Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

He’s a kid, really—maybe twenty, if that. Bucky almost laughs when he hears the first words that come out of his mouth.

Polished silverware, spotless white tablecloths, and a clientele that reeks of old money. It’s the kind of joint where the wine list is longer than the menu, and Bucky couldn’t stand out more even if he tried.

He knows what people see when they look at him. The metal arm, the distant stare, the scars both visible and hidden. Damaged and, obviously, stupid for letting the government stomp all over him, stupid for signing up to get broken in the first place. Has to be that, right? Stupid. That's the only reason why this fucking kid who picked out a restaurant too fancy for Bucky’s comfort would sit here and lie his ass off by saying, "I have a stalker," and think he is getting away with it.

Bucky knows he's full of shit, having suspected what the job was actually for even before he walked into this place. And it doesn’t help that while insulting his intelligence, Peter Parker’s eyes are full of pity and misunderstanding. It's the same look Bucky’s gotten from the hostess when she directed him to the table.

Bucky doesn’t need this job; he doesn’t need any job. Doesn’t need the cash. What he needs is a distraction, something to keep his mind from spiraling back into dark places. But he’s not about to share that with someone who is used to getting his way with a few well-chosen words and a charming smile, not realizing that Bucky can smell bullshit when it’s being shoveled his way.

Bucky leans back slightly, letting the silence stretch just enough to be uncomfortable.

"Do you now?" he drawls, flat, noncommittal.

“You’ll need a car,” Peter says, motioning awkwardly at Bucky’s motorcycle helmet.

He looks even younger in the bright light of day than he did in the dimly lit restaurant. The sun catches on Peter's hair, a messy shock of brown that almost glows. His face is clear, boyish, but it’s not just his face; the whole package screams innocence, and maybe that’s the point.

Peter’s clothes are casual but carefully chosen. Designer jeans that fit just right, a simple but expensive t-shirt. Sneakers. Worn, not falling apart but definitely past their prime. Bucky knows comfort when he sees it.

“I have one,” he looks at his own boots, scuffed and sturdy. Bucky’s got a few—cars—but he isn’t about to share that either.

Later that evening, when Bucky’s picking out sliced carrots from his kung pao chicken with chopsticks across from Yori, he thinks about those sneakers. They aren't a sign of poverty—the kid wouldn’t be able to afford him if they were—they’re a sign of preference.

“Got a new gig driving around an escort,” Bucky mutters, chewing his food.

“Huh?” Yori looks up, squinting as if that might help him hear better.

“Eat your soup, old man,” he says, not about to repeat it.

Nat hands Bucky a file on one Peter Parker and goes back to wiping glasses behind the bar, barely looking up.

“He’s a nobody,” she says, not interested.

He shrugs, flips the folder open, skimming through the pages. Tragic past—he figured. Orphan—called it. Recently lost his aunt—a bit too specific to call it, but there’s always something. Pattern as old as the profession. That said, plenty of people with tragic pasts don’t end up whoring themselves out.

“What’s with the new name?” Bucky asks, tossing the file to the side and tipping his chin toward the sign in the window. “The hell is S.H.I.E.L.D. supposed to be?”

“Strategically Hidden Individuals Engaging in Low-profile Deeds,” Clint spells out with a smirk, emerging from the side door, carrying a crate of beer. He sets it on the counter and then slams a Glock 19 on top of the crate. “Got a job. Want it?”

“Fuck off,” Bucky refuses without hesitation. “Will have a beer, though.”

Then again, some people with tragic pasts end up doing worse.

“I keep telling them to stop fucking with the names,” Sam says, pulling darts out of a board nearby. Bucky tilts his stool back to check if his aim has improved. It hasn’t. “No brand recognition.”

“Sister Margaret’s,” Nat and Clint mimic Sam in unison, both grimacing straight after.

“Steve?” Bucky asks, wrapping his right hand around a cold bottle Nat slid toward him and then using his left one to pop the cap off. 

“Not a peep,” confirms Sam, examining the dart. “This rigged or somethin’?”

Steve. Punk who Bucky thought wouldn’t make it two weeks in black-ops, who not just survived but also managed to get the fuck out of dodge after they’ve all fallen off the metaphorical tracks. 

