Archive of Our Own ^beta

There’s grime between the plates of Bucky’s arm. He has it spread open, very carefully ignoring Stark’s attention from across the bay. One of the few things HYDRA let Bucky do on his own was light arm maintenance. He doesn’t know how the whole thing works - and regardless of how often Stark offers (*cough* begs ), he has no intention of finding out - but he knows the easy stuff. He knows how to clean it, how to use a pair of pliers to even out a plate until it’ll smoothly shift with the others, how to tweak a wire here or there beneath the metal shell to get an area running again. He knows enough to keep it functioning while on a mission. If he ever needs more than that, maybe he’ll let Stark take a look. Maybe. But until then, he’s fine on his own. 

Bucky is working the oiled cloth between two plates at his wrist when he first notices it. 

The kid - and he tries to think of him as a kid because thinking of him as an adult feels like a dangerous green light for all the other thoughts Bucky knows are just waiting to spill out about the beautiful man - is asleep on the bench beside Stark, his limbs sprawled out like always, his whole body looking like the embodiment of the chaos he tends to whirl around in. His heart is steady, a strong thud-bumm-bumm-thud . It’s steady, steady, steady - and then it lurches . 

Bucky’s eyes snap to the sleeping kid, trying not to get caught up in that disorientation he’s been feeling lately, where his body surges with an emotion but his head can’t figure out how to process it. He’s getting more used to that. His therapist would call it progress. Bucky watches, waiting for a twitch or a noise, but the kid is absolutely still. Almost hauntingly still. Especially when his heart kicks further into overdrive, pounding harder than it did during the earlier fight. This is the heartbeat of someone on the edge of death. Bucky would know. Bucky is intimately familiar with the sound. He knows just how easily the heart can be stopped from this state. Knows exactly the rhythm it would take on before giving out. Nausea turns inside his stomach. 

“Stark,” he grunts. 

But Stark is in the middle of some diatribe about, talking Banner’s ear off as Banner works his way through the crossword he never even had to pause - this fight never needing a Code Green. 

Bucky scans the haul of the plane. Sam is slumped against the crate next to him, sleeping with his mouth hanging open obnoxiously. Clint is tucked away in the corner with his phone to his ear, murmuring sweet reassurances to his wife now that they’re back in cell phone range. Natasha is flying the jet, Steve beside her to keep her company. 

Bucky looks back at the kid. The heartbeat is getting worse. Christ, how strong is he? Will the thing just give out on him? 

“Stark,” Bucky says, louder this time. Insistent. Maybe a little too loud and insistent because Stark, Banner, and Sam all jolt. Bucky just blinks at them, refusing to care. “Something is wrong with the kid.”

Stark frowns, turning his attention to Peter. He shrugs. “He’s sleeping.”

“Something. Is. Wrong,” Bucky insists. 

Surprisingly, Stark doesn’t argue or roll his eyes or say something snarky. He just hovers the glove that’s still on his hand over Peter’s chest and asks, “Friday? What’s going on?” 

“Mr. Parker’s heart rate is far above baseline, boss. Blood pressure is significantly heightened.” 

Now Stark’s heart is panicked. Sam’s is climbing, too. Bruce is breathing slowly, in through his nose, out through his mouth. Stark grabs at Peter, not being particularly gentle in his worry. “Kid? Kid!” 

Steve is suddenly there, hovering nearby, looking like he’s going to kick someone’s ass even though there’s no ass to actually kick. 

Bucky holds perfectly still, keeping his face blank, listening to that heart as it tries desperately to escape Peter’s body, escape whatever nightmare is happening inside of it. 

Stark grabs Peter’s shoulders and jerks him again, yelling, “Kid!” 

Peter’s eyes snap open, the kid sucking in a sharp breath like he’s breaking through the surface of water. He looks completely out of it. Drugged, almost. Bucky would say it’s just him coming out of the sleep, trying to wake up, but his heart is still going so fast that there’s no way the kid is still tired. This is something else. 

“You with us?” Stark asks, his voice tight with anxiety. 

Peter blinks owlishly. Then mutters, “M’okay, Mr. Stark, sorry.” 

Sorry?

The fuck is he sorry for? 

Bucky’s arm whirs without his permission, plates clicking ominously into place. He realizes it actually is his fault when he looks down to find his metal hand fisted painfully tight, as if it’s trying to crush itself. 

He looks back at the kid as Stark slowly helps him sit up. 

M’okay, Mr. Stark. 

Bucky huffs under his breath. Bullshit . 

**

Bucky pretends he isn’t paying more attention to the kid. He’s great at pretending. Sure, HYDRA utilized him as a long-range assassin quite a bit, but he infiltrated too. Never anything too deep, of course. He was still a mostly non-verbal, brain-scrambled, walking case of PTSD after all, but they let him do the easy things. He could manage to blend in at a coffee shop, standing in line behind his target. He could wander a mall while tracking how their security team works. He even went clubbing once - though that didn’t end quite as well as HYDRA probably hoped. 

Of course, there was also the practice he got any time his mind started coming back. Sometimes he wasn’t lucky enough to hide it, a handler catching that first flash of confusion, or even Bucky purposely giving himself away because of his fear of the unknown, but sometimes it would happen while he was alone, while he had time to gather his thoughts just enough to know that something was wrong and the people he reports to are part of the problem. He’d have to hide, then. Pretend.

It never lasted, obviously. They watched him too closely. Someone would notice a difference to his demeanor, or he’d accidentally slip into English, or he’d flinch when a handler lifted a hand. Of course, there were the bigger giveaways - the times he tried to fight or run. But whenever it happened, at least until he was found out, he got to practice pretending. 

So, no one knows that he’s starting to kind of like being in the compound, even though he told Steve - bet him 50 bucks even - that there was no way he was sticking around here after his probation period was over. Steve's been kind enough not to mention that period ended a while ago now, just a week after a certain new member of the team moved in. That’s probably a good thing. Bucky isn’t sure if he could pull off lying to Steve about Peter not affecting his decision to stay. 

And no one knows that the team is growing on him - well, the team except Sam because Sam’s an asshole. No one knows that sometimes he actually considers sitting for Stark, letting him take a look at the arm. 

No one knows he’s falling further and further into a strange sort of obsession with Peter Parker, feeling like a fucking puppy the way he drifts around the compound pretending not to be searching the kid out. 

So, yes, he’s pretending he’s not hyper-focused on the kid - well, even more hyper-focused than he was before the plane incident. 

While he’s doing all of this pretending, he notices that the kid is unraveling. Slowly, carefully, as if Peter is trying his best to control the fallout. Knowing Peter, he probably is . The kid probably has a chart and a graph and a powerpoint presentation - and yes, Bucky knows what those are, both the kid and Stark have thrust them upon the team multiple times already. 

Peter's exhaustion starts to build until he seems stretched out thin. Bucky watches as he flinches at loud noises he used to not even blink at. He watches him lose endless stretches of minutes just staring into his mug of coffee as the liquid goes from steaming hot to cold. He watches him pick at his food and wander aimlessly and hide his shaking hands when people look his way. 

He waits for someone to say or do something . Stark may be a hypocrite for worrying, considering his own shitty self-care, but he’s practically the kid’s dad and spends the most one-on-one time with him. Steve is the mother hen of the group, always watching, always calculating, always worrying. Sam has literal training in therapy. Nothing gets past Natasha. Bruce and Clint are off the hook, since they’re not around nearly as often, but the rest of them should have noticed something is wrong, right? Bucky isn’t that hyper focused on the guy. It shouldn’t take a lot of attention to pick it up. 

But no one does or says a damn thing. 

Then the naps start. 

** 

Bucky finds Peter asleep in the lab when he goes to get more oil for his maintenance kit, sprawled out on the futon, fingers twitching, heartbeat steady. Stark is there, quietly tinkering with something, an earbud in for his music instead of the usual pounding of the overhead radio system. 

He finds him asleep at the breakfast table, bent over at the waist, his elbow dangerously close to knocking his cereal bowl off the table. Bruce is doing another crossword while Natasha works her way through a trashy gossip magazine. 

He finds him passed out on one of the sparring mats when he goes to workout in the morning, the kid still dressed in the clothes he was wearing at dinner. Steve is off in the corner pounding his way through one of the new bags Stark made for them. 

And still, no one says anything, no one does anything. 

Do they really not notice he’s clearly not sleeping well? Do they not notice he can’t sleep unless someone is in the room? That he jolts awake the second his body somehow registers he’s alone? Do they not notice the kid is fucking scared? He’s so damn tired and scared and they’re not doing anything at all. 

Bucky brings it up to Steve - because Steve is the mother hen, the fixer, the busybody who won’t let it go once it’s on his radar. 

They’re hanging out in Steve’s room, Bucky letting Steve draw the arm as they quietly talk about Brooklyn in the 30s and the Howlies, about what it felt like to say goodbye to Peggy and what it felt like to wake up from cryo, about the one time Bucky - the Winter Soldier, he has to remind himself - had been attacked by a group of stray kittens while trying to perform a stakeout, about the one time Steve thought he had stumbled upon some sort of illegal and extreme trafficking ring only to get a very eye-opening education about BDSM and what a “leather night” at the bar really means (hint, it wasn’t that he’d get a cool discount on his favorite chicken wings if he wore his leather jacket). 

This is one of the things Steve’s therapist likes them to do together. It’s something Bucky was reluctant about at first, only doing it because he wanted to help Steve, but it’s helped Bucky enough for him to be much more agreeable about it these days. Sure, it sucks when the conversation drifts into the dark stuff, but he kind of likes the way the bad stuff trickles in between lighter things, like they’re cushioned and safer to face. It’s a hell of a lot better than the heart-to-hearts Steve used to try to push on him in the beginning, when he was all earnest and puppy-dog eyes, begging Bucky to talk to him about what he’s been through. 

It turns out to be the perfect opportunity to voice his thoughts on Peter, too. The minute there’s a lull in the conversation, Steve hyper focused on the shading necessary to make the crook of Bucky’s elbow look realistic, Bucky says, “You think something’s wrong with the kid?” 

Steve’s charcoal pencil pauses, his gaze darting up to Bucky despite his head remaining tilted down. “Peter?”

“No, Sam.” Bucky rolls his eyes. “ Obviously Peter.”

“I don’t think he’s sleeping. Probably nightmares.” 

Bucky thinks maybe it’s more than that, but regardless, it’s a start that Steve has at least noticed. “Shouldn't we do something?” 

Steve raises an eyebrow. “ We? ”

Bucky looks anywhere but at him, very carefully not flinching. “We’re a team, right? He’s barely existing upright these days. Even when he is awake, he looks ready to collapse any second.” 

“I’m not sure we can help, really. He’s like us, he can’t take any sleeping pills, and I’m pretty sure I remember Stark saying the kid doesn’t want to do any therapy.” 

“He’s hanging by a fucking string, Steve.”

Steve finally forgets his drawing and truly looks at Bucky. It feels like too much attention, like he’s seeing right through Bucky, but he tells himself it’s worth it if it gets Peter some goddamn help. 

Steve watches him for a few more seconds before slowly nodding. “Then we figure it out. We do something. I’ll have Stark talk to him. We’ll go from there.”

** 

Stark biffs it. All he has to say for himself is, “He’s not ready to talk about it,” when Steve and Bucky corner him in the kitchen just after breakfast. Peter is asleep on the couch with Natasha and Bruce doing yoga where the coffee table usually is. 

Bucky is not pleased. 

He makes that pretty clear with Steve, which gets Steve worked up because he’s still in that phase where he really doesn’t like the thought of Bucky being anything but safe and perfectly happy. Steve talks to Natasha - thankfully without Bucky present. Natasha may be a disaster of a human just like the rest of them, but she still has one of the better heads on her shoulders. She comes up with a plan that quickly spreads throughout the team - let Peter do his own thing, but be there for him any way you can. 

So, if Peter stumbles in and falls asleep, you don’t leave the room unless someone else comes to relieve you. If the kid is looking particularly knackered, one of them should sit on the couch - his clearly favorite napping spot - and wait for him to stumble over. If he’s already on the couch, but seems restless or is still fighting his nap, go sit by him. 

And it works. 

Bucky is very pleased. 

Pleased from a distance, of course. He’s not stupid enough to go anywhere near the kid himself unless the kid searches him out. That only ever happens in the gym, because Bucky avoids the couch like the goddamn plague. He’s a survivor, okay? He hasn’t gotten this far by letting himself get attached to pretty young things with doe eyes, a brilliant mind, and a phenomenal sense of humor. 

The pleasure fades, though. Because another thing that Bucky has used to survive? His creepily good observation skills. 

Those skills tell him that Peter isn’t comfortable with Wanda or Nat as his pillow, even though it’s the kid that always ends up nuzzling his head into their laps in his sleep, none of them ever making him put his head there. The way he holds himself is just too still, like he’s trying with all his might not to toss and turn, probably knowing no amount of it will really make him comfortable anyway. Bucky bets their thighs are way too small and bony. Don’t get him wrong, those women have muscles, but they've also purposely built themselves in a way that makes it look like they’re not a threat - especially Natasha. There’s only so much surface area for Peter to use, and only so much muscle - and basically no fat - to cushion him. 

Then there's the issue with Sam, who is really just a dick. The first time he sits by Peter on the couch, letting Peter sink down and press his head to his thigh, the kid actually manages to get a good nap. Bucky is thrilled, not that he shows it as he pretends to be focused on his phone. But then Peter wakes up and Sam ruins it. He teases him, making Peter flustered and embarrassed. He doesn't just do it once, either. He continues in the following days, using it as an excuse to troll the kid relentlessly. Bucky snaps soon enough, growling, “Shut the fuck up,” and shooting Sam a look that leaves absolutely no room for argument. The damage is done, though. Peter forces himself through his exhaustion if it's Sam sitting nearby, and he doesn’t last long napping if Sam comes into the room when he’s already under. 

Stark is a disaster. The man tries, Bucky will give him that, but he’s like a human energizer bunny. Bucky is surprised Peter doesn’t just vibrate right off the damn couch. For once, Bucky actually has to swallow a laugh as he watches the pathetic display. 

Peter doesn’t want anything to do with Steve, his face blooming pink, his words stumbling whenever Steve puts himself in a position that - if it was any of the others - would lead to a nap. Bucky thinks it’s a crush, like Peter wants Steve so badly he can’t even stand the idea of touching him that way. It doesn’t bother Bucky. 

It doesn’t . 

It really, really, really doesn’t. 

And it has absolutely nothing to do with him finally deciding to give in and take that seat at the end of the couch as Peter drifts in and out of a poor nap one evening. It’s just that no one else is doing it for the kid, and he might as well try and see if he can be the happy medium. Like Goldilocks or whatever, right? Peter deserves to get some sleep. Bucky can handle helping. 

It has nothing to do with Steve and the blushing. Bucky doesn’t even really think about that anymore. Like, barely at all. It’s a non-issue. 

He’s just being part of the team. 

The first time Bucky takes the seat, a book in his hands that he’s been meaning to read for a while now, Peter’s breathing stops for a moment. Bucky pretends not to notice, thankful for how trained his body is that the kid’s super hearing will never be able to detect his thoughts or feelings through any changes in his heart. If Peter decides Bucky isn’t someone he feels comfortable napping around, he won’t be offended. He has a lot of blood on his hands. Innocent blood. Not everyone sees - but then Peter releases a low, long sigh, a… relieved sigh.

And then he’s carefully tucking his head in the dip of Bucky’s stomach and thigh, cheek pressed to his jeans, nose buried in Bucky’s sweatshirt. 

And Bucky - well, he doesn’t sigh, but he could if he allowed himself to. He really, really could. 

**

It becomes a routine. 

Bucky tells himself it’s because the book is good and it’s damn thick, so he needs a lot of uninterrupted time to read it. That’s also why he glares at anyone who tries to come into the room while they’re on the couch, especially if that person thinks they’re going to watch TV. Even with the volume on mute, Bucky - and therefore Peter - can hear the buzzing electricity. That’s going to interrupt Peter’s nap, but more importantly - Bucky keeps telling himself - it would bother his reading, which is the only reason he’s even sitting there with Peter in the first place. 

It’s a good lie. He almost believes it some nights. 

Except sometimes he forgets to read the book. Only sometimes. Not often. Just when it’s late, and the compound has gone quiet, and Peter is facing him so he can see the way his slightly-pink nose twitches as he sleeps and can study the patterns of curls falling over his pale skin. Once - only once, because it was ridiculous, okay? And he’s fully aware of that - he spent the better part of a late evening trying to count Peter’s eyelashes. 

He has it under control - this obsession. 

Everything is perfectly under control. 

**

Sam is in a Super Dick mood. The kind of mood where he’s too happy and too energetic to be bothered by Bucky’s glares or hissed threats. Even though Peter is still struggling to fall asleep, head nestled on Bucky’s thigh, his body jittery with exhaustion, Sam decides now is a great time to plop down on the chair across from the couch and start talking. 

“You think he’s molting? Like he’s about to shed its skin, or something?” 

Bucky glances up from the book he’s definitely not reading - hasn’t been reading for days now, not that he’s going to discuss that or even acknowledge it to himself. He hopes his face accurately depicts just how idiotic he thinks Sam and his questions are. “Doubt it.” 

“Oh, come on!” Sam rolls his eyes like it’s Bucky that’s being stupid, not him. “Maybe it’s a thing. Like, maybe he’s evolving. Growing extra eyes or something. That’d be cool. Creepy, but cool.”

Bucky returns his attention to his book, ignoring the idiot with the hope that he’ll disappear. He’s been reading this page for days now. He can’t, for the life of him, remember what’s even happening on it. 

Sam, unfortunately, does not disappear. 

“Okay, Mr. Biology. Then what? Is he depressed?” He lowers his voice at that, like depression is a scary monster he should whisper about in case it comes after him. “Is this some weird spider hibernation? Does he need, like, a giant web to sleep in?”

Bucky is thoroughly exasperated. He’s also fully aware that poor Peter is listening to this bullshit, and it’s keeping him from falling asleep. 

He fixes a deadpan look on Sam. “He can’t sleep, that’s all.”

Peter’s next exhale is heavier than usual. Then he says, his voice adorably - wait, no, not adorably, not adorable at all, Bucky has this thing under control, he swears - muffled, “He can hear you. And, yeah, I can’t sleep. Shhh.” 

Bucky raises an eyebrow at Sam as if to say, See? You’re such an asshole. 

Sam, for his part, looks contrite. Not enough to stop being stupid, though. “You’re awake? Dude, why didn’t you say something?” 

Uh, probably because he was trying to fall asleep, dipshit? 

Bucky sighs at the same time Peter groans. The groan is… an interesting feeling against Bucky’s thigh. Bucky shifts a little. He focuses on Sam. Sam might be a dick, but he is a safe thing to pay attention to. 

“Let him be,” Bucky orders. “He’s fine.”

“He’s napping on people’s laps,” Sam argues. “That’s not exactly standard behavior.”

And oh , if Bucky didn’t have Peter on his lap, he’d be shutting Sam up with his hands. How stupid can he be? How much of an asshole? Where is his tact? Isn’t he supposed to be the VA counselor of the group? 

“It’s called coping, Sam,” Peter mutters, and his voice is a little shaky, a little too low. “Look it up…” 

Bucky isn’t sure he’s glared at someone this hard since the last HYDRA agent he got his hands on. Sam visibly flinches. “Alright, alright. Just… be careful, man. We need you in one piece, not falling apart.” 

“Nobody’s falling apart,” Peter says defensively. He drags himself - literally drags, he’s so damn tired - into a sitting position. He manages to sit up straight for a few seconds before the act of pulling a knee to his chest threatens to tip him over. Bucky subtly moves his hip to steady Peter. The boy is so out of it, he’s pretty sure he doesn’t even notice. He just plants his chin on his knee, yawns, and asks, “You guys want coffee or something?”

Oh, Peter… 

Bucky has to figure out how to get this boy to sleep. There has to be something better than this. 

Sam gives Bucky a loaded look that clearly means he thinks Peter just proved all of his concern right. Which, he sort of did, but Sam isn’t helping so he can kindly go fuck off. 

“No thanks, Peter,” Sam says, finally standing up with a smile that’s more of a grimace. “I’m headed off to bed.” 

Rub it in, why don’t you? 

Bucky sighs, trying to keep it soft so Peter doesn’t internalize it. He seems like the type to do that kind of thing. The type to get caught up in his own head.

