Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It had been a long day. Bucky had hardly gotten anything done but every second had dragged on for just slightly longer than necessary. All he wanted to do now was make himself a bowl of popcorn to eat while he watched a shitty rom-com on Netflix. Steve was out on a mission so Bucky had their whole floor to himself, he could spread out on the couch and watch all the things Steve thought were “lacklustre” and “unoriginal”. Bucky liked their sameness , it was almost soothing to be able to guess what would happen next – the guy gets the girl, the forbidden lovers get their freedom, the idiot teen gets a second chance despite not earning it. 

He checked the cupboards and drawers, even the fridge, but there were no popcorn packets anywhere. He could’ve sworn he’d told Steve that they were running low on their last movie night. Usually, when he told Steve what they were running out of, it showed up the next day, whether that be down to F.R.I.D.A.Y.’s intervention or Steve’s, he didn’t know. Either way, they had run out. 

Briefly, he considered skipping popcorn entirely, maybe they had ice cream or he could make pasta, but he’d been really looking forward to this. His therapist had told him he needed to do things for himself; self-care, take time out of his day to do what he wanted. Well, he wanted popcorn. 

With a deep sigh, he ran his hand through his hair (noting that he really should get it cut) and left the kitchen to get into the elevator. F.R.I.D.A.Y. guided him up to the main floor and he made his way into the community kitchen, the one they used when they – Steve, and sometimes Peter – made dinner to have together. He ignored anyone he saw on his way, they were used to his moods now anyway. 

Knowing that that was true dragged up a strong sense of guilt that pressed down into his fingertips and wrapped around his heart. His bad attitude had become so normal to them all that none of them blinked when he walked past their polite greetings. He took the guilt and pushed it away, into the dark box at the back of his mind: he could deal with it when he next met up with his therapist… probably. 

It didn’t take long to find the microwavable popcorn and set it up to pop. He left the kitchen while it did so. He and Steve had spent some time figuring out exactly how long it took to get almost all the kernels to pop without it burning, mostly for Bucky’s sake so that he could leave it running without having to listen to the repetitive pop-bangs. The first time he’d made the popcorn hadn’t ended well, he really didn’t want a repeat of that ever. So he waited in the common room, where Peter had wrangled Clint into playing Mario Kart (not that it was a difficult thing to get Clint to do). Peter was winning five to Clint’s two, but by the looks of it Clint would win this round. That was until Peter obtained a blue shell, effectively taking Clint out. 

Clint made a ruckus about Peter cheating as Peter rushed past the finish line. Peter stood up and cheered loudly, making Bucky, who was standing just behind the couch, flinch back. Peter turned to him and smiled, “Hey Mr. Barens, Sir. What are you doing up here?” Bucky sighed, no matter how many times he’d asked Peter to just call him ‘Bucky’, the kid still didn’t listen.

“I ran out of popcorn,” he gave as an explanation.

“Oh, I hate when that happens. Popcorn is essential to any movie night. Are you having a movie night, what are you watching?” Peter asked, sitting back down on the couch, facing the wrong way so that he could keep talking to Bucky. Clint had turned, too, watching the two of them while he waited to be able to continue their game. 

“The Kissing Booth.” Bucky said without hesitation. He’d heard it was supposed to be really good, if a little cheesy.

Peter’s face pulled into this weird scrunch while Clint burst out laughing. Bucky took a step back and frowned, it only deepened when Peter hit the back of the couch a couple of times with a flat palm before his laughter joined Clint’s. Clint gasped out, between giggles, “you’re what?”

“Watching The Kissing Booth .” Bucky said again, pushing down the urge to defend himself, to explain why he was watching a romcom and why he’d chosen today to watch it. Instead, he said, “My popcorn will be done by now,” and turned to leave.

Peter followed him into the kitchen, giving Clint a light smack on his shoulder as he did so. “Sorry, Mr Barnes, Sir, I didn’t mean to be rude, you just don’t look like the sort of person to watch that movie.” 

Bucky set his shoulders, reminding himself that Peter was young and still learning, but Clint was a fully grown man and should know better. He should know . Bucky just wanted to enjoy a night to himself, not have his movie choice picked apart by other people. Was he being unreasonable? 