“I’m gonna hit the hay,” Bucky says, getting up and planning to head upstairs, just as the front door swings open and a couple of frat guys all but fall in.

“Closed for business,” Nat snaps, giving Bucky an annoyed look because he was the last one in and didn’t lock it. Whatever. Using a fucking bar as the latest front was her dumbass idea.

The first time Bucky picks Peter up, he pulls up to the bus stop in a black Dodge Charger—a car that doesn’t raise eyebrows but also shouldn’t look too out of place in a nice neighborhood—respectable, dependable.

He spots Peter before Peter spots him. The kid’s standing under the bus stop shelter, nervously spinning his phone in his hand. Bucky doesn’t need to pick him up at a bus stop, but Peter insisted. Smart, almost, if Bucky didn’t already know every detail of his life. He knows where Peter lives, knows that he wrote an obscene amount of thank-you notes to his teachers in high school, knows that he’s a universal blood donor and that he spent sixty bucks last week on a game he could have pirated for free.

The comfortable sneakers are gone, replaced by shiny Converse straight out of the box. Same jeans, but his t-shirt is baggier, no doubt picked out to make him appear smaller. It flaps in the wind, and Peter looks like he could be blown away by a strong gust, although that has to be at least partly deceiving; Peter Parker has a gym membership and works out on Mondays, Wednesdays, Fridays, and every other Saturday.

There is a backpack hanging from Peter’s shoulder, completing the student look—not used, at least not regularly. Bucky would bet his favorite Beretta that this particular backpack has never seen a schoolbook in its life. He can only speculate as to the contents, but he reckons it’s the usual toolkit for this line of work.

Bucky has to roll down the window for Peter to notice him, but once he does, Peter quickly pockets his phone, hurrying over to the car.

“You’re early,” Peter says, opening the door and getting into the backseat. There’s a hint of surprise in his voice, as if he wasn’t expecting Bucky to be punctual. Maybe didn’t even expect for Bucky to show up at all. Bucky doesn’t bother responding to that.

“Where to?” he asks instead, mostly to keep up appearances, already knowing the answer. Peter rattles off an address, and Bucky nods, merging back into light traffic.

“You do this kind of work often?” There’s apprehension in Peter’s tone when he breaks the silence four streetlights later.

“Often enough,” Bucky replies. He doesn’t elaborate, and they don’t speak for the rest of the ride.

The driveway alone is bigger than most estates, paved with stones that probably cost more than some of the cars that drove past since Bucky had parked. He counted at least two Ferraris, one Maserati, and a slew of Teslas rolling by in the first twenty minutes, having stopped counting after that.

He didn’t do too much digging into the John—that’s Peter’s business—but this one's actually called John, which Bucky finds ironically fitting. He knows the type without the need to research, though, having been in houses like this before. Too many bathrooms, not enough soul. Places where the walls are adorned with overpriced art that means nothing to the people who own it. John’s a middle-aged guy with a receding hairline and what Bucky suspects is a paunch hidden beneath a tailored suit. Rich, powerful, and dirty in ways that money can’t wash clean. Not that it matters.

The soft leather of the car seat creaks under his weight when Bucky shifts, taking another quick look at the walkway lined with some god-awful statues. He remembers a mission in Prague, a similar house, similar opulence. The mission went south, and Bucky ended up using a statue not unlike the ones here to bludgeon a man to death while Clint was busy bleeding out on a sidewalk. Funny how certain memories stick.

He checks his watch—another hour until the kid is out—and goes back to reading his book.

As far as distractions go, this gig’s alright. Bucky doesn’t much care what’s happening inside that house, but can imagine easily enough the part Peter plays, batting those doe eyes. Besides, simply waiting here sure beats staring down the barrel of his own gun.

The book’s not bad either. A decent sci-fi thing, thick with politics and betrayals, just convoluted enough to hold his attention without demanding too much. A bird has been chirping on the power lines above for nearly as long as he has been here, and the minutes don’t drag.

Exactly two hours on the dot, Peter walks out onto the porch.

When he slides into the backseat, there is a faint sheen of sweat on his forehead, but otherwise, he seems unruffled.