Bucky doesn’t bother answering the coffee question. He’s just thankful Sam leaves. Especially when Peter relaxes almost immediately after he’s gone, letting himself move closer to Bucky. 

Bucky pretends to be reading the hell out of page 82 of his book. He’s not, though. He’s very hyper-aware of how Peter is slowly melting back down to his lying position of before. 

There’s a sharp burst of relief in Bucky’s chest when he feels Peter’s head settle on his thigh again. It’s as if he thought he scared away the wild animal he was desperate to take care of, only for the wild animal to give him another chance. He’s dizzy with it. 

That’s why he fucks up. 

He doesn’t even realize he’s doing it until it’s too late. Until his hand - his human hand, thank god - is on Peter’s head. He stares at it. Just stares. Like the thing has become its own entity. It kind of has . It seems to have teamed up with Bucky’s deepest desires and the two of them are working against his sanity and self-preservation. 

Which is just great. Just fucking fantastic. 

Not to mention that Peter is absolutely not falling asleep now. He’s just lying there, almost as stiff as he was when he would try resting on Wanda or Natasha. It’s a discomfort that he’s never once had with Bucky. His mind is spinning so anxiously, Bucky swears he can feel it in the room with them, pressing in and threatening to suffocate any chance they had of this not being ruined. 

Ruined by Bucky . By his stupid, traitorous hand. 

Stupid. 

Stupid, stupid, stupid. 

Should he remove the hand? Or would that be even weirder? 

Maybe he should… play with those pretty curls of his? God, they’re soft. Even without moving his fingers, he can feel that they’re so fucking soft . 

But teammates don’t stroke the hair of teammates, right? That’s definitely not a normal thing to do. 

Bucky doesn’t get a chance to figure out what’s going on because Peter darts straight up out of nowhere, Bucky’s hand flopping uselessly off his head. He should say something, right? But what direction does he go?

Hey, that was kind of really fucking nice, mind if I do it again sometime?

Hey, was that weird? Because if it wasn’t, how would you feel about me playing with your hair next time, would that help you sleep, sweetheart?

Hey, woah, how’d my hand get there? How weird. Won’t happen again, dude. 

Hey, sleep well? Nothing to see here. I’ve just been reading. You know, page 82. For the third night in a row. 

“Um, I’m gonna… shower. And stuff,” Peter stammers out, doing a quick stretch that seems more like it’s meant to come off as him being casual than actually needing to loosen his muscles. 

Bucky stares hard at page 82, giving him nothing but a shrug. He bolts immediately. Bucky waits until he can’t hear Peter’s footsteps anymore. Then he shuts his book with a heavy thud and lets his head fall back, the smallest groan slipping from him. 

Not only did he break his own rule about keeping himself distanced, but he went and fucked things up while he was at it. Was it just weird? Was it something more? Did he cross a boundary? Jesus, was that a nonconsensual touch? Is Peter creeped out now? Or afraid of him? 

Fuck. 

Fuck . 

Bucky tries to keep himself from spinning out about it. He really does. He goes to the gym until he can barely walk straight, passing out in his bed before he can even scrounge up the energy to shower. He works out nearly as hard in the morning, this time making sure to conserve energy for a shower at least. He eats breakfast with the entire team and tries not to notice that Peter is missing. He restarts the chapter that page 82 is a part of, trying to remember what’s even happening in the story as a whole. 

He doesn’t even make it to lunch before he goes seeking out the only person he trusts who can give him solid advice without also giving him endless shit about it after - Steve. 

He lays it out there very carefully, not saying too much, but not exactly preemptively denying anything that could be assumed either. He explains the napping and how relieved he’s been that Peter is finally getting some rest with him. He explains what happened with Sam. He explains the fucking hand thing. 

Steve hmms and ahhs and - much to Bucky’s delight - shakes his head at what Sam said. 

Then he says, “I think it says a lot that he laid back down after Sam said that stuff. He was defensive and clearly ready to bolt, but once Sam was gone and it was just you, he felt safe enough to lay back down.” 

Bucky shrugs, kicking the toe of his boot at the floor. “And then I ruined it.”

“Or you startled him. Or he was so in his head about the things Sam said that he wasn’t even really noticing your hand. Or he laid there for a while and realized he wasn’t going to be able to fall asleep after all and didn’t want to waste your time.”

“Or I ruined it. Creeped him out or scared him or something.” 

Steve gives him a look that is so much like Sarah Rogers it almost makes Bucky cry. “I think you’re making a mountain out of a molehill. Especially when you barely have anything to go off of here. If Nat has taught me anything in this new century, it’s that research is vital. Data is everything.” 

“What does that even mean?” Bucky asks in exasperation. 

“It means you need to try it again. Under different - better - circumstances. See what happens. Maybe even talk about it with him afterward, god forbid.”

Bucky wrinkles his nose. 

Then he shrugs it off altogether, feigning nonchalance. “He probably won’t even try it again. Like I said, I likely ruined it. No more lap naps for me.” 

Steve rolls his eyes. “Sure.”

** 

If Bucky wasn’t so goddamn relieved when Peter Parker’s head finds its way back on his thigh less than 24 hours later, he’d be really annoyed that Steve was right. Especially when Steve wanders in about an hour into the nap, giving Bucky a slow-building, far too-knowing smirk. Bucky had flipped him off, which he had a free hand to do because he had not been brave enough to do the hand in the hair thing again, and he only needs one hand to hold open the book he’s fairly certain he’ll never finish at this rate. 

Steve blows him a kiss in return. 

Bucky is worried that Steve is spending a little too much time with Sam. Dickheads, the both of them. 

**

Things are back to normal. 

Maybe even better than normal - Bucky is officially on page 97 of the book, and he actually knows what's happened too. 

Every day, he finds every excuse he possibly can to be either on the couch or “stretching” on a mat in the gym while watching training. Both seem to be acceptable conditions for a nap in Peter’s book. He’s kind of adorable in the way he assesses the whole thing. Bucky pretends not to notice when he first appears every day, hovering nearby, eyes on Bucky’s lap like he’s checking the weather forecast or something. There are other conditions he takes into account, of course - mostly who else is around, and how much noise those people are making. 

Regardless if there’s a failed assessment at one point in the day, Peter always comes looking again. That means he gets at least one really good nap a day. On Wednesday, he even manages two. All of them on Bucky’s lap. He doesn’t even seem to try with anyone else anymore. Bucky is pretending he doesn’t care about that. 

They fall into the ease of a routine soon enough. Peter naps peacefully. Bucky actually reads his book. It’s going well. So well. 

Then Steve strolls in about a week after the “hand incident” and raises an eyebrow at Bucky. It’s a very loud eyebrow. It asks, Have you been brave enough to try again? along with a, If not, why the hell not? with an added bonus of, You’re pretty gone for this kid, aren’t you, pal? 

Bucky looks away, thankful he can’t blush. 

Damn Steve and his stupid knowing eyebrows.

He waits a while after Steve leaves. It’s a ridiculous thought, but he actually finds himself worrying that his hand is going to start shaking if he tries to move it. His hand doesn’t shake. Even when withdrawals from HYDRA’s drugs were wracking through him, he barely even trembled. 

It’s the utter ridiculousness of the worry that finally has Bucky brave - *cough* stubborn - enough to do it. He adjusts his position first, taking a steadying breath, eyeing the messy mop of hair as if he needs to create a battle plan before approaching it. 

Then he just… does it. 

He just puts his hand on Peter’s head. Gently. Carefully. No shaking, thank god. 

Nothing happens. 

Bucky goes with his instinct, trying not to hold his breath as he slowly starts moving his fingers through the soft - so fucking soft - curls. The movement sends a wave of the kid’s smell into the air, hitting Bucky with the tantalizingly warm scent of vanilla. He could spend his life breathing that in. 

An almost startling calm washes over Bucky as he starts to map out the kid’s curls, the pads of his fingers tracing patterns along his scalp. It’s like when he got to use that therapy dog when SHIELD first forced him to do counseling. Except Peter is a thousand times better than a therapy dog because he’s a brilliant, funny, adorable, goofball of a human being who Bucky also thinks might just be the prettiest man he’s ever laid eyes on. Still, touching his hair like this has a similar calming effect on Bucky, even as it contradictingly has his stomach fluttering a little. 

About a minute into it, Peter’s body just sort of melts into the couch. 

Everything is kind of terrifyingly beautiful after that. 

Bucky lets himself just drift in the calm, happy glow of the moment as it stretches out in time. He doesn’t even try reading, just staring unseeingly at the current exposed page of his book. It’s meditative, almost, like when he sits for a long time while Steve draws him, his mind wandering, or like when he’s on the top of a building for hours, waiting for nightfall, just him, his rifle, and the oxygen he keeps pulling into his lungs. 

Eventually, Peter moves. It’s slow, reluctant, giving Bucky time to get his head back in the present while the kid sits up and mumbles something sleepy about getting work done in the lab. 

Bucky is careful not to look at him because he can see that there’s a strip of skin showing - near his belly, if his peripheral vision is accurate (which it always is). Peter’s shirt must have ridden up when he stretched. Bucky isn’t sure he’ll survive looking at that bit of skin, so he keeps his eyes solely on his book. He doesn’t want to seem like he dick, though, doesn’t want to ruin things for real this time, so he asks, “Sleep well?” 

He almost winces after he hears the two words. Does he sound smug because of how well Peter had relaxed under his touch? Does he sound anxious about Peter not liking the hand thing? Does he sound normal and is just entirely too paranoid? Probably the latter. 

“Like a baby,” Peter says easily. 

And then he’s gone, leaving Bucky alone on the couch, feeling a little cold and a lot of lonely. 

Bucky’s flesh hand is shaking, just a little. 

** 

It’s dangerous, what he’s doing with Peter. Bucky is aware of how dangerous it is. He’s aware that it could end up being a disaster for the team, for them, for himself. There are a million ways this could all blow up in his face. 

But Peter keeps coming to him, seeming to sleep better every time. Bucky’s hand is a constant now in his hair, going there even before Peter falls asleep usually. Bucky even gets brave enough to start gently nudging Peter’s head into better positioning whenever his neck looks like it’s stretched awkwardly. 

Sometimes, Peter lays there awake. It’s almost like a game - who can pretend better, Peter pretending to sleep, or Bucky pretending to read? 

Though Peter comes to find him so often these days that Bucky actually is getting some reading done, just like Peter is getting a good amount of sleep. 

But when they’re awake, all bets are off. 

Bucky plays with his curls, basking in the soft little sighs and barely-noticeable shivers that Peter can’t manage to hold back. He’s careful when he feels the kid’s eyes on him, not wanting him to stop looking even if it maybe scares him a little to wonder what Peter’s thinking as he does so. He just sits there and lets himself be studied, reading so hard he sometimes gives himself a headache, which is impressive according to Banner who tells him he doesn’t have much other than a very disgusting tea to relieve the symptoms. Thankfully the headaches always go away pretty soon after Peter flits off. 

Even better, now that Peter is more rested, he seems to be more active around the compound too. He pops up so much more often, looking for a snack, or a lost charger for his phone, or just some company. 

It goes on for a while, each day making something inside of Bucky grow. He can sense it. So can Steve. One time, when they’re doing their therapy-ish conversation while Steve is drawing Bucky’s flesh hand, Steve pauses after finishing a story about the alien invasion in New York and simply asks, “Do you think he feels the same about you?” 

Bucky flexes his hand impulsively, earning an angry look from Steve until he manages to get his fingers back in the places they were before. There’s some bossy nudging involved. Steve’s charcoal fingerprints are left behind. Bucky doesn’t entirely mind them. It makes him feel loved, a little. It makes him feel like someone who actually deserves to be loved. 

He doesn’t pretend to not understand Steve’s question. 

“I don’t know,” he admits, his voice hoarse. 

“I think it’d be nice, if he did.” Steve manages to say the words like they don’t matter, his focus back on his drawing, pencil moving crisply across the paper. “But whatever this thing is that you guys have, I think that’s nice too.”

“Yeah,” Bucky says, glad Steve isn’t looking at him anymore as a ridiculously stupid smile takes over his face. “I think it’s nice, too.”

**

Nice or not, he ruins it. 

Of course he ruins it. He’s Bucky fucking Barnes, after all.  

Everything starts out normal, Peter asleep on his thigh, the decoy book in place, hand in Peter’s curls, a calm washing over both of them. 

Then Bucky falls asleep. 

The funny thing is, it usually takes so much for Bucky to fall asleep. Not as much as Peter, but close. He can’t do it if anyone but Steve - well, and now apparently Peter - is around, unable to convince himself he’s safe regardless of how much he trusts the team. He can’t do it on the plane, hating the way everything vibrates and rumbles inside of him, almost electric in the way it travels through his body. He can’t do it right after a fight or his mind will slip into nightmares of past fights he desperately wanted no part of. He can't do it if he's been triggered, too paranoid he'll somehow wake up the Winter Soldier. 

But there he is, asleep on the couch with Peter in his lap. Asleep so damn peacefully, in fact, that the wake up is a gentle thing, just a slow opening of his eyes, the world coming into focus like a fog lifting off a sunlit lake. He’s warm, with a feeling of calm wrapped around him, and he can smell vanilla - can smell Peter . 

It registers that someone had just spoken in the room recently. Peter, Bucky figures. A question, if the tilt at the end of it was any indication. He looks at Peter, who is halfway sitting up, wondering if the question was meant for him. The kid’s hair is a wild mess, his cheek that was pressed against Bucky’s thigh rosy pink. 

Bucky smiles. 

It’s impossible not to, you know? It’s just - he sees him, sitting there, looking rested and calm and safe, a little ruffled, smelling like home, and he blinks his big doe eyes at Bucky, and Bucky just… he smiles . He can’t not smile. 

It’s not like it’s crazy or anything. It’s not manic. Not feral. Not threatening. Bucky knows his smiles, okay? He’s practiced that shit, after Sam told him once that he looked like a serial killer when he tried smiling. It was fair of him to point out - he was right, Bucky had discovered. 

So, he knows his smiles, and even though this is unplanned and catches him off guard, he knows it’s a nice smile. Gentle. Warm. Kind of a soft, Hello there , type of thing. 

And Peter’s heart - it jumps. 

It jumps just like it had in the plane, the night this whole thing started. Peter reacts accordingly. He runs. He’s out of there so fast, Bucky doesn’t even have time to register the kid’s movement before he’s out of sight. 

He blinks at the hall where Peter just was, then turns to find that someone else was in the room after all. Someone Bucky hadn’t even been aware of because of the magic that is Peter Parker. 

Tony Stark. 

Stark raises an eyebrow at him. “That was cozy.” 

Bucky looks away from the man, searching out his book. It's still in his lap, though it had fallen closed. He doesn’t even remember what part he was on anymore. What page. What was happening. 

“The two of you… you’d be good for each other,” Stark adds. 

Then he’s gone, nearly as fast as Peter. 

Bucky didn’t know it yet - but everything had been ruined. 

**

Peter is nowhere to be found. 

He’s rarely at meals, keeps out of the gym, only moves between the lab and his room at the most random times when he must feel certain no one is wandering around. He avoids the common room like a plague. The one time Bucky sees him anywhere near it, already seated on the couch with his book, ready to be there for Peter if he needs him, Peter hadn’t even allowed himself to glance at the piece of furniture - or the super soldier sitting on it. 

The worst is when they do see each other. It's always too fast for Bucky to really cherish. Too fast for him to figure anything out. Data, as Steve so helpfully explained, is important. But when Peter can't seem to manage being in the same room as Bucky for longer than an almost absurdly unbelievable “I’m fine” smile, the data is limited. Breakfast is his only chance to ever collect something more, but that's usually corrupted by the chaos of the rest of the team, especially if Tony has a briefing that could have definitely just been an email but instead ends up being a conversation piece over a ridiculous amount of food.

Bucky has at least been able to gather three key pieces of information from the breakfasts. 

1. Whatever happened, it wasn't Stark who messed things up because the kid seems perfectly fine with him. 
2. Peter keeps looking at him, almost like he's waiting for Bucky to say or do something, but Bucky doesn't know what.
3. Peter isn't getting rest. Not at all.

Bucky knows deep in his gut that something bad is going to happen. 

The worst part?  

He can't do a fucking thing to stop it. 

** 

Bucky is letting a HYDRA agent crumple to the floor after a very effective chokehold when he hears it. A sucked in breath, then, “Oh shit!” over the comms. 

He has just enough time to whip around, looking at the spot where he last saw Peter. Then the grenade explodes in a chaotic flash-bang and the world stutters to a terrifying, heart-wrenching stop . 

Bucky has felt this way before - when he fell off a train, when he woke up to Russian instead of English, when he heard the words, You are to be the new fist of HYDRA. 

He felt it when Steve said, “Bucky?” When he watched Steve fall off the helicarrier. When Stark asked, “Do you even remember them?” 

It's a very visceral type of fear - the kind that almost kills you on its own. 

For a single moment, Bucky can't find Peter.

Then there he is, a heap on the ground, his suit torn to hell and his face covered in blood. There's a lot of noise, but through it all he swears he can hear the rasp of Peter's lungs as they desperately try to catch air. 

Tony gets to him first, just as Peter somehow manages to force his body into a mockery of a vertical position. His legs give out, sending him down to the ground again. Stark lands his suit and Peter panics, swinging blindly in his direction. Stark easily dodges it. He yells for Peter to calm down, saying, “Hey, kid, it's me, it's Tony!” just before catching another punch. Peter must finally hear him, or maybe he just recognizes Tony's grip. Either way, he relaxes into Tony's hold, sinking against the man's metal suit. 

There's still a battle to fight as Stark flies him off to the jet. Not much of one, the team seems to have doubled down in rage, tearing through the remaining enemy like feral dogs. Bucky only has to handle two more pieces of shit agents before Steve calls the all clear and it's time to wrap things up. 

Bucky doesn't help like he usually does, always wanting to avoid entering the confined space of the jet for as long as possible. He doesn't care about that now. All his mind cares about is Peter. 

Peter, Peter, Peter. 

It's a mantra that drags him through the battle zone and into the jet in a trance, his usually perfectly calm and controlled heart causing a thunderstorm worthy of Thor's pride inside his chest. He can't help that he falls to his knees at Peter's feet. He doesn't care who sees it. Doesn't care what they think they know about them. 

“How bad?” he croaks. 

“It was a sonic light grenade. The damage is mostly internal,” Stark informs him, his gauntlet still lingering over Peter's chest as if Friday just finished telling him the same thing. “Nothing is bleeding internally. He's got a concussion, but those always clear up for him pretty quickly. The biggest thing-”

But before he can finish, Peter's hand scrabbles against the metal on Stark's knee. His voice is high and reedy with panic. “Mr. Stark? Sir? I - I can't h-hear anything.” His hand becomes more frantic against Stark's suit. “I can't see. I can't see. ”

“Yeah…” Stark mumbles, looking quickly at Bucky, then away with a wince. “ That's the biggest thing.” 

Bucky’s flesh hand is shaking again. “Fix it,” he growls. 

“I can't . I mean, I probably could, with the right stuff, but by the time we get back to the compound, he'll be halfway healed already. I could just end up making it worse.”

“He has to wait it out,” Banner says not unkindly. He gives Bucky a sad smile. “The important thing is that he'll be okay. He's going to be just fine.”

Bucky's stomach quakes. He remembers feeling helpless and confused. Remembers blindfolds and earbuds, remembers cells so dark and silent he thought he'd go insane, remembers pain so visceral he couldn't do anything but lay still and try to remember how to breathe. 

Sure, Peter will be okay, but Peter doesn't know that. He must be fucking terrified. Not must be - he clearly is terrified. He shakes like a damn leaf as he sits there on the bench, the only thing keeping him up being the wall at his back and Stark by his side. His hand is clinging to Stark's armor so tight there are small indents in the metal. He startles every time a member walks by closely enough for him to feel the vibrations of their movements. He whimpers when the jet's engines kick on. He hyperventilates every time his mind returns to reality after drifting away from the pain for a few minutes. 

“I can't…” he starts to say again, his voice cracking straight down the middle. “Can't see anything.” 

“I know,” Bucky says, even though Peter can't hear him. He feels lost. Useless. But he can't stop. The second Peter can hear him, he wants his voice to be there waiting. He needs Peter to know Bucky never allowed him to be alone. “I know, sweetheart. You're okay.” 

