You carried me?"
"Yeah."
"Sorry."
"You don't have to apologise, you weigh next to nothing even as dead weight."
Peter looked at the floor. "Right." There was a brief silence. Steve glanced at Bucky, who gave the smallest shake of his head. Neither of them knew what to do with him. That was obvious. Peter didn't know what to do with them either.
Finally, Steve asked, "Can I ask you something?"
Peter immediately became wary, narrowing his eyes under the mask. "Nope."
Steve blinked. "You don't even know the question."
"Exactly."
Bucky looked at Steve, who sighed. "Okay. We're not going to unmask you, just so you know." Peter looked at him. "We're not going to force you to tell us who you are. But," Steve continued, "We need to know whether you're injured."
Peter considered that, mentally check-listing each part of him. "I'm not. I heal quickly"
Bucky spoke. "You collapsed, kid."
"I was tired."
"You were unconscious."
"Briefly."
"You've got a hard time admitting when something's wrong."
Steve stood. "How badly are you actually hurt?"
Peter considered it. "My shoulder hurts but I can feel it healing."
"Anything else?"
"My ribs."
"Broken?"
"I don't think so."
"Head?"
"Probably fine."
"Probably?"
Peter shrugged. "Feels okay, I've been worse."
Bucky stared at him. "You're not helping."
"I'm trying."
"No, you're avoiding."
Peter looked at him. "I'm sure neither of you are innocent of that."
Bucky's expression changed. Peter suddenly realised that he was somehow arguing with the former Winter Soldier in their secret safe house.
It was probably the strangest conversation he'd ever had. "Okay," he said. "We're all bad at this."
Steve almost smiled. "I can accept that." He walked into the kitchen as Peter watched him disappear, every muscle tightening beneath the suit. "What are you doing?"
"Getting you some water," he called back.
The answer should have been harmless but instead, Peter's pulse jumped. "No."
Steve paused, coming back into the room. Peter forced his voice to stay casual. "I mean, I'm fine."
"You've been unconscious."
"Very aware."
Steve studied him for a moment, then reached for a glass anyway. Peter's hand moved before he could stop it, fingers catching the edge of the sofa. The room suddenly felt smaller. He couldn't stay here, couldn't let them start taking care of him, couldn't let them notice how quickly he accepted things, how badly he needed them, or how little he had waiting for him anywhere else.
Steve returned with the glass. Peter stood too quickly causing the floor to tilt beneath him, which Bucky instantly noticed. "I'm fine." Peter took one step backward.
Steve held the full glass, not quite offering it now. Peter simply stared at it. "Really," he insisted, trying to laugh. "I'm good."
Neither man moved. That was worse. They were watching him. Waiting. Peter's fingers curled into fists. "Where's the door?"
Steve lowered the glass. "Kid- "
Peter was already moving. The motion pulled at his ribs, sending pain through his side, but he ignored it. Bucky stepped between him and the hallway. Peter stopped short. "Move."
"We're not trying to keep you here."
"Then move."
Bucky studied him. Peter could feel his breathing getting faster. He forced himself to slow it down, forced his shoulders loose, forced his voice into something almost steady.
"I appreciate the help."
Steve set the glass down on the table. "You don't have to leave injured."
"I'm not injured."
"You collapsed."
"I got tired."
"That doesn't mean you should be out there alone."
Peter's stomach twisted. There it was. The question beneath the question. Where was he going? Who was waiting for him? Why didn't he have somewhere safe to recover? He couldn't let them ask, couldn't let them guess. "I have somewhere to be."
Bucky's eyes narrowed. "Where?"
"Out."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one you're getting. Secret identity, remember? Would kinda defeat the whole point."
Steve took a careful step toward him. Peter immediately backed away. The movement was small, but both men noticed. He hated that they noticed. He hated the concern in Steve's face even more. "Look," he said, "You helped me. Thank you. Seriously. But I can't stay."
"Nobody said you had to."
"You were getting me water."
Steve glanced toward the glass. "Because you were dehydrated."
"I said I was fine."
"You don't have to prove anything."
Peter laughed once, too sharply. "No one said I was."
Bucky's expression hardened. "Nobody's asking you for anything."
"Not yet." The words slipped out. Silence filled the room. Peter's heart pounded. He had said too much.
"We're not going to interrogate you."
"You already have."
"We asked if you were hurt."
"Well don't."
Steve stopped.
Peter looked towards the door. "Don't ask me anything else. You asked if you could ask me a question and I said no. You know what no means, right?"
Neither man answered. Peter reached for the handle. Bucky moved aside.
The sudden lack of resistance nearly made Peter stumble. He opened the door, allowing the cold air to rush in. For one second, he stood there with the warmth of the room behind him and the city waiting outside.
Steve spoke from behind him. "You should get checked out."
Peter didn't turn around. "I'll sleep on it."
"At least take the water."
His throat tightened. "No can do."
"It isn't a trap."
"I know."
"Then why- "
"Because I said no." The sharpness in his voice made the room go quiet again. Peter swallowed. He hadn't meant to sound frightened, he couldn't let them hear that. "Sorry," he said, quieter. "I just... I can't."
Steve didn't ask what he meant. That almost made it worse.
Peter stepped outside.
"Wait." He paused but didn't look back. Steve's voice remained careful. "If you need help- "
"I won't."
"You don't know that."
Peter pulled the mask tighter over his face. "I won't." Then he shut the door. He made it halfway down the steps before his knees nearly gave out. He caught himself against the railing and stood there, breathing hard.
The house behind him was quiet. Thankfully, no one followed. That should have made him feel better. It didn't.
He pushed away from the railing and hurried into the darkness, keeping his head down. He didn't look back. He couldn't. If he did, he might see the door opening. He might see Steve and Bucky watching him leave.
He might stop. And stopping was dangerous. Because the moment people started offering him things, they started expecting answers. And Peter couldn't give them any.
Not his name, not his age. Not where he slept. Not whether anyone was waiting for him. Nothing.
So he kept moving until the safe house disappeared behind the buildings, until the cold air burned his lungs, and until there was no sign that he had ever been there at all.