"Thanks for waiting," he says, his voice light. "Just finished up tutoring. Making progress."

Bucky moves his shoulders to acknowledge he heard him. It’s up to Peter to keep pretending this isn’t what it is. Bucky isn’t the one to judge him for what pays the kid's bills.

The next time Bucky picks him up and drives him to a client, Peter keeps it up.

“Just a friend,” he spews this crap with forced cheeriness, tapping his foot on the rubber mat.

Another dozen appointments later, after a dozen more lies, Peter toys with the sleeve of a Catholic boys' school jacket, tracing the fabric as if trying to make sense of it. The striped tie sits tight around his neck, and he seems to barely resist the temptation to loosen it, his fingers running over the knot every other minute.

“Costume party?” Bucky works triple-time on not smirking. He can’t help but be amused—Peter looks fucking ridiculous in this getup.

“Why do I even bother?” the kid mutters, and Bucky doesn’t miss an exasperated scoff in the rearview mirror.

“Dunno, doll,” Bucky shrugs, earning a kick to the back of his seat.

“I don’t need saving,” Peter says firmly when they stop in front of an honest-to-god boarding school at ten at night.

Bucky kills the engine, stretches his legs, and gets out the book from the glove compartment. “Never said you did.”

“You read,” Peter points out as he starts grabbing his things. Without disbelief or anything, but no less insulting.

“Only for the pictures,” Bucky admits, deadpan, flipping open the book and pretending to study a page with intense focus.

Peter rolls his eyes, steps out of the car, and heads toward the school without another word. 

When he returns—after midnight—he’s flushed and pissed, the kind of anger that comes from deep frustration. He slams the car door behind him and immediately starts ripping off the jacket, his movements jerky and aggressive.

“Don’t fucking look,” he borderline yells at Bucky, sharp and raw.

Bucky obliges, turning his head to the window and the building instead. He briefly contemplates if he should leave an anonymous tip about the headmaster. With the kind of money it takes to enroll someone here, you’d think they’d do better background checks. Then again, he doesn’t know if Peter is planning on coming back, and it’s not up to him to fuck with his client list.

The drive back is tense. When they get to Peter’s place—a modest apartment complex that’s become their new drop-off point after the sixth client—Peter doesn’t move to get out immediately, lingering.

“Didn’t want you to think—” he starts, but Bucky cuts him off.

“You don’t pay me to think.”

They have an understanding after that.

The funeral is a sea of black. Black suits, black dresses, black umbrellas shielding over a hundred attendees from a light drizzle that seems almost too perfect for the occasion. Bucky stands on the sidelines with Nat, holding her by the elbow. She's wearing a massive black hat over the blonde wig, tulle and all, occasionally sobbing two octaves too high.

“You look more torn up than the widow,” Bucky grits through his teeth, rummaging for a tissue in his pocket. “Ease off on crying, or they’ll think you were fucking this asshole.”

She dabs the tissue under her dry eyes and stabs his foot with the heel of her Louboutin stiletto for solid criticism, having him bite back a wince.

“Let’s get you out of here, darling,” he murmurs loud enough, guiding her through the throng of mourners. She sways deliberately, bumping into her target.

They are already in Nat’s silver Aspark Owl when the crowd stirs. The whispers turn to murmurs, then to shouts and screaming.

“The grave’s still open,” Nat peers over him at the commotion. “Could just chuck him in and be done with it. Thanks for the assist. How’s your twink for hire?”

Bucky doesn’t say anything at first, watching Nat battle her hat, her manicured fingers clawing at the tulle, the massive brim wobbling.

“Fine,” he slips that in between her snarling, “Fucking thing is glued on,” yanking at the hat and then asking, “Help, it’s actually stuck.”

“Fuck him yet?” she pushes while he pries the wig with the hat off, her red curls spilling out in a messy cascade.

“Not planning on it,” he answers honestly, tossing the combo onto her lap.

They drive a few miles away before swapping seats—Nat would never let him drive her baby longer than necessary.

“Why not?” She hits the gas and recklessly breaks the red light while throwing funeral paraphernalia on the road. 