He chose to continue finding a glass bowl and pulling the popcorn out of the microwave. Then he filled the bowl and turned to leave, “Bucky, come on man, we were just kidding around.” Clint said, Bucky grunted a response, not wanting to deal with any more socialising for the moment and turned again. This time he turned right into Peter, his bowl hit the floor and the glass cracked and shattered, spilling popcorn everywhere. Bucky stumbled and dropped to the floor, his flesh hand slicing on one of the shards of bowl. He held the bleeding hand up at eye level to evaluate the damage. 

The sound of the bowl shattering on the hard floor was still resonating in his ears, ringing loudly and only increasing in volume, pressing in, suffocating him. The blood on his hand slid down his wrist, its warm grip cooling as it held him, tightening into a promised threat then falling to the floor in slow motion, splattering upwards. Up, up, up until it couldn’t anymore, until fighting gravity became futile, until the earth called for it back. As the last drop collided with the floor, all the sound of the real world fell away and time sped back up, the world flickering and blurring around him. Colours of the real world blended and swirled together, churning and rolling and rushing past him. 

He looked up, eyes wide, taking in as much as they could, swallowing all the surrounding information and assessing the situation. 

Clint was no longer Clint . That name no longer meant anything to him. There was a senator; a man; a person dead on the floor . Someone he was responsible for. Someone he had harmed, he had taken. It was his fault. He had done this. He had been told to.

He did as he was told.

Blood. The blood had splattered on the wall, dripping slow, thick, heady. The gun he had used was no longer in his hand but its sound was still in the air, swinging around his head: another bullet used by him, another life taken by him. 

But that didn’t matter – no, it was just a life, a job – what mattered was the witness. The child, standing there, eyes large and desperate and haunting, the bowl of popcorn his dad had sent him to get had slipped from his hands and spilt over the cold linoleum floor, the plastic bowl rolling around somewhere he couldn’t see. The buttery fat smell wafted towards him and he inhaled it through his mask, breathing in deep as he stepped towards the child, the soft snack crunching under his heavy shoes, overpowering the screaming of the bullet, the thudding of the gun, the slashing of the blood.

The child’s eyes were so innocent, so unwitting, so full of knowledge: he had seen what had happened here, he was a witness, and no witness can live no matter what. No matter their age. No matter their desperate pleas. No matter their shouting for Daddy to wake up. Wake up. Wake up. Save him. Help him. Don’t do this. Don’t hurt him. Please. Please. Please! He’d be good. He wouldn’t say a word. He wouldn’t tell the police. He promised.

Promised. A child’s promise meant nothing. That word meant nothing. The Winter Soldier had to do this. He had to take out the witnesses. He had to… He had to…

He took another step and stood on the glass from the window he’d shattered when he’d entered. It crumbled to a fine powder below his feet, digging into the sole of his boot, glittering against the flooring. How had it exploded so far?

Shaking his head, his hair hitting the back of his neck, he pressed forward.

He had to kill all witnesses, he reminded himself. The witness’ hands were in front of him, protecting him, his mouth was moving but no sound was making it past the crunching of glass, the pain shooting through him, the… 

Where was the pain coming from?

He stopped moving, directly in front of the witness now, and reached for his knife. A small hand around his wrist stopped him, the cooling damp feeling of blood sunk into his skin as he tried to pull back. The witness shoved his hand to his face, forcing him to see the crimson dripping from the wound there. When had he cut it? It must've been when he broke in. 

“No, Bucky, look.” 

He pulled out of the child’s grip and reached again for his knife. How dare this witness touch him? How dare they? 

“Bucky, you’re not him. Bucky, focus on me. You’re at Stark Tower. Focus on me, on Peter. Peter Parker.” He didn’t know a Peter. He couldn’t know a Peter. He didn’t know this witness, he didn’t.

“You are James Buchanan Barnes. You’re Bucky. It’s just Clint and me, Peter, here. At Stark Tower in the communal kitchen. You’re safe here. It’s over. You survived. You’re here.”

Is he? He can’t be. That can’t be true. He wasn’t safe. He was the Winter Soldier, he had a job to finish. 

“Yes, Bucky. You’re safe here. You are. I promise.” Peter’s voice was slow to meet his ears. “Can I touch you?” He asked this time.

“No.” Bucky said, harsh, firm.

“Okay, that’s okay. Are you with me?” Peter kept his hands visible to Bucky but kept them far away from him.