He can feel everyone staring at him, Stark especially. Bucky ignores them all. He just focuses on Peter's heart, listening to the terror and panic coursing through his veins and infiltrating his lungs. 

Peter starts crying. Heavy tears that slide agonizingly slowly down his dirty cheeks, more and more replacing them as Peter stares unseeingly at the world around him. Bucky's heart is in his throat. His own eyes burn. 

Bucky can't leave him alone. 

He doesn't care that Peter is surrounded, that he likely knows logically that his team would never leave him, that he can feel Tony's suit beneath his hand - it's not enough . 

Bucky moves to take a seat on the opposite side of Peter and places his hand on Peter's knee. Slowly, he begins to tap. The kid is brilliant, but Morse code is still pretty old school. There's a chance Peter won't know it. Even so, the taps might be enough without meaning behind them. The touch might be calming. Steadying. Almost as good as the hand on his hair that always makes him melt, something Bucky would do right now if he wasn't so worried about Peter's concussion and the amount of pain he must be feeling throughout his whole head. 

He taps the one thing he cares about right now - the one thing he desperately needs Peter to keep doing. Breathe . 

After a few repeats of the steady "-... .-. . .- - .... ." , Peter shocks him with a whispered confirmation, “Breathing.” He follows it with proof, sucking in a deep breath that shudders and fights him. 

Bucky grins. He listens to Peter breathe again. And again. He's never heard anything more beautiful. 

Then, unable to help himself, he's tapping again. The message is less important, less insistent, so he keeps the taps light as if he's just poking fun. Nerd . He knows the moment Peter understands because his lips curl into a fragile, beautiful smile. His soft laugh is choked off, but it's music to Bucky's ears. 

Then Peter's hand is leaving Stark's armor, searching for him instead. Bucky turns into Peter's position and catches the hand with his. Peter holds on so tight his muscles shake with the effort. 

Bucky meets Stark's eyes. “He should lie down.” 

Just like that, Stark is getting up and moving away, leaving space for Peter to swing his legs up. His head would have to go in Bucky's lap. It'd be funny, if his heart wasn't breaking. 

Bucky is gentle as he nudges Peter into the right position and carefully guides him to lie down. His cheek is pressed into Bucky's tactical pants, tears soaking into the black fabric that's dusted with debris and gunpowder. Bucky’s fingers are moving into Peter's hair before he can second guess the move. It’s worth the momentary oh shit moment of thinking he might scare the kid off when Peter starts to melt beneath his touch. Every stroke of his fingers seems to pull a little more weight from the kid’s shoulders until he's loose and pliant, eyes closed, his breathing evening out. Bucky listens as Peter's heartbeat slows, slows, slows. He listens to it settle into the calm, steady cadence of normality, of safety. It's not long at all before he's sleeping.

Steve comes over then, likely able to hear the same things. He keeps his distance, squatting about a foot in front of Bucky. His eyes are kind and warm. Worried. But happy, too. Like he knows something Bucky doesn't. He bets they all look like that right now, if he cared enough to check. 

He hopes they're right. 

God, he hopes they're right. 

Without a word, Steve hands him one of the special meal bars Bruce helped create for them, followed by a Gatorade. Then he gently squeezes Bucky's shoulder and disappears back to his seat. 

Bucky sits like that for the rest of the flight, a quiet sentinel as Peter rests against him.

Even the jet's landing doesn't manage to jar the kid out of his deep sleep. It worries Bucky, even if he's relieved Peter is finally getting some rest. He waves both Stark and Steve off when they silently gesture toward him as if asking if he wants help or maybe company. Then it's just the quiet jet and the soft sound of Peter’s breathing, the cool breeze from outside drifting in just enough to ruffle his soft curls. The sunset is beautiful through the open bay door, all bright pink and orange. Bucky doesn't bother looking at it for long. His eyes only want Peter. 

Except, the longer he watches him sleep, the more his worry turns into something darker. Something angrier. 

Whatever he did to mess things up, Peter should have talked to him. Or he should have figured out another way to sleep. Another way to take care of himself. Bucky gets it. He understands how hard it can be to find sleep. But Peter could have been killed. 

He could have been fucking killed. 

By the time Peter stirs awake, Bucky is close to panic about the possibility. He doesn't like panic. Doesn't like the anger either. He tries to stuff it all down, as deep as it can go. Where he keeps the Winter Soldier. 

He can already feel it crawling back up as Peter's eyes meet his, threatening him like a looming figure in the dark. 

The kid stands up, rubbing at his face. Bucky bites back the urge to tell him to sit back down. Bites back all his desperates questions about how he's feeling, about how Bucky can fix things, about how he plans on surviving like this. 

“How long has it been?” Peter asks, his voice gravel. He wavers on his feet. 

Bucky has to curl his hands into fists to keep from grabbing him. 

“A few hours.” 

That looming anger starts to bear down on him, making Bucky's chest tight. He looks at this kid - fuck, this beautiful man - and can't stop himself from spilling his fear. “You could have been killed .”

It throws the man off for a second, his face twisting. “Yeah, well, occupational hazard.” 

Bucky can tell it's meant to be a joke, but the man’s too stretched thin to even manage a falsely humorous tone. It’s just flat. 

It's bullshit . 

Long forgotten emotions wrap their hands around Bucky's throat. He could have been killed, you could have lost him, what are you going to do about it? they seem to taunt. 

I'm going to take care of him, Bucky thinks back.

“When was the last time you had a proper night’s sleep?” 

He waits for Peter to lie or joke, those ghost hands still around his throat. He doesn't, though. Maybe he’s realizing Bucky is fucking right. Maybe he's realizing he can't keep going like this. 

Whatever his reason, he finally says the truth. “A while.”

Bucky feels like he can breathe. 

This is good. He can fix this. He can take care of Peter. Maybe this is why Bucky survived, why he kept dragging himself out of hell even on the days where everything felt hopeless. Maybe-

“I should probably go check in with Mr. Stark,” Peter says. “Tell him I am alright and all.” 

Bucky swears he can hear those emotions inside his head laughing somehow, taunting, even as he makes sure to keep his face perfectly blank. He can't speak. If he speaks, he'll beg - and he promised himself a long time ago that he'd never be made to beg again. 

He just sits there, watching Peter walk away from him, helpless to do anything but watch. 

Except Bucky has Steve Rogers as a best friend. He's been studying stubbornness for just under a century. Not to mention all the practice he got following the sick boy around, never directly offering help, just being there for whenever Steve finally broke and looked around for it. It was excellent training for Peter Parker. So, Bucky knows how to do this. He's not helpless at all. He just has to change strategies. 

He showers first. Changes clothes. Eats some food Steve left marked in the fridge for him, leftovers from the team's usual post-mission food fest. Ignores the food marked for Peter that the man decided not to come and get. Takes a deep breath to calm himself. Grabs his book. 

Then he goes and sits outside of Peter Parker's closed bedroom door, back to the wall, knees drawn up. 

And he waits to be needed. 

**

Bucky jerks awake to the sound of a screeching alarm. He's on his feet in seconds, hand going to the door. 

He pauses just before bursting in, realizing the alarm is one from a phone, not the one from the compound's system. This is an alarm Peter set for some reason. 

It's turned off before he can wrap his mind around that. He lets himself tilt his head close to the door and listens to the softer sounds in the room. There's some rustling of sheets. A deep sigh of exhaustion. A steady heartbeat. 

Bucky stands there for a few more minutes before slowly sinking back to the floor, picking up his book again just to have something to hold. It's a new one. He finally finished the last back during his days of Peter-induced exile. He wonders how many days he'll spend cradling this one for pretend. Or how many days he'll spend actually reading because Peter is closing him out. 

Has nothing changed? Is he going to continue being stubborn about getting rest? Why the hell does he have an alarm set when he needs to sleep? 

He could have been killed.

What is wrong and why won't he just let Bucky fucking fix it?

Bucky feels like pulling out his hair. Feels like screaming. Feels like fighting. He should go hit the heavy bags or see if someone is awake to sit with him. He should try Bruce's tea that's supposed to calm even a super soldier. He should go get Steve, wake him up if he's sleeping, and admit that he wants to go find someone - a bad guy, a mugger, one of the HYDRA agents they've been sitting on - and soak his hands in their blood.

He should encourage Peter to get help and then walk away before this man unravels him completely. 

Instead, he sits. 

He waits. 

Another alarm goes off, no more than an hour after the first. 

Bucky rests his head back against the wall, closing his eyes and releasing a slow breath through his nose. He doesn't know what to do. He doesn't know what to fucking do . 

Peter doesn't shut the alarm off this time. He lets it go and go. Bucky eventually rises to his feet, hand hovering near the door as he debates if he should knock. What if Peter gets upset? What if the man sleeps naked? What if - and then Bucky realizes he can't hear Peter's heartbeat beneath the wailing alarm and all bets are off. 

He shoves his way into the bedroom, stopping short as the removed barrier exposes him to the heartbeat he couldn't hear before. It's panicked, despite Peter lying eerily still. 

Maybe it's night terrors, Steve had mentioned one night. 

Bucky had laughed. Don't we all have those? 

No, Steve had said, looking grave. We don't. 

Bucky had looked them up then. 

The concept had made him sick. It had made him think of restraints and blindfolds and drugs slicing through his veins. It had made him remember the utter despair of helplessness. 

Maybe it's night terrors. 

Bucky doesn't hesitate, moving to the edge of Peter's bed and clasping a not-gentle hand on the kid's shoulder. He jerks him, sharp and insistent. “Peter. Hey. You're okay. Wake up, doll.”

Bucky winces at the pet name slip, but Peter doesn't seem to hear it. Bucky shakes him harder. He shakes him until he finally startles awake, gasping like he had that very first time on the jet. Like he had been going without air for too long. Like his life was on the line. 

He looks up, his eyes going in and out of focus for a moment before he finally looks at Bucky like he sees him. His eyebrows pinch together, a frown tugging at his pink lips. “What the…”

“Your alarm,” Bucky says. It's not what he wants to say, not even close, but he can't think until the damn thing is shut off anyway. It's a start. “It's been going off for five minutes.” 

Peter sits up slowly, bringing a shaking hand to his face. “Thanks.” 

He fumbles his phone before managing to finally put an end to the screeching. There's still a subtle tremble to him as his heart tries to calm down. He's not meeting Bucky's eyes, but he’s still looking at him, peeking through his lashes to do so. Bucky doesnt want to be affected by it - he's worried, goddammit - but fuck , Peter is beautiful.

“Why are you up?” Peter whispers.

Bucky feigns a shrug and easily lies, “Just was. Then heard your alarm.”

He nods, still looking dazed and shaken. 

And then he fucking gets out of bed. 

Bucky just stares at him, certain there's a reason this kid who so clearly needs sleep is out of bed. He could want a change of clothes - a change of sheets, too. Everything is damp with sweat that smells like terror and adrenaline, after all. Or to use the restroom. Maybe get a glass of water. 

Except, all he does is pull on socks, his toes scrunching after, making a subtle swish against the floor. Bucky almost smiles at how adorable it is. 

Then the man pulls out his shoes. 

Bucky suddenly feels ice cold inside, like cryo has gotten into his veins. When Peter glances at him, a small frown pulling at his lips, Bucky releases a sigh that's a little too loud and defeated for his own liking. “You're not going back to sleep?” he asks even though he's pretty sure he already knows the answer. 

Sure enough, Peter says, “Duh.” 

Bucky breathes very, very slowly. 

In. 

Out. 

Peter starts working on his shoes. His fingers fumble with the laces, his exhausted mind and body not working as they should. He could have been killed. 

In. 

Out. 

“Not a fucking chance,” Peter continues, nearly falling over as he tries - and fails - to pull on his shoe. “I am never sleeping again. Screw sleeping. Sleeping is overrated.”

In. 

Out.

Bucky watches as Peter wavers on his feet. He blinks rapidly, like the world is spinning around him. He looks ready to drop. Ready for his poor body to just completely collapse. 

Bucky isn't even sure if he's aware that neither of his shoes made it on his feet. 

In. 

Ou - actually, no. 

Fuck this. 

“You got a pillow you like or something?” Bucky asks, 

Peter blinks at him. “What?” 

Honestly, Bucky has no idea. 

He starts to put his hands in his pockets, his go-to move. Except this particular pair of pants don't have any. He looks down at them in betrayal. Why did he ask about the man’s fucking pillows? Why can't Bucky just ask Peter to let him help? Why can't he just invite him to his room for a night's rest? 

He thinks of what Steve would do.

Luckily for him, he pretty much knows. The man already did a lot of this for Bucky when he was first recovering - forced sleep included. And Steve hadn't asked . He'd told . 

“C'mon,” Bucky says, already walking out of the room, knowing Peter will follow him. 

Well… hoping Peter will follow him. 

And miracles of miracles - he does.

**

Bucky doesn't let himself second-guess. He walks right into his room, leaving the door open as an invitation. He runs through his usual routine for when he ever enters a room, slowly walking the perimeter as he assesses the area. He trusts everyone in the compound by now, but habits are a bitch to break. Plus, it gives him something to do that isn't just standing there waiting to see if Peter is ever going to leave the doorway and come in. 

He wonders what Peter thinks of what he's seeing. If he notices how clean everything is, the result of too many years in dank cells or cryotubes, too many years dripping blood and coated in grime, too many years he was sometimes forced to be filthy as punishment itself. If he notices the bed tucked against one wall, providing a place for Bucky to press his back against so he can manage sleep less afraid. If he notices the strategically placed weapons throughout the room - 3 in rather obvious places, 5 less so, not counting the arsenal hidden away in the closet - all there for the what-ifs that haunt him daily. 

Peter is still by the doorway when Bucky finishes his sweep, but he's taken a few steps forward. It's enough for Bucky to slip past him and close the door. He's quiet about it, not wanting to startle Peter. The boy looks lost. Nervous.

“Go to sleep,” Bucky says, keeping his voice low and calm. It's the warm and caring, but I'm-not-going-to-take-your-shit, voice that Steve is so good at. Bucky hopes there's no you-might-die-and-I'm-starting-to-think-I-can't-live-without-you to be heard in there alongside it. Maybe the man will be too out of it to notice if there is. 

When Peter just wavers, Bucky reaches over and flicks the light switch off. The room is suddenly encased in darkness. Despite making sure Peter saw what he was going to do before doing it, the kid's heart still starts to race.

Bucky skates his hand over Peter's upper back before gently cupping his shoulder, noting how he immediately calms beneath the touch. He uses the grip to guide him toward the bed, just in case his eyes aren't fully healed or he's just too damn tired to find it in the dark. Peter doesn't fight him, but the way he moves is sedated, almost dazed. 

“This is weird,” he mumbles when his knees hit the edge of the mattress. A single nudge is enough to send him collapsing down, his body giving out like those wooden Jenga blocks Natasha loves playing with Bucky. 

“Only weird if you make it weird,” Bucky bullshits. Because it is weird, absolutely, but it's also going to get Peter to fucking sleep, he's sure of it, and that's worth any weirdness. Right now, after nearly losing him, that's worth almost anything. “Lie down.”

Peter is already halfway there, but he stays partially upright long enough to scoot toward the wall. Bucky turns away, giving him some time to get comfortable without hovering awkwardly. He considers the possibility that he should maybe get some knick knacks or pictures or something as he realizes he doesn't have much to fiddle with. He adjusts a weapon, fingers stroking the metal like it's a comfort blanket. Maybe it is. Maybe he needs that right now. 

It doesn't matter anyway. Peter Parker is in his bed - he can barely stay away for 30 seconds before he's turning back. Bucky is so fucking weak when it comes to him.

He sits on the edge of the mattress for a second, giving Peter a chance to protest, then lowers himself onto his back. He doesnt move the covers, thinking maybe that would be too much for Peter if they were both under the same blanket. Hell, maybe it'd be too much for Bucky . 

Bucky feels the mattress shift just a touch, the sound of Peter's skin moving against the pillow drawing his attention over. He decides to hold still instead of looking at him though. If Peter is questioning this situation, Bucky doesn't want to spook him. 

It's not until five minutes have passed with Peter still holding himself unnaturally still, his breathing ever so slightly too fast, that Bucky realizes this isn't working. On the couch, Peter's head hits his lap and he's immediately relaxed, eyes already closed. If he adds his hand to the man’s hair, Peter melts like butter.

Why is this different? Is it beds? He hates beds? Is it being in Bucky's room? Does he not trust him if they're in private? Does he pick the common room because anyone could see them and Bucky has to behave? 

Is it… could he want Bucky… closer? Does he need Bucky to touch him? 

Bucky feels a little unmoored by that possibility, but not exactly in a bad way.

Peter's heartbeat suddenly ticks upward, like maybe his thoughts are racing. His body follows. He shifts around, restless. Shifts again. He runs his hand over his stomach, pretending to smooth an already smooth blanket. He brings his hand to his mouth and nibbles on his thumbnail. He pulls at his bottom lip. He shifts around again. 

He needs to be calmed. 

Bucky wants nothing more than to calm him. 

Bucky turns onto his side. It immediately brings him closer to Peter. It makes it so Bucky can finally see him, too. He looks unbearably small tucked in the corner like he is. Not exactly fragile, but precious . Something worth protecting. Something Bucky really doesn't want to break.

Bucky hesitates, preparing himself for the possibility that he's reading this whole thing entirely wrong and Peter might bolt. Then he reaches across the space between them and gently curls his fingers around Peter's arm. 

“There,” Bucky murmurs, feeling himself calm already. “Better?”

Peter swallows so hard Bucky hears the soft click of his throat. It's not nearly as loud as his heart, though. That thing is near-panic, wild and angry. Bucky is just about to pull his hand back and apologize. 

But then Peter exhales, slow and even, and his whole body just… relaxes .. 

A blanket of calm seems to fall over them both. 

The stubborn boy whispers, “Yeah, I can't…” like he wants to argue, and then he's asleep. 

Bucky knows he should hurry to fall asleep too. There's no guarantee of how long Peter will rest beside him. It could be 30 minutes or 12 hours. He should try to get as much rest as he can while he doesn't have to worry about the man’s health. 

And he will - go to sleep, he means. Just… not yet. He wants a minute. Just a little bit of time. He wants to lay here and stroke his thumb in soft circles along the man’s shoulder. He wants to study the way the city lights pour in to illuminate the tips of his long lashes against his pale cheeks. He wants to memorize the moment in case he ruins things, in case he loses this. Wants to memorize the feeling of Peter being close and warm and safe, so damn pretty it hurts. Wants to memorize the rush from Peter trusting Bucky when he's at his most vulnerable. 

It isn't until just before he slips off to sleep that Bucky realizes Peter is the one who has his back to the wall. And yet, Bucky has never felt safer. 

**

Bucky is the first to wake up, the late morning sun filtering in through the windows. He blinks slowly, once, twice. 

Then he sees Peter. 

The man has found his way over to Bucky through the night, following his touch like a beacon. He's curled up on his side, his cheek pressed to Bucky's metal shoulder, his hair a mass of chaotic curls, one leg slightly overlapping Bucky's. His clothes seem to be rioting, one sock missing completely, his sweatpants riding up his long legs, his shirt rucked up around his chest. He's all soft and warm and peaceful, resting against Bucky like he trusts him to keep the monsters away - even the monsters inside his own mind.

Bucky watches him for longer than he should. He knows it's creepy. In fact, there's a distinct moment where his mind switches and tells him, dude, this is fucking creepy. The voice is Sam's. That makes it easier to ignore. 

He doesn't want Peter to see the creepiness though, so he probably shouldn't be just lying here staring at him whenever he wakes. Bucky very carefully reaches over to his nightstand for the book there, trying his best not to jostle Peter. It's the same book he just finished - the new one was abandoned on Peter’s hallway floor. Bucky sighs softly in resignation. He supposes there could be worse ways to spend his time. 

It's not like he actually reads anyway. By page 4, his mind is far from the book, spinning out about the kid - the man , the very beautiful man - using him as a pillow. Bucky doesn't remember a time when he's wanted someone like this. Sure, he's had his heated exchanges, had an intense fling here or there, but Peter is different. Peter is in his bones, in his blood. Bucky looks at him and he feels a visceral need . Bucky doesn't know what the fuck he's supposed to do about that. About any of this. All he knows is he can't lose Peter. Even if it means never getting him the way Bucky truly wants - maybe even needs - he'll do what he has to. He'll savor whatever scraps he can get. 