“Like you said,” Bucky sticks the elbow of his left arm out the window and explains, “he’s for hire.”

Peter mumbles something from the backseat, muffled over the hum of the engine, and Bucky glances back with “What was that?”

“Your arm,” Peter repeats. He’s been extra fidgety today, clearly not looking forward to his appointment, but at least he’s not wearing a uniform this time around. “It’s Stark tech, right?”

Bucky sure as shit does not want to talk about it, even to distract him, but he does end up making an agreeing motion with his eyes, looking back at Peter in the mirror. The arm stands out. Tony might as well have slapped his brand on it, the tech’s unique, so no point in being cagey about it.

“How’d you get it?” Peter leans in, as if to take a closer look, and Bucky’s grip tightens on the wheel, the metal fingers flexing involuntarily. 

It’s always the same question. Not “How did you lose it?” but “How the fuck did someone like you get your one healthy loser hand on it?”

Bucky’s nearly tempted to snark back with, “How did you start hooking?” but for hire or not, Peter doesn’t deserve that. So he doesn’t evade. 

“Stark made it for me.”

Peter’s eyes widen in surprise, he rather comically blinks a few times, but then just slumps back in his seat, now skeptical. “You know Tony Stark. Right. Pull the other one.”

Bucky could tell him how Stark personally built it for him after Bucky dragged him out of Afghanistan. How bad it was, with Bucky just about not beating Ten Rings with his ripped-off arm and considering using it to plug a hole in Tony’s chest. He could also tell him about his whole unit getting royally fucked over for managing to pull off a rescue they were apparently meant to fail. But that’s a lot more than he’s willing to disclose.

“You got me. Picked it up at a yard sale.”

Peter chews on the inside of his cheek, opens his mouth as if to say something, but then clams up and stays quiet. 

There are times Bucky thinks that at least a part of Peter enjoys what he does. 

It’s not something he’s ever going to say out loud, and, sure, there's probably a deep-seated self-hate buried in there somewhere, or maybe just a number on Peter's bank account he needs to hit before he stops—or at least tells himself he will. 

But some nights, Peter returns to the car with his pupils blown wide, eyes wild and electric, and there’s a spark there, a glint of something almost like satisfaction. Bucky’s seen that before too, in soldiers fresh from the field, their adrenaline still pumping, the rush of survival mingling with the horror of what they’ve done.

It’s there in the way Peter holds himself afterward, the way he sits still, while his breath comes just a bit too fast, too shallow.

On those nights, Peter doesn’t speak, not that they normally exchange more words than necessary. He just stares out the side window, his profile illuminated by the passing streetlights, and Bucky watches him out of the corner of his eye, wondering what the hell is going through that kid's mind.

Peter rubs his bottom lip with his thumb, in those small, unconscious gestures, and Bucky drives, his own mind half on the road and half on another life’s washout behind him.

“Cute. I’d tap that,” Clint pops the folder with Peter’s file that’s been knocking about closed, and Bucky motions for him to pass it over so he can dispose of it later. They still don’t let customers in—when pigs fly—but there is no reason for this folder to become a prop for a running gag about Bucky’s “hobby”.

“Sure, want his number?” Bucky scoffs, putting down his beer over the brown cardboard, creating a wet stain. Adding to other stains, actually, further proving that Bucky’s somewhat dropped the ball on not letting Peter’s sheet become a coaster for when the topics run dry. 

“Nah, I’ll pass.” There is a white towel flung around Clint’s neck, and Bucky shakes his head, taking another sip. The cleaning of the glasses, the towel, the actual stocking of inventory they never plan on selling—talk about taking it too far.

“I prefer my ladies of the night more chesty,” shares Clint—no shit, what a revelation—moving this rag down to rub the already clean surface. “Figured out yet what’s for sale?”

“Not difficult to guess,” Bucky salutes Sam, who storms in using the back door, covered in what whiffs suspiciously of sewer. Not even remotely interested in what the fuck happened there, Bucky then points upstairs. “Don’t even think about it. This establishment is reserved exclusively for ‘I don’t smell like shit’ clientele.”