Where was he? Where was the witness? Where was the dead man? The blood was still on the wall, the popcorn was still on the floor. He wasn’t him, was he?

“Where?” he asked.

“Stark Tower in the kitchen. You made popcorn up here because you ran out.” Peter said, holding a hand up to someone behind Bucky. Bucky made to turn to see who it was but Peter stopped him by saying, “It’s Steve. He just got back from a mission.” He kept his eyes on Bucky, not letting him lose his focus, his tether.  

“Do you remember? You bumped into me – sorry, by the way, I didn’t mean to get in your way – you were upset at us because we’d laughed at your choice in movie – sorry for that, too.” Peter got a pained look on his face but he went on. “When you turned into me you dropped your bowl and it broke. You cut your hand. It’s okay, you’re safe now.” 

Bucky shook his head and turned around to take in the kitchen: the white walls, devoid of blood, and the island in the centre of the room, the intact windows and the broken bowl , and Steve, Clint, Peter. Peter, a teenager, a child , who had backed up to keep away from Bucky all the while talking him down from this. Clint, who was holding the knife Bucky had been reaching for. Steve, who had just gotten back from a mission. They didn’t need to be dealing with this. They didn’t deserve this. 

He did. He’d killed those people. He’d murdered them. It had been his fault, it would always be his fault. 

Looking down at the cut on his hand, the sluggish bleeding, then back up at Peter, he felt bile rise in his throat, sudden and acidic and…

He rushed to the sink, gagged, then spat up earlier’s lunch. His stomach protested and his tongue tried to recoil from the flavour. When he was done, he righted himself, wiped his face with his sleeve and turned. Clint had left, probably to talk to the others that had just returned, but Peter and Steve were both watching him. Steve’s eyes were large and pitying but Peter just looked… understanding.

Peter walked past Bucky to grab a glass and fill it, then handed it to him. “I’m sorry,” Bucky said. Peter deserved more than that, he deserved a ‘thank you’. He deserved to never have to see Bucky again. Bucky had put him in danger, Bucky put everyone in danger just by being in Stark Tower. Bucky was a threat, he was triggered by a bowl shattering, wasn’t he supposed to be getting better? What if he wasn’t? What if he never did? What if this was how it would be forever?

He couldn’t put anyone else at risk.

“No.” Peter’s voice was unnaturally certain, “You have nothing to apologise for. That wasn’t your fault, Mr Barnes. I promise. And we all know how good I am at keeping my promises.” He smiled brightly at Bucky then nodded to Steve, who seemed to come unstuck from where he’d been standing. 

“You handled yourself really well, kid. Thank you.” Steve said, reaching over to run his hand through Peter’s hair.

“It was nothing. I just want to help.” Peter didn’t meet Steve’s eyes before he ducked out of the room. Bucky could hear him bounding over to Tony, who had been out with Steve and a few of the others, probably to steal a hug.

It was so much more than nothing. That kid was one hell of a find on Tony’s part. Bucky hoped that one day he could repay him, preferably under better circumstances. 

“Buck, how are you holding up?” Steve asked, eyeing Bucky from the other end of the couch. They’d been sat in silence for just a little bit too long for Steve’s liking.

“How do you think? I nearly hurt the kid, Steve. I could’ve killed him!” He knew he was taking this out on the wrong person but he couldn’t find it within himself to care any more than he already did. He had enough to fill his head; he didn’t need this too.

“It isn’t your fault. I know you don’t believe me, but I promise you that it isn’t your fault. Peter knows that you didn’t mean to do what you did. If he didn’t, he wouldn’t have helped you as he did.”

“He’s too kind for his own good, that one.”

“He cares about you, Buck. We all do.”

It was irrational, it was uncalled for, but there were too many emotions, it was too much. Everything felt like it was hitting him all at once and the only way he knew how to cope with it was to let it all out. If he didn’t, the pressure would build, it was already building, pressing behind his eyes and against his throat and ringing in his ears. His mouth opened and he couldn’t stop the words before they flew past his tongue, “Well maybe you shouldn’t!” the last word cracked against his teeth and choked him.

He stood up, turning to look down at Steve, and when he did his mouth went dry. His tongue felt like sandpaper and weights. The air went stale and static as it tried to hold the words in place, pull them back past Bucky’s cracking lips, but it was too late. Steve was looking at him with those pity-filled eyes again and Bucky didn’t know what to do with them. He didn’t want his pity. They were supposed to be in this together but Steve’s pity made them feel so apart. 