He's pulled from that final thought by a slight change in Peter's breathing. The room is dimmer now, the sun working it's way toward the opposite side of the building. It makes Peter look even softer, all warm and glowing, but Bucky forces himself to stare at the book instead. He gives Peter a moment to realize where he is in case he panics, then says as nonchalantly as possible, “Afternoon.”

There's a pause, almost like a delay as the man processes the moment. Then he bolts off the bed like a jumping spider. He nearly falls over in the process, his coordination apparently not quite awake yet. He darts off to the bathroom with nothing more than a soft squeak, definitely avoiding even looking in Bucky's direction.

Bucky has enough time to work himself up into worrying that he messed up again while he listens to the sink run in the bathroom. He can't sit still, getting off the bed and quietly pacing back and forth. He's pretty sure Peter is in there freaking out. That means Bucky can't freak out too. He has to get his shit together. 

He folds down to the floor, hoping a minute or so of push-ups will clear his mind. If there's one thing his time with HYDRA taught him -well, apart from how to be the best assassin in history- it's that focusing on the physical always helped quiet the mental. He liked having tangible tasks, even if he hated the tasks themselves. He liked having weapons to care for, or his arm to tend to. He liked having a focus. Some of his worst days were when they'd leave him in a dark, barren cell for endless stretches of time, his only company his own thoughts. 

Before Bucky's head can go too far down that road, he hears the water shut off. He keeps doing his workout absentmindedly as he realizes Peter is talking to himself in there. 

“Okay, Parker,” he hears the man hiss. Bucky's lips curl into a smirk as he pictures Peter staring at himself in the mirror as he continues. “Just act normal. Totally normal. Because sharing a bed with Bucky and waking up cuddling his metal arm is not fucking weird. Unless you make it weird.”

Hate to break it to ya Peter, you already did. 

Peter suddenly walks out, catching Bucky off guard in a way no one else ever can. Bucky doesn't show it. He makes sure to keep doing his push-ups in the same perfect, steady rhythm. He hadn't exactly planned on being caught doing these - who's the weirdo now? - but he has to say… he doesn't particularly mind feeling Peter's eyes on him. All over him, really, like a caress almost. Bucky's dick starts to perk up at the sensation. Before he can give his own little pep talk in his head, his mind draws up an image that nearly has him faltering - Peter laid out on the bed, naked and flushed, and Bucky pounding steadily into him just like this. 

Bucky has to swallow a groan. 

He's not sure if he's disappointed or relieved when the man mumbles something that sounds like, “Um - I - going,” and escapes out of the room. 

Bucky folds himself into a sitting position, forearms on his knees as he feels the soft thrum of adrenaline in his veins. Maybe it’s the dirty image, or the way Peter had sounded almost breathless in his hasty goodbye, or just the lingering feeling of holding him in his arms in bed, but Bucky is starting to think he's not the only one falling for a hot mess of an enhanced human in this equation. 

Wouldn't that be something? 

**

Bucky has a new mission and it might just be his favorite. It's Operation Take Care of Peter. (Yes, the name is less than impressive, but he's not exactly used to giving himself missions, let alone coming up with names for them, so he'll take it). The important thing is that he has a plan. He's determined. This man isn't even going to know what hit him by the time Bucky's through. He can promise one thing, though - the stubborn, adorable idiot will be a hell of a lot healthier by the end of if. 

He finds Peter roaming the halls the next night, eyes barely open, feet dragging. One second he's running a finger along the wall as he meanders down toward Stark's lab. The next Bucky is stepping in front of him. The man doesn't startle, just blinking slowly as he registers the new presence. Bucky notches his chin in the opposite direction. “Come on. Time for bed.” 

Peter frowns. “Not yet. Not - I have time.”

Time before it's dangerous , Bucky realizes he's saying. Time before my body puts me to sleep itself. 

They aren't fucking waiting for that. 

Bucky fixes him with a look - one he learned from Steve. “You can walk to my room or I can throw you over my shoulder and carry you. Either way, you're ending up there.”

Peter blinks. Then he sighs and nods. “Yeah. Okay. Bed sounds… nice.”

And it is nice. There's no hesitation this time. No awkward tension. Peter just goes straight to the room, letting himself in. All it takes is a gentle nudge, just Bucky's knuckles grazing the back of his shoulder, for Peter to crawl onto the bed. Bucky follows like a string is pulling him. 

They settle in the same positions as the night before. It takes less than a minute this time for Peter to be curling onto his side and giving him a look with those big doe eyes of his. Bucky knows what he needs. He mirrors him and places a hand on his hip, steady and firm. Peter sighs, soft and relieved, and closes his eyes. He's asleep within seconds. 

The next night, he finds him in the kitchen about to fall into his cereal bowl. All Bucky has to do is put a hand on the back of his neck and give him that look again. Peter mumbles, “Yeah, yeah, okay, coming,” and lets Bucky guide him to his room. They both lay on their sides right away. Bucky's hand is on Peter before their bodies even settle fully into the mattress. He whispers, “Close your eyes and sleep.” And Peter does.  

He finds him outside Stark's lab, wired and shifty. It takes more convincing. A back and forth before Bucky finally says, “You are about to pass out, you idiot .” Peter doesn't take offense - even Bucky can hear the overwhelming fondness and worry in his tone. He doesn't argue anymore either. That night, Bucky falls asleep with his hand in Peter's hair. 

He finds him on the couch, head propped up on his fist, staring unseeingly at the TV while Steve sketches on the other end. Bucky tries not to feel smug about Peter not choosing to use Steve as a lap pillow. It's hard to pull off though when Peter slumps at the sight of him, all tension dissolving as he sighs in relief. 

“Bed?” Peter whispers, almost as if he's been waiting for him. 

Bucky's chest burns with the ferocity of how much he adores this person. He worries it comes out in his voice when he says, “Yeah, bed.” 

Peter gets up, wavering on his feet. Bucky has no idea how it happens but he winds up with his arm around him, Peter's head going right to his shoulder, settling in the divot of metal at the false joint. It's exactly where his head ends up most mornings, when Bucky gets to wake up and watch him for quiet, reverent minutes - sometimes hours, if he’s lucky. He ignores Steve's knowing smirk as they leave the common room. Peter doesn't pull away when they get to the room, heading toward the bed with his head still against Bucky. They somehow manage to climb into the bed without tangling up in each other - not that he would entirely mind that. Bucky falls asleep with his hand cupped on the side of Peter's neck, his pulse singing a steady safe, safe, safe beneath Bucky's thumb. 

It's the first time Bucky thinks about kissing him. 

Not the abstract theory of kissing him - Bucky had done plenty of that, as well as thinking about doing dirtier things with him too - but in a real way. In the kind of way where he wonders what his lips would feel like against his. Wonders what he'd taste like. Wonders if he'd gasp or moan or shiver. 

He wonders if maybe he should try it sometime. Maybe sooner than later. 

He's pretty damn sure he's fallen in love with him, after all.  

** 

Bucky is just about to start his nightly search for a sleepy Peter when Sam and Steve arrive with a ding of the elevator, both of them laden with bags of food that smell phenomenal. He immediately changes his plans for the night - find Peter, yes, but have him eat some of whatever that is before they go to bed. 

Being the dick that he is, Sam raises an eyebrow at Bucky and says, “Let me guess, you'll go tell Stark and his little protégé that the food is here.” 

Bucky isn’t entirely pleased to be so seen. He also doesn't want any more accusing eyebrows tonight. There's no way he's sitting through dinner as Sam - and usually everyone else - studies him and Peter like they're scientists waiting for their research subjects to get it on or some shit. Maybe he should just bring Peter his food and they can eat with Stark in the lab or something. 

Since no one asked him what he wanted, they must not have done the hassle of getting everyone's orders. That means the bags are just full of a little bit of everything. Bucky steals the one closest to him right out of Steve's hand. He doesn't even bother explaining himself, already walking away. 

Bucky always hears the hum of machinery first when he heads to Stark's lab. He had hated it at first, the sound bringing him back to chairs with lightning or buzzing saws or a nasally voice saying the procedure has already started , but it's gotten easier to stay in the present. It definitely helps that Peter is there. Maybe HYDRA would have had an easier time managing him if Peter had been his incentive.  

On second thought, things would have probably been worse. No way would Bucky have allowed them to have Peter. He would have broken them out somehow. He has to believe that. He has to believe that if it meant keeping him safe, he would have figured out a way. Maybe not to get himself free, but at least Peter. 

He takes a breath, reminding himself it doesn't matter. Bucky is free, HYDRA is all but gone, and none of them ever laid a hand on Peter. Not like that, anyway. Not like they would have if they'd discovered he was Bucky's weakness. 

There's a moment - the first delightful moment - when he can finally hear the cadence of Peter's voice above the machinery noises. It's faster than usual, a little higher too. Bucky lets himself smile. The man is probably going on about some theory or another. Knowing his brain, he could be solving world hunger or time travel in there. Then again, it could be something far less profound. He and Steve were once forced to endure a 40 minute diatribe about the difference between Star Wars and Star Trek. They had hid whenever he came around for an entire week afterward, terrified there might be a Part 2.

Bucky can't help but let out a sickeningly soft sigh as Peter's voice becomes clearer. God, he's so in love with this adorable, rambling mess of a human. 

The door automatically opens for him before he reaches it, Stark apparently not having the lab locked down today. It's just a soft swish, so subtle even Bucky can barely hear it. It opens like a breeze. 

Which means Peter doesn't notice it's not just him and Stark any longer. Stark hasn't even noticed yet. Bucky smiles like an idiot at the very sight of them, still not sure how he's lucky enough for this to be - and then he registers what Peter is saying. 

Everything inside Bucky goes cold. 

“-practically living together and people need their space, you know? It's just not normal . And I know none of us are normal, and I know it's helping, I'm still so exhausted but it's helping, but does that really even matter if it ruins everything?”

Stark doesn't bother trying to answer. This must have been going on long enough for him to realize Peter doesn't actually want his participation. He just stands there, mildly amused, arms crossed over his chest. 

It feels like the walls are closing in around Bucky, like he's being shoved into a tube and locked away. 

“I'm trying to keep it friendly. You know, not everyone is gay, it's just how it is. And even if one guy is gay, he can still be friends with a straight guy. That's like - I want that? But there's just so much touching and it's helping but it’s kind of killing me too?” 

He knows he's not really back in cyro, despite the closing in, despite the pure cold rushing through his veins. But he can't help thinking maybe cyro would be better than here…

Stark spots Bucky. His expression drops, his eyes widening. If Bucky had any doubt this conversation is about him, it's gone now. 

“Pete?” Stark says a little too loudly. He drops his arms. “Kid?”

But Peter isn't paying him attention. “I mean, sometimes people are just not into that, right? And that's fine .” 

“Kid, stop,” Stark says. His tone is the same one he uses in the field when there's no more time for bullshit. He grabs Peter by the shoulder and forces him into a clumsy turn. 

Peter's breath catches in his throat, audible, choked. His face twists. It's suddenly filled with guilt and grief and fear. 

He didn't want Bucky to know that he doesn't like what they've been doing. Genuinely doesn't like it, not just being playfully stubborn about it either. The situation has become bad enough that he needed to confide in Stark. He said it's fucking killing him.

Has he hated it this whole time? Has Bucky been pushing him into things? Did he cross the consent lines?  

Is he afraid of Bucky? Is that why he's telling Stark instead of just telling him? Christ - is he asking Stark for help? Is Bucky going to get kicked out? Is Steve going to ever forgive him? 

Bucky has been so fucking afraid of ruining this thing between them. Jokes on him. Turns out, there isn't a thing to ruin. There never was. 

All he can do is accept his fate now. Whatever these other men decide he deserves, he'll take it. They clearly know better than him. He's clearly still a danger, regardless of how desperately hard he's been working to not be. 

Bucky carefully places the bag of food on the nearest surface. He gives them a respectful, sort of apologetic, type of nod. 

And then he walks away. 

***

Bucky doesn't go to get food. He doesn't head to the gym to blow off steam. He doesn't go find Steve and lean on him for support. He wants to hide. To hole himself up and tear himself apart. 

There's no relief when he gets to his room. The burning hot shower doesn't touch the cold inside him. The mirror mocks him when he accidentally catches a glimpse of his mottled body, wondering how someone like him could ever believe he'd get someone like Peter. 

He looks like a monster. He's been a monster. 

Maybe he still is. 

Was Peter staying because he was afraid of what Bucky would do if he tried to say no? Is that why he'd always run away in the morning? Is that why it's been getting more and more difficult to find him in the compound every night?

He goes to his bedside table and opens the drawer. There's a book in there that he hasn't been able to read. He hasn't been able to even look at it. His hand shakes as he reaches for it. Bringing the cover closer makes the response inside of him worse. He stares at it- a picture of a teenager with a mischievous smirk and a tilt to his hat - and he feels scraped raw. 

You don't have to ever read it, Steve had murmured when he gave it to him his second week living here, right after he had been cleared by the therapist to be safe enough to be treated like a real person. I just thought you should know it exists, before anyone blindsides you with it. Besides, it's your story, right? You have a right to have it. 

Bucky settles in the chair he rarely uses. His metal thumb rests right beside the title of the book. He feels like that should be a metaphor or something. The fist of HYDRA contrasting the bold words - Brooklyn Boy: The Life and Loss of James “Bucky” Barnes.

There are other biographies, he knows. He skimmed a few when he was trying to remember himself. He sat in libraries and scrolled at internet cafes, piecing his history together. But Steve gave him this one for a reason. Bucky strokes his metal thumb along the line below the title. Preface written by Rebecca Barnes.

It makes him want to cry. He can feel it welling in his chest, choking him, threatening him. 

He wanted to tear himself into pieces tonight. He knows this will do it. He's known since the moment Steve handed it over all that time ago. 

He deserves this. 

He deserves worse.

He opens the book and begins to read. 

***

He's lost in his head when it happens, his eyes not seeing the page any longer as his mind spins memories. 

He stopped crying a while ago. Didn't even end up vomiting - though he supposes there's plenty of time for that, he's only made it halfway through Chapter 2 in the last 3 hours. 

He feels numb, distant, like the things in his mind aren't his own. He'd forgotten about Becca's pigtails and the way he'd pulled at them just to get her riled up. He'd forgotten that he'd steal bits of fruit while working at the docks, sneaking them back for Becca and Steve to split, always lying about having already eaten his share. He never knew Becca saw right through him. Or… he doesn't remember knowing, at least. 

He'd forgotten that he'd call her “Becca Boo.” That he'd read to her at night because she said he did better voices than their parents. That she'd crawl into his bed when she had nightmares because she believed he'd protect her from anything. 

He was my hero before he was anyone else's , she had written in the front of that book. He was mine first. 

So, yeah, it's safe to say Bucky's head is fucked and his eyes and chest are scraped raw and empty - he's obviously distracted when it happens. When the door of his bedroom just swings open, no knock or words called out first. If it were any other night, he'd freak. He'd already have his gun drawn and aimed before the person could appear through the opening. 

Now, though, he just blinks at the door and waits for his fate. There's just enough time to wonder if they've sent Stark or Steve to handle him. 

Then he sees who it is and realizes it's even worse - it's Peter. 

Not tonight, Bucky wants to beg. Tell me tomorrow. Ruin me tomorrow. I can't take any more tonight. Please.

Peter just looks at him. Studying him, almost. Taking in the details of the broken man who dared to believe he could ever be something more. Who dared to believe he could ever have something as good, something as beautiful, as the man in front of him. 

“Sorry,” Peter eventually mumbles, one shoulder shrugging as his gaze skitters away toward the bed. He sounds exhausted, but not just the usual kind of exhausted. He sounds like he's been scooped out. Like he has no more fight in him, but knows the battle isn't anywhere near the end. Bucky recognizes that sound. He lives with it laced through his voice every day, only ever fading when he has his hands on the man in front of him. 

“Can I just…” but Peter doesn't finish. 

Instead, he takes a step toward the bed. 

Bucky is shaking his head before he can make the decision to, his body clearly stepping in as self-preservation. Probably for the best. 

Peter doesn't listen, though. The stubborn man just climbs in anyway, back to the wall like always, covers pulled up around his waist. He's laying on his side like they've been doing lately, his body seeming to just be waiting for Bucky to come mirror it. 

Bucky releases a breath that's part relief, part fear. He doesn't understand. He doesn't know what to do. Peter is here, he's here , and Bucky doesn’t know what the fuck to do. 

“I can't sleep without you,” Peter admits, looking at Bucky through his lashes. His voice quivers. His bottom lip wobbles. Bucky didn't know he had anything more left in him, but he did. He must have, because he feels it shredding to pieces. 

“Can you be mad at me tomorrow? Please? I'll get some help. Therapy or something. Maybe Dr. Banner could cook me up something, you never know.” Peter pauses, drops his gaze, adds a breathy, desperate, “ Please?”

Bucky grips the book so tight he hears the binding creak. 

Why would he be mad at Peter? Why would Peter come here if he doesn't like this? How could he need Bucky if Bucky is killing him? 

He doesn't understand .

He hates not understanding. He hates this helpless, aching feeling. He hates that even though this is going to hurt, he still wants nothing more than to join the man in his bed. 

He hates the broken look on Peter's face more than anything else. 

He sets the book on the side table, cover facing down to hide it. He stands on surprisingly sturdy legs. Goes to his dresser. Gets some clothes. Heads to the bathroom.

 He washes up. Gets dressed. Tells himself he will not cry, will not beg Peter to forgive him, will not make this any harder than it already will be. 

Peter's eyes light up when he steps out of the bathroom. Bucky can't bear it. He turns off the lights, thankful his enhanced vision isn't good enough to give him the kind of details that will hit like needles tonight. He settles on the bed, right where he used to sleep before he found a new spot closer to the middle. Closer to Peter.

It's awful. It's not close enough. It's too close. It's everything he wants and everything he should not have. 

Every breath is punishment. 

And then Peter's hand finds his arm and tugs. It's impossible for Bucky to fight it. He doesn't have the heart. Doesn't have the inner strength. He rolls easily, only realizing that Peter had moved closer when he finds their bodies suddenly pressed flush, his nose settling in the soft spot just beneath Peter's ear. It smells like vanilla and Peter. It - fuck, it hurts. 

“Could you put your arm around me?” Peter whispers against his collarbone. He's trembling, just a little. His voice wavers when he adds, “You can hate me in the morning. If it helps, I kind of hate myself already.”

Bucky squeezes his eyes shut. I could never hate you , he wants to say. I love you. I love you so fucking much. 

He can't speak. Can barely breathe. He settles for wrapping his arms around Peter instead. He maybe even pulls him harder against him. Holds him there, safe and warm. It'd be so easy to pretend he's Bucky's. Bucky's to protect. Bucky's to love. Bucky's to keep.

Every breath Peter takes is a fresh jab at his heart, tiny little hurts that just might kill him. Death by a thousand cuts. Death by heartbreak.  

It's a very long night. 

The sun is fighting the night sky before he manages to finally slip away. His dreams are just as empty and cold as he is.

**

He wakes to movement, things shifting around him. His body doesn't panic for some reason. Before he can tell it to panic, he remembers why - Peter is here. It's Peter.

Sure enough, there he is when Bucky's sleepy eyes focus. He's pulled away slightly, like he's trying to retreat. Bucky's hand is still on the small of his back though, keeping him close. It forces him to arch his body a little. Bucky hates himself for the thoughts the position sends through his mind.

“You were asleep,” Peter whispers. 

It's pointing out the obvious. Bucky is too emotionally exhausted to wonder why. He just hums an agreement and forces himself to loosen his hold on Peter. The man doesn't move despite being freed. His eyes are locked on Bucky's face, searching for something. Bucky is sort of terrified of what he'll find. His defenses aren't up yet. He's barely even awake. The only thing he's sure of right this second is that his heart is tattered. He wonders if Peter sees it. He wonders if Peter cares. 

If Bucky hadn't hear Peter's words for himself, he'd think the way his gaze lingers on Bucky's lips might be a sign he's open to a kiss. 

There's no time to wonder if maybe he misheard. No time to even hope. Between one heartbeat and the next, Peter's hackles are suddenly raised. Bucky can feel the tension in the room suddenly come to a head. Peter must sense it too. He shakes his head and says, “Nope, too much for me,” and scrambles off the bed. 

Bucky finds himself saying the same thing he always says in the mornings when Peter is about to run away, though his voice is wrecked this time, the single word half-broken. “Morning.”