“Lick my balls,” Sam drips something brown on the floor, but it does send him packing, not that he was likely to stick around before grabbing a shower anyway.

Bucky spends the rest of the evening dodging Clint’s attempts to find out more.

The truth is, after a few weeks, Bucky started to make an effort not to guess what Peter does while he waits.

For one very simple reason.

Peter’s got that scrappy, wiry strength about him, and has absolutely zero fake about him unless you count the way he dresses for the job (his initial idiotic approach to hiring Bucky excluded). He isn’t hard to look at either. Bucky would actually tap that and enjoy it a great deal under different circumstances, let's call a spade a spade, but with the circumstances being what they are, it’s not a line he’s dying to cross.

He did it once—thought about it, let himself picture it when the book he was reading took a batshit tour into La-La-land. Within minutes that particular line of thought had him grabbing some fresh air outside the car, pacing by the curb, questioning his ability not to rub one out under the Do Not Park sign.

He could almost see Peter’s face, those brown eyes fluttering closed, and could almost hear the breathy gasps and the low moans. Did not fucking help knowing for a fact that Peter was being railed six ways to Sunday across the street, taking dick for cash.

Took some doing to shove it the hell back in where it crawled out of, while Bucky was driving him back home, letting his imagination run wild. Every time Peter barely shifted where he sat, Bucky had images flashing in front of his eyes, and he had a great ol' time counting the odds of these Johns actually handling that body right.

“Don’t tell me you haven’t thought about it,” Clint uses his thumb and index finger to send a bottle cap flying into the glass across the room, and it clacks against others, landing dead in the center of the stack.

“This ain't ‘Pretty Woman’,” Bucky attempts the same maneuver and ends up knocking the glass down. Well, they’ve all got their own strengths, and Bucky prefers a rifle.

Peter is—

Peter.

What’s not to fucking like? He’s got a look that makes you want to protect and ruin in equal measure, but Bucky’s got his own shit to deal with. Not blowing his brains out all over this bar, for starters.

Peter does what he has to, and Bucky drives.

Simple. Clean.

Simple and clean until— already parked outside Peter's place, after apologizing for eating in Bucky's car for the third time—Peter mentions through a mouthful of fries:

“Saw you in Chinatown last night.”

They grabbed food from McDonald’s drive-through, and it's normal, friendly even. Fucking weird, and Bucky should be drawing that line in the sand, but instead just twists his body slightly toward Peter, a fry halfway to his mouth too, asking: “Yeah?”

“Uh-huh,” Peter makes a sound, preoccupied chasing a rogue piece of lettuce around the wrapper with his finger. “Who's the old man?”

“A friend,” Bucky replies absentmindedly, his eyes following the trajectory of the sauce-soaked lettuce into Peter's mouth, which culminates in him licking around his finger with an appreciative hum.

“He's like a hundred,” Peter laughs, and Bucky turns back to face the front, taking a bite of his Big Mac, chewing thoughtfully.

“Yori doesn’t have anyone,” he says after putting his half-eaten burger down. “It's my fault.”

Bucky hadn't meant to unload—hell, he hadn't even realized it was chambered and ready to fire. 

He chances a glance in the mirror and finds Peter stopped mid-bite, a fry poised between his fingers, now limp. Bucky frowns and braces himself. He's expecting that look—the wide-eyed, oh-shit sympathy that had made him want to punch something the first time they met. That, or more questions. 

Neither comes. Instead, Peter just rubs the back of his neck. There are a few shadows across his face from this angle, and those shadows seem to deepen the lines that shouldn’t even be there yet. His chewing doesn’t resume; he seems to force the food down while muttering a genteel, understanding “Fuck,” and then works on packing up his leftovers, the greasy paper rustling too loud in the suddenly too-quiet car.

It almost comes as a surprise that not every client of Peter's can be categorically filed under "Likes underage, but too chicken to fuck one." 

The second time Peter laughs in Bucky's presence happens when Peter fiddles with his sports jacket, shrugging it over a tight t-shirt that already looks painted on. He sprays cologne in a generous cloud, little droplets catching the dim overhead light, polluting not just the backseat. The scent isn't bad—sharp, with a hint of citrus—but in the cramped confines, it’s pretty much a chemical assault.