Before he could overthink it further, a knock rang through the room.

Peter paced in the elevator, the plate in his hands shook and he had to grip it tighter. He felt horrible for teasing Bucky earlier, he clearly didn’t need that, yet he and Clint had messed with him anyway. What if that had made everything worse for Bucky? What if he had contributed to Bucky’s flashback? Shit. Shit. Shit. 

Bucky probably didn’t want to see him, he’d probably tell Peter to leave, that he was being stupid. Why did he choose pancakes? Cookies or muffins made so much more sense. But he couldn’t make those. Well, he could, just not nearly as well. It was something about his spidey sense, he was certain, they seemed to just know exactly the right time to flip the pancake before they overcooked. Finding that out had inspired him to make his own recipe until he could make the perfect pancakes. 

It didn’t seem to work as well with other foods. Peter’s theory was that pancakes were immediate, they cooked quickly and burned quickly and were right in front of him. He would have to try with other quick-to-cook foods.

That was besides the point, because the elevator had arrived now and the doors had opened. Peter took a step into the small corridor that led to the main door for Bucky and Steve’s flat. He stood at the door, shifting the plate between his hands. Bucky would hate this. This was a stupid idea. He should just turn around and leave. He should…

Shouting came from behind the door and Peter knew for certain now that he would be unwelcome. Now was not the right time, he could come back later. But what if they were in trouble? What if Bucky was having another flashback and Steve didn’t know what to do? Surely he would, he must’ve helped with them before, and it was ridiculous to think that he could deal with them better than Bucky’s best friend. But what if Bucky got lost in himself and accidentally got violent?

Peter knocked on the door, harder than he meant to before he could think about it further. There was a long pause in which Peter began to wonder if it was too late to change his mind again, then the door creaked open. Bucky stood there, hair looking unusually tousled, Peter could just about see Steve standing by the couch looking thoroughly put-out and upset. 

“Peter.” Bucky acknowledged. That was a start.

“Hey, sorry, is this a bad time?”

“It’s okay, what are you doing here?” 

Peter held out the plate, feeling his cheeks light ablaze, “I made you pancakes.” His head flooded with the need to explain himself and his mouth moved faster than he could stop it, so he went on, “They always make me feel better, I thought they might help you, too.” And Bucky never got his popcorn, but it might not be the right time to mention popcorn. “But I didn’t know what you liked on your pancakes so I left them plain, I thought you probably had something.”

Bucky’s eyes widened slightly, then he took the plate and cradled it close to him, like Peter would change his mind and try to take them back. “Thank you, kid,” Bucky says. Then he smiled. Nothing big, no display of teeth, no laugh, just a small, soft smile, it was almost fond.

“Of course.” Peter stepped back, let Bucky shut the door before turning to leave, suddenly very glad he had waited. That ‘thank you’ and the smile was solidifying: no hard feelings.

“Was that Peter, what did he want?” Steve asked as Bucky made his way to the kitchen for toppings to put on the thick, fluffy pancakes. They were golden brown, darkening at the edges; perfectly cooked.

He grabbed a banana, sliced it and placed it on the side of the plate, then found their honey to drizzle over the top. Steve waited for Bucky to respond, patient with him as always. A perfect way to drill in the guilt. 

“He made me pancakes,” Bucky said, turning to face Steve. “No one’s ever made me pancakes.”  

Steve smiled, “He’s a good kid.”

Maybe Bucky had been wrong, maybe their care for him was okay, “Yeah.” At least, he really hoped it would be okay. “Have one.” Steve smiled and Bucky knew there were no hard feelings. 

Chapter Text

May had a double shift. It was the same every year on this date, Peter couldn’t blame her; it was a horrible day. Peter hadn’t known his parents for very long, he didn’t remember much about them. Occasionally, he could recall still-images of scenarios or short moments in which his mother had laughed, most of the time if he wanted to think about them, he would look in Aunt May’s photo book. Looking at the photos was bittersweet.