Peter stops instead of running like usual. He even turns and looks at him again. “Uh. Hi.”

Bucky can't breathe. He feels like he's going to claw right out of his own skin. Like he's a beast trapped in a cage. He pushes himself off the bed in a move that he hopes doesn't come off as panicked. At the same time, Peter says, “I should… um, probably get going.”

Probably? He definitely should. Not only is him being here breaking Bucky further by the second, it also can’t be good for him. Whatever his reasons for seeking Bucky out, they weren't healthy. Not if this thing Bucky thought they had was killing him. Not if he's willing to see a therapist or Bruce to be able to stop. 

Bucky feels unbearably bad for not seeing things clearly. For letting his emotions cloud his thoughts. Maybe HYDRA was right about some things after all. Maybe everyone would be better off if he stopped pretending he's anything more than a machine. If he stopped trying and went back to a blank page. 

Peter would be better off, he's sure. 

Their eyes meet. It feels like something sparks. Or grows. Or thrashes. Bucky can't fucking breathe . 

“Sorry,” he says hoarsely. At the same time, Peter whispers, “Sorry.” 

It's not a light moment. They don't laugh at the coincidence. They just keep looking at each other, two broken people who wound up breaking each other even more. Maybe that's what Peter is apologizing for. He shouldn't, though. Bucky was the one to fuck up. Bucky is the one who deserves to be left in pieces. 

Something passes over Peter's expression. Something deep and dark and sad. It's despair. Hope lost. A heart breaking. It threatens to unravel Bucky. He forces himself to keep up his front though, resigned to his fate, but determined not to let Peter hurt a second longer when it comes to him.

He doesn't know if he's relieved or gutted when Peter runs. 

He tries counting in his head like his therapist taught him. 

He winds up tearing his room apart instead, not stopping until he's curled on the floor, surrounded by things just as shattered as he is. 

Steve finds him there hours later. 

He holds Bucky tight, like he's afraid all the pieces will crumble if he doesn't. 

Bucky has been here before. Steve helped him pick up the pieces and reassemble them, again and again, until they finally stuck. He's not sure it can be done again. He's not sure if he has it in him to try. He's so tired. 

He's so broken. 

“I fell in love with him,” he tells his best friend, his entire body shaking with the intensity of his hurt. It's the first word spoken since Steve's quiet, “Oh, Buck ,” when he first walked in. 

Steve holds him tighter. “Yeah, pal. Yeah. I know.” 

**

“Alright,” Sam says as he waltzes into Steve’s living room. He has an entire suite, a move Stark made when Bucky came to stay. Bucky was a little too sketchy and broken for anyone - cough, cough, Steve - to want him on his own. So, Steve was upgraded to a suite with two bedrooms, a bathroom, and a kitchenette that overlooks a small living room. He never moved back to a regular room after Bucky moved into his own. No one really cares. 

Sam dumps an armful of things onto the coffee table, barely managing to grab a rolling bottle of pink nail polish before it falls right off and onto the floor. 

“Alright,” he says again, surveying his treasures. There is an entire roll of toilet paper, more nail polish in multiple colors, a small pink tub of something Bucky can’t read, fluffy headbands, a jumbo bag of Skittles, a slim bottle-like container of something else Bucky doesn’t recognize, a… fucking teddy bear?, Chapstick, unmatching fuzzy socks - one lilac, the other Christmas stripes-, entirely too many mini-chocolates, a metal flask with ENHANCED ONLY written on the piece of tape stuck to it, and a DVD of a movie called - Oh, fucking hell. 

“I told you guys,” Bucky grumbles. “We didn’t break up.”

They ignore him. 

“This is everything someone needs to survive a break up.” Sam winces. “Well, we’re missing bath bombs, which you and Steve claim always smell too artificial, and the sexy dress and perfume for the comeback, because you’re, you know, not a dress guy. But I figure you can borrow one of Steve’s too-small shirts and it’ll probably have the same effect.”

Bucky has so many questions. 

Steve beats him to it. “What’s the toilet paper for?” 

“Uh - I couldn’t find tissues. Which is kind of stupid, right? This is a very big compound.”

“And the nail polish?” Bucky asks. 

Sam frowns at him. “For the comeback,” he says in the same tone you’d use to say duh . 

Steve has picked up the pink tub that Bucky hadn’t been able to read the label of. He sticks with the trend by reaching for the slim bottle-like thing. “For face masks,” Sam says, pointing at Steve’s item. Then turning to Bucky’s, he says, “Mascara.”

“The fuck is that?”

“It’s basically the lash cream our ma’s used to use, but fancier,” Steve mumbles absentmindedly. He’s reading the ingredients of the face mask stuff. “Do we all get to use this?” he asks Sam at the same time Bucky asks, “Why would I want mascara?”

He should have expected the response. “For the comeback . After you’ve cried, you have to refresh your mascara.”

“But I don’t have anything to refresh because I don’t wear mascara.”

“Well, now you have the option to do so.” Sam looks over at Steve. “Yes, we can all do the face masks. There are three headbands.”

“I’m not interested in the face mask thing,” Bucky decides out loud. 

They ignore him. 

Sam picks up the bear and hands it to Bucky. After glaring at him for a very long time, in which Sam still doesn’t back down, Bucky takes the damn thing. It’s blue with a white belly, a darker blue storm cloud stitched inside the white circle, with little rain drops coming out of it. 

“It’s called Grumpy Bear,” Sam informs him cheekily. 

God, he’s such a dick. 

Bucky refuses to react, setting the bear right in his lap. “The stupid socks don’t match.”

“Wait, where did you get the mascara?” Steve asks. “And the polish?”

“And the unmatching socks?” Buck presses. 

Sam rubs at the back of his neck and mumbles, “It’s Nat’s mascara.” 

Steve puts a hand to his chest, clearly scandalized. “Does she know? ”

“Yes, she knows! Do you think I have a death wish?” Sam shakes his head. “The polish is mine, I used to love painting my nails but kind of forgot about it with all the Avenger stuff.”

“Is the chapstick for the comeback too?” Steve asks curiously. 

Neither of them seem to care that Bucky has not agreed to a comeback. 

Or that he doesn’t need a comeback because there was no break up.

“Nah. It's there because my mama always said that life sucks enough without having chapped lips, too. You can never have too much chapstick. It’s brand new, so it’s not gross for you to use, Bucky.” 

“And the socks?” Bucky asks, starting to think the socks are an issue Sam is purposely not discussing. 

Sure enough, Sam shoots him a look that’s half-pouty, half-angry. “I found them, okay? They were in the box of lost socks in the laundry room. They’re clean!”

Bucky scowls at him. “I am not wearing some random person’s socks. Two random people, possibly, since they don’t match!”

“Listen, those socks have been abandoned , alright? We saved them. We are sock heroes.” He grabs them both and chucks them right at Bucky’s face. “Put the fucking socks on. Steve, pick out what headband you want and force one on this asshole, too. I’m putting the movie in the player. Then we are going to sit, be fabulous, watch the break up, and paint our nails. By that point in the movie, it’ll be getting sad instead of funny, but our nails will be dry enough to binge the chocolates, you two can drink the ale from Thor while I drink normal human beer, and you can cry as much as you want. What happens here stays here. We won’t tell a soul.”

“And?” Steve hedges. 

Sam side-eyes him before sighing. “Alright, fine . I won’t ever bring it up either. Not even to give you shit when you’re being an asshole.” 

“Oh, wow,” Bucky deadpans. “How kind of you.”

Sam narrows his eyes at Bucky. “This can get worse, dude. You want me to call my sister? She’ll fly out here and be all over this situation so hard you’ll want to move to Antarctica.” 

Bucky winces. He has a feeling Sam isn’t being dramatic. If she’s anything like her brother, there’s a good chance she could run him out of New York pretty fast. Especially with his urge to run away from everything anyway. 

So, Bucky puts on the damn socks. 

All three of them end up crying. 

But that’s okay - it won’t leave the room anyway. 

** 

Peter doesn’t exactly disappear, but he’s not easily there either. He’s stopped appearing out of nowhere. He’s stopped wandering around so much before always coming to a halt whenever he had found Bucky, as if he was looking for him all along. He comes to about half the meals, at least. Things aren’t exactly awkward. Bucky isn’t letting a single ounce of emotion out, not even in his aura or whatever the fuck it is. He’s just keeping calm, steady, perfectly fine. Peter isn’t as great at that, but it’s just a slightly shaken or nervous tone to his movements, nothing more. It’s a relief, in a way. In another, it's devastating. 

They go about their life, and Bucky tries - he tries so damn hard - not to ache for what he thought they had before. It never works. 

There’s a murmur one night that Peter is in therapy and won’t make it to dinner. It’s small, just Stark explaining to Steve that he doesn’t need to set a plate. Bucky had assumed the man had gotten some kind of help. He’s glad he was right. Relieved. He just wishes he could be there to support him through it. He hopes he’s letting someone do that, at least. Therapy is a bitch even without doing it all alone. Bucky wouldn’t have survived without Steve. 

He finds Peter in the common room with Bruce one day. He pauses just before entering, peering around the corner like a complete creep. He only lets himself enjoy the sight of Peter in a very flexible yoga pose for 30 seconds before he has to walk away. It feels wrong to think of Peter like that now, as if he’s violating him even further than he already did. It’s bad enough Peter haunts his dreams, sometimes just being there smiling, sometimes sleeping beside him or on his lap, sometimes naked and twisted just like his position on the yoga mat.

“He’s alright,” Stark says out of nowhere one evening, when he and Bucky are both in the kitchen fixing a snack. Bucky considers pretending he doesn’t know what Stark is talking about. He’s not a fan of that kind of mind game though. He prefers keeping things easy. Open. Maybe if he’d been more determined to do that with Peter, this whole mess would have never happened. 

Bucky clears his throat, but his voice is still tight when he says, “Good. That’s real good.” 

The man looks more rested, as time goes on. He stops looking like he’s on the verge of collapse. He eats better. He smiles more, though Bucky never gets to see the really bright ones, not when Peter is aware he’s around. He does get a glimpse of one once from his totally-not-spying spot around the corner of the hall. It’s brilliant, lighting up the whole room just like they used to before all of Peter's sleeping issues started, back when Bucky hadn’t fallen for him yet, back when things were simple. It was accompanied by a beautiful, warm laugh. Bucky had felt that laugh in his bones. He’d had to go sit in his room for a long time after that, staring at nothing. 

Weeks go by, and it doesn’t get easier, but it gets - well, he establishes a routine to deal with it at least. He relies a lot on his old coping mechanisms taught to him by his therapist. He spends a lot of time with Steve (and unfortunately Sam). He spends even more time with the reinforced bags in the gym. 

When it gets hard to breathe, he closes his eyes and whispers the words to old, familiar songs. When his desire for Peter becomes a physical ache inside his bones, he presses his face to a pillow and screams until his throat is as raw as he feels inside. When he starts to consider tracking him down, he locks his door instead, sitting with his back against it as he methodically breaks down, cleans, and reassembles every weapon he owns, doing it all over again if needed, not stopping until his hands stop shaking with the need to touch Peter Parker. 

He’s hanging on. It’s by a fucking string, but he’s hanging on. 

They both end up in the kitchen once, Peter half asleep and fumbling with the toaster. Bucky almost teases him before he remembers that’s not their relationship anymore. Instead, he sidles up to Peter without making any eye contact and jiggles the lever that he noticed the other day has started to catch. Then he presses down, sending Peter’s bagels into the heat. Peter says a soft, “Thanks.” Bucky leaves before his chest can crack wide open. 

So, it’s okay. 

It’s fine. Really. He's managing. 

Then someone knocks on Bucky’s bedroom door and his heart jolts. He’s out of the bed and across the room in a second, his hand leaving little dents in the knob from how hard he grabs it. When the door swings open, he finds his best friend. 

Steve’s smile is wry, but tinted with sadness. “Not who you hoped for, huh?”

Bucky turns away with a sigh. He doesn’t bother answering, just goes to his nearest gun and begins breaking it apart. It hasn’t been properly cleaned in a few days. Just because he hasn’t used it doesn’t mean he shouldn’t be carefully maintaining it. Plus, it’s a fantastic reason not to have to look at his friend. 

He hears the door click shut before Steve releases a sigh of his own. Bucky can tell from the noises he makes that he’s sitting in the armchair in the corner. He can tell this is going to be about Peter when Steve hesitates before speaking. “I don’t know if you noticed, but the kid is relying a little too much on his webs in training lately. I’m going to be asking him to spar hand-to-hand in our next session.”

Bucky only nods. Of course he’s noticed. It’s impossible not to notice Peter. It’s fucking killing him. 

“I’d like you to do it with him.”

Bucky closes his eyes and breathes. 

In. 

Out. 

“Why me?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe because you’re the best at it?”

“Nat is better.”

“I’ll give you that the two of you are probably near equal, but you’ve got super strength. I want him to be able to give it his all. He has to be more careful with Nat.” He can practically hear Steve’s wince. “Don’t ever tell her I said that.” 

Bucky huffs a laugh, but it’s forced. “Then you do it.”

“Oh, fuck off. My fighting style is 70% shield and you know it.”

“Sounds like you need the practice too, then.” 

“Sure. Maybe. But he doesn’t just need practice, he needs to learn the stuff. No one has ever taught him. He’s scrappy, which I can say from personal experience can get you pretty far, but he’s not nearly as good as he could be.” When Bucky just continues working on his gun, even though there are literally no more pieces to dismantle, Steve adds, “You’re who taught me, remember? Twice.”

Bucky actually manages a smile for that. Steve was just as much of a mess in his big body as he was in his little one. It was amusing. Also gratifying - Bucky always liked feeling like he had helped keep his best friend safe. If the idiot was going to continue running into danger head first, at least Bucky could give him the tools he needed to make it out alive. “Yeah, Stevie. I remember.”

“He needs you, Buck.” 

He doesn’t, actually. 

He’s made that very fucking clear. 

But Bucky needs him, needs him in a brutal sort of way that he can’t seem to escape, so he sighs, and then he says, “Yeah, okay.”

**

It’s… not as terrible as he thought it would be. Sure, the first few minutes are awkward. There’s the tense silence that falls over the group when Steve announces the partners. There’s the way Peter very clearly avoids making eye contact. There’s Bucky’s own fear of touching him in a way he doesn’t want again. 

But then Bucky says, “Let’s see if you can learn faster than Cap ever did,” and Peter lights up at the challenge even as Steve calls out, “I heard that, asshole!” 

Then they’re sparring. 

Bucky stops him sometimes, correcting a stance or moving his fingers into a different shape. When he wins a burst of fighting, he explains to Peter why. When he loses, he points out the ways Peter had overtaken him, wanting him to be aware in case they were just instinctual moves. 

It’s not long before they’re sweaty and breathing hard, Bucky’s muscles deliciously burning from the exertion, his chest lighter than it’s been in a month. At some point, Peter just starts smiling. An easy, genuine smile. Bucky feels weightless as they go again. Peter takes him down almost immediately. Bucky decides not to tell him it’s the smile that gave him the win - some things he thinks are better left unsaid. 

At the end of the session, Bucky gets the urge to bump his shoulder against Peter’s. When he does, Peter bumps him back. Bucky smiles, just a little. He’s pretty sure it’s his first one in weeks. 

It feels good. 

It’s not enough, but he’ll take it. 

**

Bucky’s head is too loud after one of his Steve sketching-talking sessions. He didn’t ask Steve to stick with him after, even though he could have used the company tonight. He knows his best friend well, which means he could tell he needed to go sit in his shower and cry for a while. Bucky’s not much of a cry-in-the-shower kind of guy. He doesn’t want to be alone, though. He’s afraid of what his mind will do to him tonight if he’s alone. 

He figures the common room or kitchen might have someone finding a night snack or something to watch before bed. He knows there’s a chance he’ll end up dealing with Stark’s shitty taste in movies or Sam’s button pushing, but it’s a risk he’s willing to take. 

It’s not Stark or Sam in the common room, though. Not Nat or Bruce, either. 

It’s Peter. 

His brain stalls for a moment, much worse than his training and conditioning usually allows. It’s too loud in his mind with everything. It takes a minute to cut through the noise. 

It’s that noise that has him moving to the opposite end of the couch from Peter. Maybe he can just pretend things are like they were. Sure, he doesn’t have Peter pressing up against him, leaning on him, smiling at him with the brightness of the sunshine, but he still has Peter. His mind already feels quieter just being close to the man.

Until Peter moves, turning to look at him. “Everyone’s been acting weird around me. Weirder than usual.”

Bucky swallows before forcing himself to turn and look at him. He considers what to say - how to put it without reminding Peter of how much Bucky messed up. In the end, though, Peter deserves the truth. Bucky has no doubt of what that is. 

He can’t look at him as he says it. He distracts himself by reaching for Peter’s popcorn bowl. It used to make Peter laugh when he’d steal his snacks from him. He tries not to ache for that laugh. Tries not to miss it so damn much. 

“They think we had something,” Bucky admits softly. “And that it ended.”

He can feel the weight of the pause before Peter responds. It’s crushing. Suffocating. 

“We didn’t,” he eventually says, his voice almost sharp, defensive. That's even worse. 

Bucky nods, keeping his eyes locked on the TV. 

He breathes. 

In. 

Out. 

“I know,” he forces himself to say, keeping his voice steady as ever. 

He keeps staring at the TV, unseeing, his mind spinning. Peter slips away soon after. He doesn’t say goodbye. Bucky understands that. It’s not like he deserves one. He’s the one who crossed the lines, who did the hurting. He’s lucky Peter acknowledges him at all. 

He stares and stares and stares at the TV until his vision is blurry. 

Steve comes to get him at some point. He’s silent as he pulls Bucky to his feet and nudges him along. They don’t head to Bucky’s room. Apparently it’ll be another forced sleepover tonight. Bucky used to panic when Steve made him stay the night, still holding out hope that Peter would show up and he wouldn’t be there for him. He lost that hope a while ago, though. He just lets Steve guide him, his mind louder than ever.

** 

It’s Stark who does it eventually. 

He strides into the common room late one night, comes to stand in front of Bucky, and declares, “You’re coming with me.” 

Which isn’t a good way to start. Bucky scoffs a laugh. “I’m actually not.”

“It’s about Peter.” 

Well, damn. 

Bucky goes with him. 

They end up in his lab, Stark acting particularly fluttery and strange. He fidgets with a pen he pulled out of nowhere, then starts picking up random items before immediately putting them back down. 

“Friday,” he eventually says. “Lock down. No one in - even from the list.”

“Yes, Boss.”

Stark nods a few times and mumbles, “Rip it off like a bandaid,” under his breath. Then he turns to Bucky with a startling smile. The kind of smile he uses at press conferences when Pepper has made it absolutely clear that this is the final line and if he doesn’t fix things with the public she will throw him out the window - without his suit. The media falls for the smile every time, always forgiving whatever rude comment or ridiculous antic or Avengers mess. 

Bucky doesn’t fall for the smile. In fact, he takes a step back that he refuses to call frightened. He is not afraid of Stark, smile or not. Just… freaked out. He’s definitely freaked out. 

“Take a seat,” Stark says, gesturing to one of the tables with the least amount of stuff on it. There’s just a small, messy pile of colorful papers. There’s a seat on each side so the people sitting in them can face each other. 

This is starting to feel very staged and very dangerous. 

“I’ll stand.”

Stark glares at him. “Take a fucking seat, Barnes.”

Bucky sighs. This is about Peter. Nothing is more important than Peter. He takes a seat. Stark nods, satisfied, before taking the seat across from him. Stark pulls the papers toward himself. Bucky sees one of them has a rainbow flag on the front. His stomach drops. 

“So, I know Steve gave you a rundown on the whole 21st century thing, but I’m not sure he covered-”

“He did,” Bucky says quickly, not the least bit interested in the direction this conversation is going. “I’ve got it.”

Stark just gives him a pointed look before offering him the rainbow flag paper. It’s a pamphlet, actually. Glossy and bright. Bucky doesn’t take it. 

“Work with me here,” Stark says, his voice suddenly softer. Bucky wonders if that’s another trained thing from Pepper. It sort of works, if it is. Especially when he adds, “I’m trying to help the two of you.” 

A dangerous spark of hope appears in Bucky’s chest. He exhales slowly. Then he takes the pamphlet, idly scanning it as Stark begins what’s clearly a practiced speech. 