“You trying to marinate yourself?” Bucky cracks a window open, grumbling about the stench.

“Can I see a picture?”

Bucky's still mentally cursing the cologne, so it takes a second to process what the fuck Peter's on about. But nimble fingers are already reaching out, brushing against Bucky’s shoulder and plucking a white hair from his navy-blue jumper.

“You have a cat. Don't even try denying it.”

“Don't have one,” Bucky insists, stone-faced, and swears that next time some rat-looking thing decides it now lives with him, he's not just going to deposit it at Nat’s door but also make sure to lock his own.

“You're full of shit,” that’s when Peter laughs—already half out, stopping only to poke his head back in with that look of incredulous amusement, and for a second there Bucky forgets where Peter's off to.

“Don't have a picture,” he snaps out of it. What does he look like? A fucking cat guy?

Bucky's room, perched above the bar, isn't exactly the Ritz. The place is cramped, sure, but it's a king's quarters compared to the four days he once spent wedged under floorboards, listening for the footsteps of a target who took his sweet time to show. His current digs at least have the luxury of vertical space, and the bed doesn't double as a booby trap.

The cat is dirty white, scruffy, female, still too skinny, and with a silver collar, tagged with a number only because Bucky’s not about to let some well-meaning volunteer snatch this stray up and put it down "for humanitarian reasons."

He grabs his phone and aims it at the cat, which, true to its nature as an asshole of perpetual inconvenience, chooses that moment to move. The resulting photo is a shit, blurry mess. The cat's halfway out of the frame, its eyes demonic slits, although that part’s accurate. Bucky swears, then crops out the half-made bed with the stock of the semi-automatic sticking out from under the pillow and a small shelf crammed with books. He's no photographer, that's evident.

He hesitates for a moment, thumb hovering over the 'send' button. But hell, the kid asked for it, and it’s not like Bucky's got a specific reputation to uphold. With a muttered curse, he sends the photo. Most days he'd rather share a toothbrush with a dead raccoon than his personal life, but this diabolical furball with hair mats that refuse to come out is not his.

Immediately, there’s a ping back, and Peter’s response flashes on the screen. “LOL, looks haunted.”

The minutes while Bucky waits for Peter to return start to drag after that.

Bucky stands with his arms crossed against his chest, leaning back against the warm side of the car, the evening sun glaring, attempting to school his expression somewhere between a scowl and the usual blank slate reserved for bullshit he doesn’t want to deal with. They’re parked outside another mansion that stinks of money more than a Wall Street bull, and Peter has only now chosen to disclose that Bucky’s role tonight extends beyond the driver's seat.

“This wasn’t the deal,” Bucky feels the heat of the summer scorching against his skin, his black t-shirt attempting to stick to his back within minutes since they’ve arrived and started arguing—or have gotten as close as they ever did to having an actual argument.

Peter glances around as if he’s worried the hedges have ears.

“It’s a party,” he vaguely explains like Bucky’s supposed to know what that entails. He kind of does, on a theoretical level—a cesspool of every vice known to man cloaked in a veneer of glittering excess. But.

“Why the fuck do I have to come in? I am not your pimp.” Even though he plays the part well enough.

“Look, I just found out myself. They want everyone to come in, no one left outside to—” Peter makes a circling gesture with his hand, adding a pleading face; fucking lethal—“snoop around or whatever.”

"Fine," Bucky caves, regretting it already. He rounds the car to pop the hood open, fishing for something—anything—to cover his arm. It's not exactly party apparel, his metal limb, Stark tech or not.

"No, don't," Peter blurts out before Bucky even gets his hands on anything less insulating than an engine block. Peter’s cheeks are flushed from the heat, and he looks embarrassed when he stammers out, "It's, ugh, awesome. Makes me feel, I don't know, important or something."

Bucky stares for a good three seconds, trying to find the logic in that statement. Jesus Christ. If Bucky was given a hundred years to stew on this, he still wouldn't understand the kid’s wiring.

“Come on, lead the way,” he says, slamming the trunk closed. So, the arm’s out and he's out; a freak on a leash without the leash.