Every photo was a new moment he wished to ask May about but couldn’t – she always got quiet, stiff and unnervingly still if he tried, and he understood why but wished she would see it from his point of view. He hadn’t gotten much time with his parents, she had. It must have made it all the worse when losing them, but it also meant that she knew them; Peter didn’t have that luxury. He only really knew what Ben had told him but Ben couldn’t tell him any more stories, tales of nights out, of smiles and laughter, of the good and the bad. And May wouldn’t. May couldn’t .

Peter wished, more than anything, that he could have just one more day, one day where he could talk to them, hear their voices, learn what it was like to be the person next to them in one of those photos. His heart yearned to know what it felt like to be held by his mother or to hear his father laugh at his dumb jokes. His mind swam with want to fill in the mystery of the figures he could describe the physicality of from memory, but list no traits deeper than their jobs. His whole body ached with the knowledge that he would never get to know, he would never have the privilege of listening to their voices, of hearing his mother lament about her long day or his father blabber about a bad driver rampaging the streets of New York.

He should be happy, he still had May, and he had Tony, not to mention the entirety of the Avengers on his side. Then there was Ned and M.J.; the two were his closest friends and Ned had always helped him through today (as well as Ben’s anniversary), but he’d had a family emergency and so Peter had had to go, after Ned had apologised thoroughly. Peter had understood, of course, and told him not to worry about it. They checked in with each other every so often throughout the day, nonetheless, both worried about the other.

So now Peter was sitting in his room – with its blue and red walls covered in posters, and its soft grey-white carpet, and shelves full of books – at The Tower, photo book open in his lap, wondering what to do. He almost considered calling Tony up, but he was asleep – a very rare phenomenon, especially at the moment with Tony’s new invention in the works and so close to being finished – so he continued sitting there, flipping page over page, until he reached a photo he was almost certain he’d never seen before. May must’ve found it recently and added it in. He traced his fingers around the edge of the photo, folded under the cut out corners of the album. 

The photo must’ve been taken in a park somewhere, it looked like they were at a small party; people dancing in the background and a table full of food just off to the right of the image. The forefront was just them, though: his parents, Richard and Mary. They were smiling at each other, Richard had one hand on Mary’s waist, the other was on her slightly extended stomach, and Mary had her arms thrown over his shoulders. It was late in the day, the sun was just beginning to set on them, and the wind was just beginning to pick up, pushing Mary’s dress out around her feet, swirling towards Richard’s legs. It was beautiful. Not just the image and the lighting, but the idea that his parents were so in love that they could look at each other like this, like the world meant no more than a stray penny on the sidewalk, right then, right there. 

He wondered if the party was a celebration for their announcement of him. He wondered if they had learned beforehand what his sex would be assigned as. If they’d had a party for that, too. If they had painted his baby room yellow or blue or pink. He wished to learn what he was almost named, and what his parents would’ve wanted him to become, and if they would approve of his life now. He wanted to ask all of this to May but the wound was still so sore for her, too, it hadn’t had a chance to heal before Ben had joined Peter’s parents and now it was left festering.

Peter caught a tear before it hit the page, not wanting to impeach on the peaceful scene below him. He closed the book. The pages hurt too much. 

Falling sideways onto his bed, he curled around the book and tucked his fingers into the in-between spaces of the pages. “I’m sorry.” He didn’t know precisely why, he didn’t know who to, but he knew he was sorry. Sorry for all the things he would never get to do with his parents. Sorry for all the moments they wouldn’t get to look at each other like they did in that photo. Sorry for all the things that he’d done in his life that his parents may not approve of. Just sorry . He was so sorry .

His chest felt like it was folding in on itself, collapsing into an ashy heap, strangling him, drowning him. He coughed and only succeeded in forcing the ash into his throat, onto his tongue, his teeth, his lips. It itched and ached and suffocated him. He couldn’t inhale, he couldn’t exhale, he could only exist . Hope that it would end. Hope that he could go back to normal. It was just another day, it shouldn’t hurt like this. It was just a day, like yesterday, like tomorrow, like a week ago, they were all just days , so why did today get to hurt so much? Why did today, this date, their date, get to burn him? 

They wouldn’t want this, he was their son, they wouldn’t want this for him. But he couldn’t fight it, he couldn’t fight the pain in his heart, he couldn’t get away from the smothering of his feelings, he couldn’t escape the way his mind screamed at him. He almost didn’t want to. 