“So, it’s totally safe and legal and accepted to be gay in the US now. Or other sexualities, like bisexual, which is when you-” 

“Stark,” Bucky says with a sigh, looking into the man’s eyes. “I don’t mean to rain on your parade here, really, and I’m trying to cooperate because it’s about Peter and I think we both know I’m kind of fucking weak when it comes to him. But thing is - I’m bisexual. Have always known I am, used to have to cover it up, don’t have to anymore. I’ve had sex with a few fellas. I’ve had a hell of a lot of sex with dames. I know all the letters and their meanings in these pamphlets. Sam has even dragged me and Steve to an LGBTQ+ club - it was traumatizing, but that was mostly Sam’s presence, nothing else. So, this is all covered.” He hovers his hand over the remaining pamphlets, showing what he means by this . 

“Oh,” Stark says, frowning. Then his eyes widen and he says, again, “Oh!” 

“Oh,” Bucky agrees with a smirk. 

“Fucking hell - you aren’t homophobic? Or upset about Peter liking - oh fuck , what a mess . That's what this is. This is an absolute mess.” Stark laughs a little manically. “You’re bisexual! Fuck. That’s amazing! ” 

Bucky raises his eyebrows. “I’m glad you think so. Can I ask why you thought-” and then he pauses, because if he was seen as homophobic toward Peter, that means Peter is… one of the letters? What’s the word for it, the catch-all phrase - right, queer. Is Peter queer? 

Does that mean Peter did like him? Or is he still not interested in Bucky, regardless of his tastes? 

“You can get out now,” Stark declares, already standing up and shooing him with his hands. “Go talk to Peter. Immediately. I insist.” 

“Stark-”

“Start with the bisexual thing. Maybe add in the whole weak for him thing, too.” He stares at Bucky expectantly before clapping his hands twice. “Chop, chop. Get moving, Barnes. Go. Now. Right now. Out of my lab.”

Bucky doesn’t know about right now. He needs a fucking second to get his shit together and understand what any of this might mean. 

He’s definitely not going to say no to leaving Stark's lab, though. He’s out of there in a heartbeat. 

** 

Bucky doesn’t go to Peter. 

He doesn't sleep, either. 

He paces. A lot. He talks to himself. He takes a shower to clear his mind. He does push-ups until his muscles actually ache a little. He takes a shower again. He considers reading his fiction book that he's been trying to struggle his way through. He quickly dismisses the idea. He'll only end up having to re-read pages yet again. His mind is too loud tonight to focus on words. 

Around 4 in the morning, he goes to Steve. 

His best friend’s suite is open to him without him having to knock, but with Steve being asleep, he wants to avoid him startling awake at his presence and going into survivor mode. Bucky has enough going on without having the shield lobbed at his head. So, he knocks anyway. 

Steve doesn’t make him wait long, but he seems to trip or stub his toe or something in the process. Bucky smirks as Steve curses and hops around. The memory of why he’s there is enough to have the smirk dropping just as Steve opens the door, though. 

Steve takes one look at him through slitted eyes and sighs. “So, I’m going to be honest with you here, I have Sam naked in my bed.”

Bucky smirks again. “It’s about fucking time.” 

“Shut up.” Steve rubs at the back of his neck while Bucky gives him an up-down scan. He’s in nothing but his boxers. They’re on backward. “I just wanted you to know he’s here. I’m not sending you away. But if you don’t want him eavesdropping, we should go to yours.”

“Nah.” Bucky shrugs. “We can talk in there. It’s - I think it’ll be quick?” 

Steve nods, gesturing him in and closing the door softly to keep from making too much noise. Bucky is pretty sure if Sam didn’t wake up to the commotion before Steve opened the door - plus the knock - he’s probably not going to wake up, but he lets Steve do whatever makes him feel better. 

They sit on the couch, both turning to face each other, legs drawn up and crossed. Bucky suddenly feels 17 again. It helps. God, it helps a lot. 

He pours out everything in a hurried rush of fear and hope. He tells him what Stark said, gives him more details about his and Peter’s interactions (both before their falling out and after), and tells him the exact wording of what he heard Peter say in the lab. He bounces ideas and questions and worries off of his friend. Steve takes it all and gives his own in return. 

Steve tells him how Peter looks at him, how he watches him, how no one else got Peter to relax the way he did. Steve points out that Peter used to check out his ass whenever they were on missions, pink in the face, big doe eyes locked right on him. He says things about miscommunication and possible misunderstandings. He says Peter sometimes looks like he's breathing for the first time in days when Bucky walks into the room. He says that's only gotten more dramatic since things ended, not less so. 

It eventually comes down to Steve looking at him as the sun starts to rise through the windows and saying, “You have to talk to him. You’ll live the rest of your life wondering if you don’t.” 

And Bucky agrees. 

**

He takes a power nap, upon Steve’s suggestion. There’s a good chance Peter will still be asleep now that he seems to be doing so well, so it’s worth the time to get rest. When he wakes, it’s to a text from Steve that’s only 12 minutes old. 

Steve: He’s in the gym. 

Bucky washes up and dresses in a set of workout clothes he may or may not have overheard Nat and Wanda gossiping about how good he looks in. He brushes his teeth and his stupid hair. Then he gets frustrated with how stupid it looks and messes it up again. 

He takes a lot of deep breaths. 

Then he slings a workout towel around his shoulders, grabs his water bottle, and heads to the gym. 

Peter is lying on his yoga mat when Bucky walks in. He stops short, breath catching despite his determination to stay Winter Soldier-level calm. It was a good plan. Really. Except Peter is sprawled on his back, arms loosely out to his sides, feet planted into the mat, knees facing the ceiling, and Bucky is imagining… things . So many things. Especially when Peter turns his head to look toward the sound of the door and the shift makes his shorts slip down his thighs even further, until they’re nothing but material bunched around his hip flexor, fucking miles of skin exposed nearly to his ass. 

Get it together, you idiot. 

Breathe.

In. 

Out. 

“Hey,” he says in what he hopes is a friendly, calm tone. 

Peter sounds a little breathless when he says, “Hey,” back. Bucky tries not to analyze if it’s Bucky’s presence or the man's previous workout. Hopefully he’ll have an answer to that soon. 

Without looking over at Peter, he keeps his gaze focused on the treadmills and hurries to say the words he’s practiced over a dozen times in the past 20 minutes. “Can we talk?” 

He hears the way Peter’s heart trips. 

“Okay,” Peter says, even though his voice doesn’t sound okay at all. Bucky sees him sit up out of the corner of his eyes. Bucky drapes his towel over the railing of the treadmill before turning to look at him. He leans on the machine when his legs suddenly feel a little wobbly. He brings a hand to his face, not having prepared to feel quite like this. 

You can do this, he tells himself. Even if it breaks your heart, at least you’ll finally know for sure. You need to know for sure. You have to know. 

You can do this. 

Bucky forces himself to look at the man. 

God, he’s beautiful. 

He’s so fucking beautiful. 

He does his best to ignore the burst of emotions just the sight of Peter alone brings to his chest. He keeps his mind reigned in. Keeps his voice steady and his expression calm. 

“I heard what you said in the lab,” Bucky begins. He hears Peter’s heart kick into a sort of panic. He ignores it. He has to. “I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but you weren’t exactly being quiet…” 

Peter pulls a knee to his chest, putting his forehead down on it as if he’s hiding from Bucky. It’s equally adorable and heartbreaking. 

“It’s okay,” he mutters into his knee. “I mean, it’s not, but… sorry.”

Bucky doesn’t know how to interpret that. He accidentally releases a bit of a frustrated sound. He practiced this. He knows what to say. It’s just a hell of a lot more terrifying than he anticipated - and he had anticipated quite a bit, honestly. 

Peter suddenly shoves to his feet, shooting a startlingly angry look at Bucky. He has to fight not to flinch at it. Peter is shaking his head, already taking a step back - a step away - from Bucky. “I can’t do this. Sorry, I can’t.” 

He’s already gathering up his yoga mat in a jumbled bunch, his hands shaking. Bucky doesn’t know what to say. He needs this talk, he’s going to go fucking insane without this talk, but he has to respect Peter’s wishes. That’s the basis for this whole mess in the first place. Isn't it?

God, his head hurts. 

Peter gets to the door before whipping around and starting to yell. “Can’t everyone just leave it the fuck alone? God!” He growls, throwing his mat to the floor and starting to pace. His hands fist and relax, fist and relax at his sides. “It’s not like I fucking tried anything! I couldn’t sleep, just couldn’t sleep, and I tried to, I tried to tell you to leave me be, but no .”

Wait . 

Bucky replays the yelled words. It’s not like I fucking tried anything. 

As if Bucky is the one mad.

As if Bucky is the one with the right to be mad. 

As if… Peter is the one who wanted more?

Oh. 

Oh. 

What a mess indeed, Stark.

“This isn’t-” Peter is about to say.

He’s interrupted by the door swinging open, Natasha hurrying through the opening in a way Natasha doesn’t hurry. Before she even has the chance to speak, Bucky is moving. 

“Wheels up in five,” she says, her voice grave. 

Bucky and Peter exchange a charged look as Bucky hurries over to them. 

“How bad?” Peter asks. 

“Bad.”

**

It takes a lot for Bucky to consider things bad . 

This qualifies. 

The air is so thick with dust and smoke, Bucky finds himself almost missing his mask from his time as the soldier. He hates how the contaminants fill his lungs. Hates how they sit on his tongue. Hates that they’ll be in his nostrils hours from now, haunting him. 

“The fight is over,” Steve tells them, his eyes staring off into the distance, a man who has seen this too many times, a man who would give anything to make all of this stop. “They’re asking us to stay, though. To assist in recovery.” 

Bucky scans the whole area, stomach turning. There won't be a lot of recovery today. There might be a miracle or two, but the rest of the bodies they find will be just that - bodies. 

“No one has to stay,” Steve adds as he drags his gaze back to the group. 

Everyone starts moving before he can bother adding anything more. Of course they have to stay. How could they ever live with themselves if they didn’t? There’s no point in talking about it anymore. Not when there could be survivors under all of this. 

It’s a nightmare of gnarled metal and concrete rubble. Glass and blood are spattered like a sick sort of abstract painting. Every step is a different piece of his past - Bucky is in Kassel City, in London, he’s on a hellicarrier, on a train, he’s in Dresden, in rural Afghanistan, in Chernobyl, in Goyang, he fucking swears he’s in hell. 

He’s in New York. 

He’s in New York and he’s coated in atrocity. His hands pull and pull at the rubble and wreckage. Sometimes there’s a body. Or a piece of one. There’s a children’s toy. A boot. A shattered phone. 

There’s Peter, his voice broken and shaking, yelling, “She’s alive!” and Bucky turning to find him cradling the body of a little girl covered in dust and blood. He can hear the rasp of her lungs as he navigates the chaos to get to the closest responder. He can hear him telling her, “I’ve got ya, you’re okay, you’re going to be just fine, I promise, just hold on, please hold on, okay?” 

They don’t have enough moments like that one. 

It’s mostly an eerie kind of non-silence, the only sounds being the scrape and haul of boots and hands on rubble. 

By the end, they’re as hollowed out as the destroyed shells of the buildings. Nobody speaks, not even Steve when first responders shake his hand and thank him. They don’t say what they’re thanking him for. No one wants to admit that none of this was enough. It won’t ever be enough. 

The ride to the compound is quiet aside from the steady hum of the plane. Peter and Stark are hiding behind their masks. Natasha is silently tending to Clint’s wounds from when a slab of crumbling concrete gave way beneath his feet. Steve is hunched forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped between them, his eyes locked on the ground. Sam is beside him, one hand on Steve's back, his own eyes closed. Banner is wrapped up and listening to his lullaby despite Hulk not making an appearance. Wanda is leaning against Vision, her gaze distant. 

Bucky sits, his head resting back against the gear rack behind him. His brain toggles between the destruction they’re flying away from and the moments before Natasha interrupted him and Peter in the gym. It’s not like I fucking tried anything, Peter had yelled. 

What does that mean?

What the fuck does that mean?

And how does Bucky ask without messing everything up more?

Everyone goes their own ways when the jet first lands, but they don't stay that way for long. They all need each other more than ever on nights like this. Even if it's just to sit together in silence, knowing they're not alone. Bucky used to try avoiding that when he first joined. HYDRA had rarely left him awake after a successful mission. If he was still conscious, it almost always meant punishment was coming. It left him feeling jittery, afraid, even when he knew he was safe. Of course, every time he reminded himself he was safe, the waves of guilt that always haunt him would make another appearance. He’d hole himself up in his room, sit in a corner with his knees drawn to his chest, and try to breathe his way through the contrasting thoughts and emotions.

Steve convinced him once to just give hanging with the team a try. He had guilted him, the bastard. Had said the mission was so hard and he really needed Bucky by his side. 

Bucky had liked it. A lot. It made him feel calmer, steadier. Made the safety feel real. Made the guilt feel manageable. Steve was kind enough to never make him acknowledge it. He never even shot him smug looks or knowingly smirked at him. 

The gathering always starts out silent. Well,  not silent , but with no talking. There's still Stark's usual music, though softer, quieter. There's the subtle clinking of bottles and drinking glasses. The lights match the tone, dimmed low. 

Some of them need to get drunk on nights like this one. Some of them - Steve - is too stubborn to let themselves. Some of them have learned that getting drunk makes it worse, nursing tea - Bruce - or a glass of wine - Natasha - instead. Vision doesn't drink, but he usually holds a beer just to look the part. Wanda is all over the place, sometimes sipping wine, sometimes shooting the hard stuff until she can barely walk, sometimes lighting up a joint - which always makes Peter sneeze, something Bucky finds achingly adorable. It depends on the day, for Sam. He's seemingly taking it easy tonight, but that's not always the case. Clint usually hits stuff hard before trusting the navigation system to bring him home to his family once he's managed to drink the worst of it away. Stark goes through a process, starting out too hard to take the edge off before slowing down to something just above a nice buzz. 

Bucky usually just nurses beers. If he needs the harder stuff, he waits until he's alone in his room after the team has helped him settle a little. Then he drinks the Asgardian shit that blitzes his mind, lays on his bed, and drifts in a realm where nothing hurts and nobody can touch him. He doesn't like the feeling sometimes though, feels a little too close to the mind control, which is why he only does it by himself. It makes him feel less like he's returning to a world he may have done something in that he can't remember. At least when he's alone, he slips away safely in his bed and returns to the same place. There's no coming back to a conversation he can't follow, no coming back to people in new positions, no coming back to blood on his hands or screams in the air. 

He's nursing a beer tonight, not entirely trusting his mind for the harder stuff. He always stays put when he drinks the Asgardian ale, but he worries this time his mind would seek out the only thing more soothing than the booze - Peter. He can't risk that. There might be a spark of hope from earlier in the gym, but tonight is so not the time to chase it. 

So, he sits on the floor among the team, his legs spread out beneath the coffee table, a bottle of beer he's barely drinking cradled in his hand, and just soaks it all in. The safety. The love. The belonging. 

At some point, whispers begin. There's a laugh, soft and low, from Natasha. A broad smile in return from Sam. The music turns up a notch or two soon after. Vision and Cap fall into a conversation. Stark and Bruce banter. Clint calls his wife and tells her he's heading out soon. 

Peter is on the floor, sprawled out with his head near Wanda's, the two of them sharing headphones. Bucky can hear the soft thrum of their music, a different beat beneath Stark's rock. He wonders why Peter likes to listen to the two types of music at once. He wonders if it calms his overpowered senses somehow, or if he's able to tune Stark's out, or if it's just a habit he never broke. He wonders if they're still in the kind of place where he could ask. 

He wonders a lot of things, too many things, so he looks away and takes another sip of beer instead. He surveys the rest of the room, noting that everyone is still there, still safe. It'll be an itch beneath his skin when they all start peeling off, but seeing everyone like this first at least helps.

Peter's eyes slip closed at some point. Bucky takes the opportunity to openly watch him, not caring if he's caught by anyone else. It's rare he gets to take his fill these days. He's missed him so fucking much it hurts. 

It’s not like I fucking tried anything.  

The words ring in his head, over and over, taunting him with hope, threatening him with another heartbreak. What did it mean? Does Peter want him? How soon can he ask? Can he survive another rejection if he’s wrong? Can he survive never knowing he was right?

People drift away, sometimes alone, sometimes in pairs. Peter must notice them moving around him, but he keeps his eyes closed, his breathing steady. Bucky would almost think he's sleeping if it wasn't for his one finger tapping along to the music against the floor.  

When Wanda moves, he finally opens his eyes to watch her go. His eyebrows pull in at the way she sinks into Vision. Bucky looks away, toward the couple, just before Peter looks at him. 

“How long has that been going on?” Peter asks. 

About as long as we were. 

As we… weren't.

What were we, Peter? What are we? What could we be?

“A while,” Bucky says instead, chasing the words with his beer. He can feel Peter watching him. He doesn't let himself think about it. 

Peter sighs. “It's been a shitty day.”

“Yeah.” Bucky runs a thumb along the label of his beer, trying to come up with something to say that can make the man he loves feel better. “That was yesterday though, today will be better.” 

Peter sort of uh-huh s in response. Bucky wants to look at him, but he knows he shouldn't. If Peter catches his gaze, he'll be able to read everything Bucky is feeling. He's too raw right now to hide behind walls. He drinks more of his beer, wondering if maybe it's time he goes back to his own room. 

Instead of doing that, doing the right thing, he finds his gaze falling to the side, locking on Peter again. He’s staring up at the ceiling with eyes that are a little too glazed for Bucky’s liking. Is he drunk, exhausted, or about to cry? 

Bucky instinctively shifts toward him before managing to stop himself. He clears his throat. “You okay?”

Peter snorts. Then lies, “Peachy.” Bucky doesn't have time to decide if he's going to press before Peter exhales and admits the truth instead. “No. Are you?” 

It's a stupid question that they both know the answer to. He doesn't want to think about how not okay either of them are. He focuses on the thing that seems to be helping Peter instead. “What are you listening to?”

Peter seems to hesitate. Then he's wiggling on the floor, moving his long, slender body closer to Bucky until - Christ - until his head is right beside Bucky's thigh. His curls are a breath away from his denim. If Bucky put his hand down, he'd be able to touch them. Run his fingers through them. It makes him ache again. 

Sometimes it feels like all he ever does these days is ache for this man. 

He looks down at his hand when Peter offers him an earbud, checking to make sure it's not shaking before accepting the offering. It's not a wireless one, so Bucky has to scoot down against the front of the couch, part of his lower back now on the floor. It brings him even closer to Peter. So close he can feel just how warm his small body is. He tries not to remember what that felt like, cradled against him in his bed. He tries so, so hard. 

It doesn't help that the song that begins right after is something quiet, haunting. A version of Stand by Me that makes the ache inside of Bucky so much worse. His throat hurts like it's being crushed. His eyes burn. 

The music grows, broadens, expands until it's a living, breathing thing in the room with them, then collapses into something soft, something fading. The voice returns. It's different this time. Full of desperation and need. A shakiness, a cracking to the words. It's beautiful. It's awful . It feels like the words sink into him, wrapping tight around his heart, tugging him toward Peter, begging him to give in. To tell him, I'm right here, doll. To tell him, I'll stand by you forever if you'll just let me. To tell him, I am so in love with you it's killing me. 

Bucky closes his eyes and breathes through the overwhelming want. 

He feels shaky, unsteady when the next song begins. The emotions, the desperation, the want lingers. The music plays on and on, nothing as bad as that first song, but it's not long before Bucky still can't sit there any longer. Before he realizes that the wanting is still too high and isn't going to leave tonight. He has to escape, to put distance between himself and Peter before he ruins what little he's managed to get back. He pulls the earbud out and sits up, hoping it seems casual instead of panicked. 

“That was nice,” he says in a perfectly even tone. He starts collecting empty bottles to give his hands something to do that isn't touching Peter before he stands up. His flesh hand doesn’t cooperate though, reaching out to Peter, offering him help. Peter takes it, his fingers soft and so, so warm. Bucky swallows hard as he pulls, only allowing himself to use enough strength to get the man up on his feet. The last thing he needs is Peter being pulled stumbling into him, against him. 

Peter lets go of his hand first, which is a relief and a heartbreak all in one. Bucky nods, adds, “Thanks for sharing,” since it feels safe to say, and walks away. 