A sharp sting in his finger drew him back to himself just enough to register that he had pulled his hands away from the book to clutch at his chest so sharply that he’d caught a page with his finger. It was bleeding, luckily only a little, not enough to stain the pages or the white sheets. Sticking it in his mouth was an immediate response, the metallic wetness that hit his tongue grounded him just a little more, but did not rid him of the deafening hollowness that sunk into his bones just a little more with every breath. 

He stared at the door, longing to get up and grab a bandaid but the idea of moving, of getting up and walking all the way there and back, seemed daunting. A dark ghost held him in bed, pinned him down and taunted him, singing around his head and dancing in his ears. It pressed on his stomach and into his eyes and down his throat until he was sobbing around the bleeding finger in his mouth. Choking out small cries and haunting whispers, wishing his dad would come in and hold him close to his chest, or that his mom would murmur quiet words of reassurance until he could fill his lungs again.

His eyes stayed trained on the door, desperate and pleading and aching all over until finally, it opened. There was a pause, when it was only cracked open, a light tap that rang in Peter’s ears and then finally, after Peter could only answer with a sharp inhale-exhale, it opened all the way. Peter’s whole body felt tight, right until he registered who was there.

“Peter.” Bucky was carrying a plate and looking a little sheepish. “F.R.I.D.A.Y. said you were in distress. I made you pancakes.” He shifted from foot to foot, then held out his other hand, “And a bandaid. F.R.I.D.A.Y. also said you cut your finger.” He placed the plate down on the bedside table and sat next to Peter, carefully pulling his finger from his mouth and drying it with his sleeve. Peter grimaced, almost tempted to pull his hand back, but he held still while Bucky struggled to open the packaging and then while he wrapped the bandaid around Peter’s finger, sure to avoid touching the cut and hurting Peter further. Something warm filled Peter, like when M.J. did something unexpectedly kind. 

Once Bucky was done, he picked the plate back up and handed it over to Peter. Peter looked down at the pile of unevenly cooked pancakes and relaxed. Bucky had remembered. And he’d put his favourite toppings on: Nutella and banana. 

When he looked back up, Bucky was glaring at the pile, “Sorry,” he rubbed at the back of his head with his metal hand then flexed his fingers before placing his hands in his lap. 

“What for?”

“They aren’t very good,” Bucky said as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. And, yeah, none of the pancakes were the same size or cooked the same, some were burnt and some were just on the edge of undercooked, but it didn’t matter. Pancakes were pancakes, and Nutella with banana would only make them better.

Bucky waited for a response, when it took Peter too long to find his voice, he nodded and stood. Pausing briefly, as if he wanted to ask something, Peter hoped he wouldn’t; he knew that Bucky wanted to know why he was upset but Peter couldn’t. He just couldn’t. Not today, not right now. It was okay with Ned, Ned understood, Ned knew, but Bucky didn’t know and explaining it… Peter just couldn’t.

“Thank you,” he said, instead of any of that. His throat was still raw and he didn’t want to move or cry or smile but the book sat just behind Bucky didn’t feel like it could hurt him right now. The ghost that clung to his shoulders on this day didn’t feel like it could suffocate him. So when Bucky made it to the door, it tugged at the tentative threads of this new friendship and Peter’s okayness . Being alone would not be good. 

“Do you want to watch a movie?” Peter asked. The words scratched his throat and hit the air like knives but it caught Bucky’s attention. He turned back to face Peter, meeting his eyes, searching them, watching as Peter felt the ghost twine its fingers into his hair; loneliness.

“Sure.” And before Peter could say anything else, or turn the T.V. on his wall on, Bucky had scooped him up, blanked and pancakes and book (picked up at the last second by Peter) and all, and carried him to the main room.

They sat curled up on the sofa, watching Star wars at Peter’s request. It didn’t take long before everyone else was crowding around, Tony looking disgruntled with a cup of coffee, eyeing Peter worriedly, Clint falling down next to Peter, Natasha and Steve both had this look when they saw Bucky: soft, confused, almost glad. The others just enjoyed the company. The ghost floated just above Peter as he licked a stray bit of chocolate from his lips and disappeared entirely when Tony shoved Clint over so that he could sit next to Peter.

No one asked because they all understood that he didn’t need that. No one asked, and, in this case, that was exactly what he wanted. It seemed natural to lay down once he’d finished his food, legs across Tony’s lap, head in Bucky’s, eyes only half focused on the movie as he drifted towards sleep.