They fall into a silent companionship, bringing empties and trash from the common room to the bar. He can feel Stark watching him the whole time. Bruce at least has the decency to only glance at them, pretending to focus mostly on his tea, but Stark watches like he’s glued to the TV for his favorite soapy drama show. Bucky refuses to let it make him squirm. He’s also smart, though, so the minute everything is cleaned up he’s out of there with a mumbled goodbye meant for all three of them. 

That damn song plays a soundtrack in his head with every step to his room. Between rounds, he hears Peter’s anxious words from the gym, sees the wild emotions in his eyes. It’s not like I fucking tried anything. 

There’s no way Bucky’s going to be able to sleep tonight. 

** 

Bucky’s in the middle of pacing back and forth when the knock on his door happens. He whirls toward it, heart in his throat. It could be anyone, really. Especially on a night like tonight. This group is notorious for worrying about each other. Steve is the likeliest. Or Bruce or Stark, with how they’d been watching him. 

But it could also be Peter. 

He schools his expression, keeping every ounce of hope locked down tight, then opens the door. 

Peter. 

It’s Peter. 

Bucky clenches his fist at his side to keep from immediately grabbing for him. Especially when Peter’s eyes brighten at the sight of him, the corners of his lips twitching upward just a little. “Hey. Can I come in?”

Not trusting his voice, Bucky just steps aside. Peter walks in, moving past him like he’s done plenty of times before, smelling exactly the same, his warmth radiating like a beacon calling Bucky home. Christ, get a hold of yourself, Barnes, he scolds himself. 

Peter turns to look at him just after Bucky clicks the door shot. His teeth worry at his bottom lip for a moment before he takes in a breath and says, “So, I’ve got something to tell you.”

Bucky pulls on every minute of his terror-filled 70 years of training to keep his face perfectly neutral. He still isn't trusting his voice, so he stays quiet. Peter lets the silence stretch for a little longer before he finally says, “I have this thing… for you.” 

A thing. 

I have this thing.

For you. 

For you. 

For you.

Bucky’s mind is stuck. Buffering, like the computer does when he presses too many buttons at once, a surefire way to piss Stark off. 

Peter keeps talking, unaware of Bucky’s brain abandoning him in his time of obvious need. “More than I probably should. And I just think you should know. Although, I know that you know. But I’ve been sort of sitting on it, for ages now. So, yeah. This is me telling you I have this thing for you, and it’s alright, and I will get over it. But in the meantime, I guess, thanks for not being difficult about it.” 

The fuck does he mean, I know that you know? Bucky sure as fuck did not know. Would have been nice to know. 

Now he does know. 

He knows, he knows for sure. 

Peter has a thing for him. For ages now. He’s telling Bucky. He’ll… get over it? 

Wait. 

No. 

Absolutely not. 

Not allowed to get over it at all. 

Bucky exhales shakily, his mind shifting gears until it’s entirely focused on that one thing - he can’t let Peter get over it. 

“Okay,” he says a little breathlessly, his mind running faster than any super soldier could keep up with as it tries to figure out what to do next. 

He sees something pass over Peter’s expression. Not sadness or disappointment, but something close. A relief, maybe, but tinged with resignation. 

“Well, I guess that’s my cue to-” he stops when he realizes Bucky is in the way of the door. He’s never felt so happy to be in the way of someone before. 

Peter blinks at him. Bucky shakes his head in return. Says, “You don’t have to go.”

Please, please don't go. 

“Nah.” Peter shoves his hands into the pockets of his jeans, flashing him a crooked smile that has Bucky’s blood burning. “Not weird unless I make it weird, remember? I’ve made it weird.”

You’ve made it perfect . 

He tries to sidestep Bucky, as if he’s just going to slip his slim body right through the opening between him and the door and disappear. Disappear so he can start working on getting over it. Yeah, fuck that. 

Bucky darts his arm out in a panic, pressing his hand to the wall just beside the doorframe a second before Peter can pass the space. Peter stops short, his heartrate kicking up. He stands there like Bucky has frozen him, just blinking at Bucky’s arm like he’s never seen it before. He moves one foot back, just away enough to be able to turn and face Bucky. Peter is clumsy, though, when he’s not in combat - he ends up backing himself right into the wall, trapping himself between it and Bucky’s front. 

Knowing how intimidating he can be, Bucky holds perfectly still instead of closing the distance between them. Just because Peter admitted to having this thing for him doesn’t mean he has consent, and he’s pretty sure if he lets himself go too much farther he’s going to end up kissing this young man regardless. 

It takes a lot of self-control. 

Especially when Peter’s cheeks flush with a pretty pink color, his breathing going a little ragged. 

Bucky has to look away from him, has to look at the floor as he tries to sort himself out. He wants Peter. Fucking hell, he wants him so bad he’s aching with it, burning with it. He feels like he’s going to be completely consumed by it. He breathes through the rush of it all, settles himself. Focuses. 

Consent . 

He. Has. To. Get. Consent. 

“I’m going to try something,” Bucky says very carefully, his voice deeper than usual, like it’s weighed down by all the lust inside him. “Tell me if this isn’t okay.” 

Bucky slowly lifts his gaze to meet Peter’s eyes. So beautiful. 

Fucking hell, he’s so goddamn beautiful. 

Peter’s expression flickers before it blooms, opening wide with understanding before relaxing into pure joy. 

“It’s okay,” Peter hurries to say, his voice cracking - not with fear or anxiety, but with eagerness, with a sudden onslaught of need . “Oh, god, it’s okay.”

Thank fuck.

Bucky steps closer, tracking every inch of Peter’s existence and cataloguing it all - the goosebumps erupting on his skin, the speed of his breaths, the pounding excitement of his heart, the way he smells a little like his soap and body lotion (like Peter ) and a hell of a lot like arousal. He lifts a hand to cup Peter’s face, his palm pressing against the warmth of his flushed-pink cheek. His eyes are wide, pupils starting to blow. Peter’s next exhale falls against Bucky’s face. Something inside of Bucky breaks apart in the most beautiful of ways. 

He inhales, ready to-

“Wait.” 

Bucky freezes every inch of himself, even his lungs, waiting. Nerves rattle through his bones. He can see the way his flesh hand trembles, just slightly, against the beautiful man’s face. 

What’d he do? 

How’d he ruin it already?

“How long have you known?” Peter whispers. “How long have you known about me?”

Bucky allows himself to relax a little. That’s not a, wait, stop. Not a , wait, I’ve changed my mind. It’s just a, wait, I need something first. 

Well, hopefully. 

Bucky nods to himself, accepting this shift in plans. He blinks, centering his mind, pulling his want back enough to be able to think properly. The rest of him isn’t a fan of that. He accommodates his desire by moving his metal hand from the wall to the nape of Peter’s neck. He can sense his frantic pulse against his thumb. Bucky sucks in a deeper breath than he usually allows himself in front of others. He can tell by the way Peter’s eyes flutter that he knows what it means, he knows how big this is for Bucky. 

“I thought I knew,” Bucky murmurs, his throat threatening to tighten with the sheer relief of his new reality. “And then I thought I didn’t.”

Peter breathes out, shaky and relieved, and his fingers wind into Bucky’s henley, gripping him like he’s never planning on letting him go. “Yesterday.” 

Bucky nods. Yesterday. In the gym. When Peter took a lighter to his hope and sparked him up inside. He’s so fucking glad Peter was brave enough to come find him. So fucking glad they’re both on the same page. 

Finally . 

Fucking finally . 

“Yeah,” Bucky whispers, letting his metal hand drag up into Peter’s hair, fingers slipping through the silky strands. He looks at Peter and declares, “I am gonna kiss you now.” 

Peter nods frantically, bringing Bucky’s hand along with it. “Yeah, you better do that, because this is so fucking stu-” 

Bucky shuts him up with his mouth. 

Kissing Peter is like the first breath after cyro, like the relief of finally placing how he knew Steve, like the words the triggers are gone now, Buck, you’re free. 

It’s like coming home again. 

He cradles Peter’s face, removing his hand from the man’s hair so he can have a proper hold on him. He keeps it gentle, careful with every movement, every breath, because Peter is precious, he is the most precious thing, and Bucky is going to take such good care of him from now on. 

Peter melts with every pass of Bucky’s tongue, shivers with every shared breath. He sags and sighs. There’s warmth on Bucky’s thumbs, spilling down them, the scent of salt in the air. A moment later, he’s tasting it in their kiss. He licks the tears away, swallows them down, promises himself that these tears - tears of relief, tears of joy, tears of pleasure - will be the only type of tears this beautiful man will ever spill if he has any goddamn thing to say about it. 

It’s Peter who breaks the kiss, moving his chin to the left just enough for Bucky’s lips to skim against his silky soft skin at the corner there. He exhales on a shaky laugh, his head tilting forward until their foreheads are pressed together. Bucky smiles when their noses bump. He can’t remember the last time he’s felt like this. He’s not sure he ever has. 

“Is this really happening? Because I love you,” Peter says in a trembling rasp. “Or am I going to wake up and find out I’ve been talking to a wall for the past ten minutes? And please don’t freak out or something, because I do - love you - and if you freak out, I think I am going to die.”

Bucky feels his brows pulling together, his heart aching for this beautiful, anxious man that he loves so fucking much. The ache only grows when Peter blinks and fresh tears start falling down his cheeks. Bucky chases one with a thumb, shushing Peter softly as he moves his other hand to settle in the center of Peter’s back. He pulls him close, chest to chest, and tucks his head down so his lips brush along the curve of Peter’s ear. 

“Fuck, Peter,” he murmurs. It’s not enough. Not nearly enough. He’s not good with words, though. Not like he used to be. The old Bucky would have all the heartfelt declarations, all the swoon-worthy lines. He’d be able to put Peter’s anxious mind at ease with his words. 

This Bucky, though - this broken and bruised Bucky that Peter himself has helped put back together… words are so damn hard for him. He just - he’ll have to show him. He’ll spend the rest of his life showing him. 

Bucky drags his mouth from Peter’s ear, across his tear-soaked cheek, and back to his mouth. Peter whimpers into the kiss, his body going lax in Bucky’s hold. Bucky tries to pour everything he feels, every promise he wants to make, every ounce of love he plans on never letting go, into the kiss. All of that makes this kiss different somehow. Like they’ve been stripped bare, hearts exposed, everything raw and real, almost painful with how much they feel for each other, and it’s all there inside the way their mouths are moving together, tongues and teeth, fingers digging into skin as they try to get closer, closer, closer. Until they forget everything but the feeling of this , just this, this beautiful act that Bucky never wants to stop. He wants to breathe for the rest of his life through Peter Parker’s lips. 

Peter grows bolder, his hands moving from his broad chest up the sides of his neck until his fingers are buried in Bucky’s hair. He laughs into Bucky’s mouth, breathy and choked, his lips curling into a smile so Bucky’s next swipe of his tongue brushes over the man’s teeth. Bucky pulls back just enough to arch a brow at him, trying not to let his head spin anxiously. Peter just shakes his head though, beaming up at Bucky with the laughter still lingering in his eyes, and then presses forward to bring their mouths back together. Bucky won’t argue that.  

Except, the kissing is starting to feel like not enough. Or maybe that’s not the right wording - it’s enough, it’ll always be enough, it’s fucking perfect, but the rest of his body is starting to burn in desperation, knowing there’s usually more than this at some point. Knowing that he can get even closer to Peter, if Peter allows it. Buried inside of him, maybe. Hell, Bucky would let Peter bury himself inside Bucky if he’d rather. He isn’t fucking picky. 

It doesn’t help that Peter is starting to make these helpless little sounds, whiney and needy, his hips mindlessly moving in Bucky’s hold. Bucky feels like his head is spinning too fast. He has to pull away for a second, sucking in a breath. Peter seems to be having the same sort of issues with breathing, at least, both of them panting as they stand there with their foreheads resting together, fingers bruisingly tight on each other. Peter makes another one of those soft sounds, drawing something out of Bucky that he usually tries to avoid - it’s the soldier in him, the hunter, the one who wants to chase this pretty boy like prey and make him his . 

Bucky breathes through the sudden onslaught of urges, bringing his thumb up to Peter’s bottom lip and running it carefully along the spit-slick pink flesh. He feels a dangerous sort of smirk pull at his lips. Peter shivers at the sight of it. 

“Okay,” Peter breathes, his lips curling into a smile against Bucky’s thumb. 

Bucky hums softly, not sure what they’re okay’ing but figuring it’s something good if it has him smiling. 

Except, that smile doesn’t last. It fades by the second before the man in his arms is slightly frowning, the skin between his eyebrows starting to wrinkle. He worries for a second before looking into Peter’s eyes and seeing what the problem is - he’s just overthinking. Bucky has spent enough time watching this man to know exactly what it looks like when his mind falls into an anxious spiral. That, combined with the way his fingers are almost pulsing against Bucky as if he’s checking to make sure he’s really there, has Bucky thinking Peter is worried about messing this up somehow. Maybe overthinking what he should do next. 

Bucky can help with that. He can take control, if Peter’s okay with it. He can guide him through this until his mind goes quiet. He’d love nothing more. 

He glides his hands down Peter’s body until they’re at his belt. He lifts his gaze until he meets Peter’s. “Do you want to-”

“Yes, fuck, yes,” Peter gasps, his hips jerking forward. “Oh thank god, yeah.”

Bucky has to suppress a laugh when Peter batts his hands away so he can do the belt himself. His pointed look at Bucky’s own belt is nothing short of an order to get himself sorted out too. He can see the way he starts to frown when Bucky bends down to do his boots first. That frown disappears when Bucky uses the opportunity to drag his nose over Peter’s denim-clad dick, his jaw dropping in a groan. Peter’s legs go wobbly, his hands trembling as he tries to take his belt off with some semblance of coordination. Bucky might be an asshole because he takes a little longer than necessary undoing his boots’ laces. He thinks he might like seeing Peter like this - out of control and desperate. He wonders if Peter would beg for him. Bucky bets he begs real pretty. 

He means to go for his belt when he’s free of his boots and standing again, but he gets distracted by Peter’s panting mouth. He just - he just has to kiss him again, real quick. Just for a second. 

Peter doesn’t seem to mind, pressing his tongue into Bucky’s mouth as he clumsily kicks his sneakers in opposite directions. Bucky sucks on his tongue, a filthy tease of what he plans to do to Peter’s dick soon. Peter shudders and whines, his hips jerking as he seeks out something to rub against. 

His nails scratch Bucky’s skin as he fights the material of his henley up and over his head. He leaves hot lines in his wake. It makes Bucky feel fucking feral, his own hands grabbing desperately at Peter’s shirt, the fabric nearly ripping with how hard he yanks it off him. 

They gravitate together, chests pressed close like before, but it’s so much better this time. It’s skin on skin, all warm and soft with hard muscles moving beneath. It's exhilarating, a kind of electricity that's nothing but pleasure as it rolls through him. Bucky shivers at the sensations, his mind spinning. 

He moans when Peter wraps his arms around his neck, the movement drawing his chest tighter against Bucky and enveloping his head in the scent of him. The kisses are out of control at this point, wet and loose and wild, and the sounds he's making - fuck. Bucky could listen to this for days, for years, for the rest of his goddamn life.

Bucky needs more. 

He needs to get closer. Needs to put other parts of this beautiful man's body into his mouth, needs to press himself into wherever Peter will let him, needs to mold them together until there's no possibility of them ever breaking apart.

Bucky slips his two trigger fingers into Peter's belt loops, pulling him along as he backsteps his way to the bed. It clearly turns him on by the way he whines all high and needy, his legs stumbling as if he's trying to hurry Bucky along, his chest heaving against Bucky's in accelerated breaths. 

“Want this,” Peter tells him, the words slurred by his frantic mouth and panting breaths. “So good. Fuck. Hot. Wet. Forever. Gonna do this forever, okay? And more. Gonna do - do everything. Anything you want. Everything you want. Gonna be forever.” 

Bucky grins into their kiss, thrilled to be so thoroughly wrecking this beautiful man - and he doesn't even have him undressed yet, doesn't even have him in the bed. And forever? That sounds perfect to Bucky. That sounds like a solid fucking plan. 

Look at him - Bucky Barnes: Metal-Armed Man With a Plan.

Bucky lets himself fall when he senses the bed behind him, bringing Peter down with him in a clumsy spill that has the bed groaning and the frame knocking into the wall. He's not sure Peter even registers it. Not sure if he's even aware they're horizontal. He looks dazed, nearly delirious as he breaks their kiss to suck in a breath. He seems to notice then that he's on top of Bucky. His pupils dilate as his tongue darts out to wet his lips. Bucky can't help but moan at the thought of what his dick would feel like in that pretty mouth. He hopes to god he finds out soon. 

Bucky grabs at Peter's waistband, testing it to see if he can just shove his pants down without worrying about zippers and buttons. Peter follows his lead, hands helping for a second before freezing when Bucky uses the chance to glide his hands along his ass, squeezing the underwear-covered cheeks before continuing to help him pull everything off. There's a moment of pure bliss when Bucky's hands finally make contact with Peter's naked ass, cupping the globes. 

Peter has a mind of his own though, moving so Bucky has to lay back, diving for Bucky's pants next. He's clearly a man on a mission, not even waiting for the pants to be fully gone before sticking a trembling hand down Bucky's underwear and grasping his dick. Bucky chokes on a groan as he tries to help Peter finish his task. A few seconds of squirming around and they're both gloriously naked, Bucky able to see Peter's elegant, slim fingers wrapped around his thick dick. The sight is filthy. Bucky can’t help the way the world starts to spin around him, everything narrowing to two things - Peter and his dick. He's torn between falling back and enjoying the feel and keeping himself partly upright to be able to watch. It's definitely a fucking sight, Peter's eyes locked on his dick like he’s never seen anything more beautiful, his parted lips panting hot air against Bucky's leaking head - the same head Peter is using his thumb to toy with. Bucky feels wrecked already. 

And then Peter Parker ducks his head and wraps that pretty pink mouth of his around Bucky. 

Bucky's body nearly seizes, all of his self-control being used to hold still as the pleasure flashes through him lightning fast. He can't breathe, can't think - it's just Peter, Peter, Peter.  

Peter with his hot mouth and wet tongue and muffled whimpers. 

Peter with Bucky's hand on his head, fingers threading through his curls. 

Peter with his ass in the air, his own dick leaking onto the sheets. 

Peter with his gaze flicking up, locking eyes with Bucky as he hollows out his cheeks and sucks. 

Bucky can't look away, wouldn't want to even if he could. He's mesmerized by his  flushed red dick moving in and out of those perfect lips. Mesmerized by Peter's enthusiasm, making him sloppier as he goes, his hips moving in the air like he's begging for something to hump. All of the words in all the languages he knows seem to vanish, leaving him blank and stretched thin, nothing existing but pleasure. His chest heaves so hard it hurts when Peter takes him all the way into his throat. Bucky can hear the soft sounds escaping him. There's no stopping them. They're just part of this spell that Peter Parker has cast on him. He's helpless against it. For once in his life, he's helpless and he likes it. He gives into it. He revels in it. 

Bucky can feel his release coming, surging through him, hot and electric. He sucks in sharp breaths and tries to guide Peter's head away. The man just doubles-down as if he's starving and Bucky is trying to pry him away from the only food that exists. He brings one hand to Bucky's balls, rolling the tight orbs, the other hand dragging nails down his thigh. Bucky chokes and sputters. He tries one more time to get Peter to stop. Peter shoots him a look as his hand on Bucky's thigh moves to his hip and presses him down into the mattress, holding him there whether he likes it or not.

Bucky groans, “Fuck, that's hot,” just before his control shatters and he starts to spill his load. Peter sucks and laps it all greedily, his tongue working overtime to make sure not a single drop slips free. He keeps sucking as he brings his hand down to stroke himself. Bucky shifts, ready to help, but it only takes Peter three strokes before he's coming with a broken cry, spilling all over the sheets and his hand. 

He shivers and hisses for a second as he fucks his way through his release before he dissolves down onto Bucky, not stopping until he's just a melted puddle formerly known as Peter, boneless and relaxed against him. He shifts his head just enough to press a clumsy kiss to Bucky's hip bone. 

Bucky just stares at him, heart in his throat. How is he this lucky? Is this his prize for it all? Is this his gold metal for surviving? 

He can't think of anything that could be better for fate to have handed him as his prize. 

As he watches Peter gather enough energy to grab a piece of clothing - Bucky's jeans - to wipe his hand off, Bucky promises himself that he'll treat Peter so damn good. He'll treat him like Bucky's salvation, because even if Bucky didn't know this would be the light at the end of the tunnel, he always hoped it'd be something . 

Peter is more than he could have ever hoped for. 

He'll cherish him forever, just like they planned. 

Bucky is pulled out of his thoughts by a sweaty, lithe Spiderman crawling up his body, eyes focused on Bucky's lips. With a smirk, Bucky brings his arm up to cradle around Peter's back and tilts sideways so he ends up with the man sprawled beneath him, trapped between the soft sheets and Bucky's hard chest. 

Peter sucks in a shaky breath, his pupils dilating all over again. Bucky grins, but it's a soft grin, his head and chest too full of love right now to be mischievous or filthy. He gives Peter the kiss he'd clearly wanted, but that's soft too, just a subtle pressing of lips as his hands stroke along all the naked skin beneath him. It's a kiss that's meant to say all the things Bucky can't find the words for. It's gratitude and awe and love. It's a promise. A promise of forever, no matter what. 

Peter relaxes, sighing happily as he kisses him slow and sweet, and Bucky feels his own sentiments echoed back to him, feels the same promises being returned in the way Peter moves against him. 

He settles soon after, sated and happy. He has Peter cradled to him, his body half-draped over him like a protective blanket. He presses lazy kisses to his neck, just barely-there touches because he can't get himself to stop. It's not long before Peter is soft and pliant in his arms, their breathing syncing, everything in their world calm and safe. 

Bucky basks in it. Soaks it all up. Revels in it.

Then Peter shifts, his legs spreading wide like an invitation, Bucky's knee bumping against the inside of his thigh, and Bucky snaps right out of the calm, his body revved and ready to go again. In a split second, he has two handfuls of Peter, mapping out every inch he can reach, drinking in the little sighs and shivers that come from the man beneath him. His noises are needier whenever Bucky strokes along his hips or his thighs, but even when Bucky gives his bicep a little squeeze with his metal hand, Peter is gasping and shuddering and saying, “Mmph, s'so good,” like he's already had his mind fucked out of him even though they've barely started. 

Bucky chuckles, a thrill running through him. He drops his hips to let Peter feel what that thrill is doing to his dick, bringing his mouth to Peter's ear at the same time. He drags his tongue along the curve, slow, drawing it out as Peter lets loose a desperate whine. Then he murmurs, with all the confidence and determination in the world, “I am going to fuck you.”

The words seem to have Peter speechless, though every inch of the rest of his body is clearly on board. Bucky shifts over him, bringing his lips to Peter’s. The man rolls his hips, pressing his rapidly hardening dick into Bucky’s thigh. He starts to tremble like he had been earlier. Starts to pant and whine. 

Bucky works his way across the man’s sharp jaw, to his pulse point just below the hinge. “I’ve been thinking about it for months now,” he informs Peter as he sucks and bites little marks into his neck, leaving a trail of evidence behind of how badly he needs this, needs him . 

Peter nods frantically, his back arching, little gasps falling from his lips with every nip of teeth or hot press of Bucky's mouth. It seems his brain has been successfully shut off, all those anxious thoughts disappearing along with his words. All Peter can do now is make pretty noises and writhe behind him. That’s fine though - Bucky has this part down. This, Bucky can do without help. He can take Peter apart. He can show him everything he’s been dreaming of, show him how much he loves him and wants him, how bady he’s been fucking aching for him. Peter just had to lie there, no words necessary, no thoughts needed besides how good Bucky makes him feel. 

“Turn around for me,” Bucky orders, giving Peter’s hips a squeeze. When the man just blinks dazedly at him, Bucky turns him over himself, trying to be gentle about it and only halfway pulling it off. 

“On your knees, doll, c’mon,” he murmurs next, coaxing Peter up into the position he wants him. Peter just moans as he clumsily follows the instructions, goosebumps erupting along his skin everywhere Bucky’s fingers touch. 

It takes a lot of self-control to pry himself away from the man that’s now arching his back all pretty for him, but lube is non-negotiable. He’s quick about it at least, only taking a few seconds to grab the bottle out of his side table drawer and return to his spot behind Peter - the spot with the sexiest damn view, fucking hell. 

He lets himself take in the sight as he pours lube into his hand before reaching around to wrap the slick hand around Peter’s flushed dick. Peter whimpers, all soft and desperate, his body trembling ever so slightly. Bucky hushes him soothingly, kissing along his spine as he works him in his fist. His stubble leaves light pink marks behind along his back. Bucky should not enjoy marking this man so much. He’s kind of worried he’s growing addicted to it. 

Then again, Peter doesn’t seem too worried, too busy unraveling beautifully for Bucky, so he’s not going to let himself be concerned. He’s just going to focus on using everything in his sexual arsenal to give Peter the night of his life - and Bucky has a pretty deep arsenal, nearly as deep as the Winter Soldier’s, even. He hopes Peter is ready. 

Within the first 60 seconds under his determined hands, Peter is putty. His hole takes Bucky’s first metal finger like a knife pressing into softened butter. It flutters, hot and silky, begging for more. Bucky’s second finger slides in nearly as easily, Peter so lost to the world Bucky’s not entirely sure he’s even aware he’s being filled. The man is just a moaning, shivering mess, all sweaty and goosebumped. Bucky licks up his spine, matching Peter’s moans with one of his own as Peter's hole flutters around his fingers. 

He plays Peter between his two hands and tongue until Peter is deliciously stretched out - both physically and mentally. Until he’s a bowstring just waiting to be plucked. Until his knees are wobbly and his thighs are shaking and his sounds are akin to a wounded animal in desperate need. 

Only then does Bucky slip his fingers out of Peter, lathers up his dick with lube, and press it slowly into him. He moves nice and easy, giving both of them the opportunity to adjust to the holy-fucking-hell-so-hot-so-good-so-perfect feeling. 

Peter makes a noise that’s all satisfaction and eagerness, his head bobbing a little in a nod to encourage him. Yet, his mouth says, “Slow down,” right after. Bucky understands why when his trembling fingers seek out Bucky’s hand on his dick. “I can’t… not yet.”

Bucky gives in easily, moving his hand to Peter’s hip instead, rubbing soothing circles on his skin as he presses feather-light kisses to the man’s spine. He gives them both another few seconds before slowly rocking his hips, giving Peter little pulses of movement inside him. Peter’s breath goes funny, catching and shaking. Bucky slowly pulls out of him, pausing just as his crown is being squeezed by his rim before pushing back in until he’s bottomed out again. 

Peter sobs. 

It's the wrong kind of sob. Bucky senses that immediately. It's not a sob of need or pleasure, it's a sob of anxiety, of being overwhelmed in all the wrong ways. 

Bucky doesn’t move inside him again, doesn’t fuck into him like he’s desperate to. He just gathers Peter up in his arms, pulling him close with his back to Bucky's chest. He keeps everything but his head still, turning it to press a soft kiss to the man's temple. Peter reaches back with a shaky hand, twisting enough to reach Bucky's mouth with his own. Bucky allows it, of course he does, but he's still listening to the rest of Peter. To his sucking breaths and frantic heart giving him away. Somewhere during these last minutes, his doll has slipped into an anxiety spin. 

“You want to stop?” he asks tenderly, but Peter is already shaking his head. 

He can sense the spike of fear his question caused, like Peter is afraid this is his only shot to have this. Like he's afraid if he messes this up, it'll all be over. He's worried if this stops, Bucky will want him to go. 

Bucky promised himself to never let Peter doubt his love for him, and he's not going to break it now. He winds his arms around his torso until Peter is perfectly cradled in them. Peter sinks into the hold, even as his body shudders through waves of emotion. 

“We can stop, if you want,” Bucky promises while tightening his hold. He wants Peter to be unable to doubt that he's safe. Secure. Loved. That Bucky has no intention of ever letting him go unless Peter wants him to. “Don't need to do this.” He kisses the side of Peter's face, letting his own fear and desperation leak into his voice when he adds, “Just don't go, yeah?” 

He hopes it conveys what he means. Hopes it's enough. A spark of worry zaps his chest when Peter doesn't take the offer, instead rocking his hips to move himself along Bucky's dick. It's mind-meltingly good, but Bucky forces himself to stay still as he tries to gather better words to make Peter understand they really don't have to do this right now, that there will be other-

“Move, please,” Peter begs - and there's no doubt, he's definitely begging . The quake of his voice has lost all anxiousness, all doubt, replaced only with need and desperation again. Bucky tucks his head down, closes his eyes, listens to Peter's heart, listens to his breathing, soaking in the subtle tremors of his muscles. Peter half-laughs, sounding slightly delirious. “Or I will go, yeah? C'mon, fuck me.”

Bucky trusts his instincts. He trusts Peter. He doesn't question or make him wait any longer. 

He fucks him. 

Slow, at first. Still tentative. Partly in case the anxiety returns, partly because Peter still hasn't gotten the chance to fully adjust to his movements yet. 

He builds his pace, builds the intensity, creating a wave that grows and grows, all the while murmuring all the forbidden things that have crossed his mind over the months, all the things he's finally allowed to say now. 

“You have the best laugh,” he confides in a husky, soft voice that gives away just how wrecked he already is for Peter. “And I fucking love your smile.” 

Peter shivers. Gasps.

“And I can't believe I-” he's cut off as Peter arches his back just right, suddenly letting Bucky get impossibly deeper inside him. Peter keens. Bucky groans. “Fuck - so good-” where was he going with that again, oh, right- “ -get to have you in my bed awake.” 

Peter laughs softly, so goddamn beautiful, another pretty whine chasing the sound from him right after. 

Those sounds somehow reach right inside Bucky, tearing him to shreds. He sounds raw, undone, but he doesn't care. He has so much to tell the man he loves. So many words to fill his head with, a barrier to keep all that anxious doubt out of there. 

“Your hair,” he starts, rolling his hips fast and hard. “Nearly died first time you let me touch it. So fucking soft, doll. And the way you melted-” 

He groans as the words make Peter tighten down on him, his body shaking in the confines of Bucky's iron-clad hole. He can feel his heartbeat through his back. Wonders if Peter can feel his too. 

“So good for me, Peter. So perfect. Everything - fuck - you're everything, yeah?” 

His movements are turning sharp, fast, so frantic he's no longer able to roll his hips, instead just jackhammering. He tries so damn hard to hold back. To keep everything contained. To keep his hands softened a little, to keep his movements human instead of animalistic. 

Peter reaches his arms up, tangling fingers in Bucky's hair, pulling him harder against him when Bucky didn't even know it was possible. His voice is low, all fucked-out, as he says, “Can't break me.”

It's all the permission Bucky needs, really. He was hanging on by a fucking string, after all. 

He unleashes on the man in his arms, fucking him in a brutal sort of way that he'd never be able to do with a human. He paints marks all over Peter's pale skin, fucks into him so hard and deep that Peter turns into a wailing, trembling mess. He pushes him right to the edge, an edge that months of obsession have contributed to him discovering. He knows just how hard he can push Peter without breaking him. 

He doesn't go easy. 

“Beautiful,” Bucky growls, everything going black around the edges, the world zeroing in on Peter, just Peter, everything Peter. “So fucking - all mine, right, doll? Gonna make you all mine.” 

Peter cries harder, his hole tightening around Bucky's dick. It feels so fucking good he can’t catch his breath for a second. He wants more of that. Wants to send Peter flying, then enjoy the feeling of his hole milking Bucky's dick while he safely soars right in Bucky's arms. 

Bucky drags his tongue along Peter's ear, lays down a layer of sloppy, frantic kisses across his sharp jaw, just trying to calm himself somehow, trying to get the feralness under control enough to finally ask, “Can you come like this?” 

His hand is already slipping down Peter's taut stomach, ready to assist if he needs it. Peter doesn't answer with words. He just shows him, letting himself break apart right there for Bucky to see, for Bucky to feel. He chokes on a beautifully broken sound, tossing his head back on Bucky's shoulder, and just melts right into Bucky, trusting Bucky to hold all his pieces together as his orgasm rips through him. 

Bucky leans them forward, unwinding one arm just long enough to break the fall, then winding it back around so he can hold Peter as tightly as possible while he chases his own release. Peter is pliant and whimpering, his only movements the frantic fluttering of his hole as it milks Bucky just like he'd hoped it would. 

Bucky thinks, god, I love him, and then it's all over, his dick spilling deep inside Peter, marking him the one way Bucky hadn't yet been able to. Claiming him for Bucky to keep. 

He drapes his body just enough to the left so he doesn't crush his lover, then let's himself sink into the sheer bliss of the moment, of the newly forming reality, of his happy ending. 

They both sleep easily, peacefully, untouchable inside the safe little bubble of Bucky's bed. 

** 

There's no one around when they first stumble out of the room, despite the clock warning them it's nearly time for lunch. They move around the kitchen with a domestic ease that has Bucky's chest warm and light. That feeling only grows every time he catches a glimpse of Peter's smile - the kind of smile that's somehow shy and smug and deliriously happy all at once. It's not like he can blame him. They spent the night all tangled up in each other before Bucky made sure Peter woke to an impending orgasm instead of a night terror. It's been nearly 12 straight hours of bliss. Even Bucky's smiling like an idiot, and he's not much of a smiler. 

It takes them slightly longer than necessary to actually get through their meal, but that's entirely Bucky's fault. He just can't quite get over the fact that he can just kiss Peter now, whenever he wants. It's a dangerous permission after months of self-denial. It's not his fault. A man - even an enhanced one - can only handle so much. 

It's not like Peter is doing much better, anyway. Not only does he not argue every time Bucky steals kisses between their bites of food and sips of drinks, but he's playing footsie with him beneath the table like they're schoolchildren. He has zero room to judge. 

Steve fucking Rogers, however, enters the room, takes one look at them, and slides right into his role as Mr-Judgey-Mc-Judgerton. It does nothing to help Peter's usual Steve-related nervousness. It's a nervousness that Bucky now understands has nothing to do with attraction and everything to do with the whole growing up seeing this man as a national monument thing, which is much less jealousy-inducing and entirely hilarious. 

Steve's judgement is at least the kind that's happy for them instead of disapproving. It's very ‘ah, look, young love, how adorable’ with a mirth in his eyes that Bucky knows all too well. This is absolutely payback for Bucky giving it to him first about Sam, and Bucky is prepared to take it on the chin. He can’t help but shoot Peter a smirk, a subtle way to tell him Bucky is fully aware that he's having a meltdown and finds it fucking adorable. 

Steve thankfully leaves them alone, getting himself some coffee. Bucky is about to relax and shift his focus back to Peter when he notices Steve lingering too long after he heard the coffee hitting a mug. He eyes his friend, counting the seconds it takes for a man who has never once been picky about food to decide which apple he wants from the bowl of them on the counter. Bucky narrows his eyes. If Steve senses it, he doesn't respond. He just finally chooses an apple, abandons his coffee mug, and walks over to extend his hand to Bucky. 

Bucky blinks, his mind trying to understand. Then he remembers all those months ago, when Steve bet him that something would convince him to stay here after his probationary period and Bucky had all but laughed in his face.

“Jokes on you,” Bucky says with as much boredom as he can muster. “I don't have fifty bucks.” 

Then, because Steve is a judgey asshole who really could have brought this bet up when Peter wasn't around, he steals his precious apple and takes an obnoxious bite out of it. Steve's smugness drops. 

Satisfied, Bucky turns and flashes Peter a big grin. 

Peter doesn't smile back, his wide eyes full of apprehension as he looks between the friends.

“Wasn't about you, don't worry,” Bucky promises. And it wasn't - not really . Not in the way Peter might be thinking. 

He knows what it must look like, though. He and Peter finally fucked, the evidence clear as day considering their hair, their smell, the fact that Peter is wearing Bucky's shirt, not to mention the hickies on his neck that his healing hasn't gotten rid of yet. And here Steve shows up, taking in all that evidence, then demanding money from Bucky. 

Bucky is already wincing when Peter suddenly shoves to his feet. He has just enough time to reach out and give Peter's fingers a gentle, hopefully-reassuring squeeze before Peter hurries out of the room, leaving a trail of tension in his wake.

Steve mumbles, “I'm an asshole.” 

“Yes,” Bucky agrees, already standing so he can follow the man he loves. 

“Also right, though,” his best friend adds, flashing him another smug smirk. “Unless you're gonna leave him behind and move away?”

Bucky rolls his eyes, but he knows it comes off more fond than anything. He flips Steve off to make up some headway. 

“That's not a nooo,” Steve points out in a sing-song voice as he turns away, grabbing a random replacement apple and his coffee mug before disappearing. 

He's right - it's not a no. 

But Bucky still isn't paying him fifty bucks.

In fact, Bucky thinks he's going to take a sudden interest in Steve's own love life now that he has some free time from all his own obsessing. It’s not like Bucky hasn’t noticed that he and Sam haven’t made things official yet. Maybe his friend needs a good push. Two can easily play this game. 

Feeling much better, Bucky cleans up his and Peter's spots. Then he goes searching for him so he can make sure they're okay. He was serious before - he doesn't care how hard it is for him, he's going to communicate and work as hard as he needs to so Peter never doubts this thing between them. And if he messes up and Peter wants to run like this, he needs Peter to understand that Bucky will always come after him.

Peter seems to be on board with that type of thinking, since he smiles up at Bucky the moment Bucky enters the common room to find Peter on the couch where so many of their firsts happened. 

Bucky smiles back, nudging Peter over so he can sit before guiding him down in an achingly familiar way that ends with Peter's head on his thigh, Bucky's fingers threading through his curls. Peter sighs, his body relaxing with the heavy exhale. 

“You alright?” Bucky asks, letting his own body match Peter's as he sinks into the couch and lets his head rest back on the cushion behind him. His eyes fall closed but he can feel Peter's eyes on him. 

Peter lets him stroke his hair for a few seconds before asking, “What was the bet about?”

Bucky makes a soft noise that's more to buy himself time than anything before admitting, “I'm not good at this.”

It's a warning, really. A disclaimer that Bucky has no fucking idea what he's doing, has no experience being in love like this. Not to mention his layers of other shit he's still trying to work his way through. Plus the way his brain likes to play hide and seek with his words sometimes. It's all a lot, and it's going to mean he's going to struggle, and he's going to be bad at this sometimes, especially at first, and Peter deserves to know that. 

Peter deserves to know too, though, that regardless of how long it takes or how exhausting it is, Bucky isn't going to stop trying. 

He starts with the easiest information next, his brain having that readily available. “Wasn't about you. Technically.” He tries to get the words to line up, tries to stick with the simplicity of facts. “I was going to leave, thought I was done here. And Steve bet me fifty I wouldn't.”

He hears the soft pull of air that Peter sucks in, hears the way it hitches. Peter grabs the front of Bucky's henley and gently tugs. It has Bucky giving him his attention, eyes opening and chin tilting down so they're looking at each other. He can see the fragile hope tangled with doubt in Peter's eyes. He needs more from Bucky. 

Bucky can give him that.

“I was going to,” he admits. Because he was . He was so ready to leave. To put everything - everyone - in his rearview and escape. Some nights he told himself that the plan didn't include cutting ties with Steve, too. Some nights, he admitted to himself that maybe it did. He never told Steve that. He's so fucking thankful he didn't. 

Bucky lets his fingers work through Peter's hair until his fingertips are brushing against the soft spot behind Peter's ear. He learned last night that he likes this spot. It smells so much like Peter, he could get high from it, and when he kisses it, Peter makes the prettiest sounds. Even just touching it now has Peter's breath going a little shaky. 

“Was going to,” he tells Peter, looking into his eyes, making sure this lands correctly, making sure Peter understands. “And then you moved in.” 

Peter blinks. Then a slow, beautiful grin pulls at the corners of his lips. He laughs, soft and breathless. His cheeks go pink. 

He can practically feel the new wave of energy that slams into Peter. Knows a second before he darts off the couch that he was going to. Peter stands in front of him, that smile stretched into a full-blown grin now. It leaves Bucky feeling… a lot of ways. 

“Take it it's… okay?” Bucky asks, wanting to be sure he has this right. Wanting to be sure whatever bump they just hit has been safely navigated and fixed. 

Peter says, “Yeah,” in an almost startlingly calm voice. Even more startling paired with the manic energy of that grin. 

Then, just as calm, just as authorities, he looks Bucky right in the eyes and says - no, he demands , “Take me to bed.”

Bucky can't get him there fast enough.