Bucky can't remember the last time he felt as much like a piece of shit as he does now, sitting outside the massive doors under the watchful eye of a guard. He's hunched on a gilded bench, arms on his knees, flanked by two men who leave no doubt in his mind about their profession. He might not be a pimp—technically—but these guys definitely are.

The first, with a dreadful comb-over, wearing a leopard-print shirt, is practically a caricature of sleaze. Every few minutes, he checks his gold watch—an obvious fake—as if he’s the one actually busy working his literal ass off. His partner sports a suit so loud Bucky’s sure it’s intended as a distraction from the tic in his right eye. 

"Quite the weather we’re having, huh?" the-tic-in-the-eye tries to make conversation. Bucky ignores that. Engaging would mean acknowledging that they’re the same, and fuck that noise.

He finds a bitter sort of humor in the thought that he's probably the most human thing on this bench, despite the hardware, and can almost thank the heavens for soundproof doors because the alternative—actually hearing what's going on inside—would be a whole new level of hell. As much as those doors block out sound, though, they sure as shit don't block out his imagination, which is currently running a marathon. And that inability, that fucking impotence to do anything but sit and wait, chafes at him more than any physical restraint ever could.

The heavy door suddenly cracks open, and a wisp of a girl squeezes through just before it slams shut. The brief opening lets out a blast of blaring music and a cacophony of laughter, and Bucky involuntarily strains his ears for any hint of Peter's voice.

The girl, with her hair tangled and her eyes darting nervously, motions to the comb-over. He perks up like a dog hearing the kibble bag rustle, smoothing down his gaudy shirt as he stands to amble over to her. She whispers something in his ear, her posture tense, and Bucky's grip tightens on his knee, his nails digging into the denim of his jeans.

With a rough hand, the girl is pushed back towards the door and left there to hover, while the sleazebag comes up to speak to the guard with a conspiratorial lean in his posture.

Bucky catches snippets—"extra" and "nothing that scars"—and his jaw clenches tight enough to grind teeth to dust. The guard nods, indifferent, and Bucky gets to witness the exchange of cash, before, with even more roughness that makes Bucky’s hand twitch towards something he can’t hit, the sleazebag shoves the girl back in.

As if the scars that don't show don't count, Bucky thinks, every protective instinct he's ever had flaring up in a backdraft.

“Fuck this,” he says to the guard, standing up.

They size each other up—former military, fifty-fifty dishonorable discharge—and, in a blink, it’s on. The guard goes for his gun, fast, sure, but Bucky’s faster. Springs, screws, and metal pieces of the guard’s Ruger clutter the floor.

"Not worth it for a piece of ass," the guard says dismissively after not pushing further. "Could it crush a skull?"

"It can," Bucky replies simply, flexing the arm deliberately. The plates shift with a soft, hydraulic hiss. It had.

Peter pauses, his hand on the handle, the door ajar.

"That was four thousand bucks," he says, and Bucky has to unclip his belt to properly turn to him.

He isn’t surprised by the price tag people put on their sins. When they were strapped for cash and on the run, Bucky would have killed for less. What does surprise him is the fact that Peter tries—fails—to sound and look annoyed even though his face screamed ‘relieved as fuck’ when the guard walked him out of that room.

“Want me to pay you back?”

Peter's eyes drop. He rubs his free hand over his forehead and then, with a guttingly weary motion, moves his hair out of the way, one stubborn curl immediately springing right back out.

"No. Wasn't worth it," Peter chews on his bottom lip. “Thanks.”

“This one is alright,” Peter says one day, not that Bucky had asked. He’s fine-tuning mascara on his lashes and then finishes off by spending a better part of a minute applying lip gloss. When he’s done, Peter leans back, eyes scrutinizing his reflection in the little mirror. He grimaces, as if not entirely satisfied with the outcome, and slaps the case closed with a click. “What do you think? How do I look?”

Bucky thinks Peter looks like a doll. With or without the makeup he doesn’t need, although the idea of Peter’s lips wrapped around Bucky’s cock, glossed up like that, is hotter than it has any right to be.

"Like a cartoon character," Bucky smiles, and Peter laughs, almost giddy, the sound screwing with Bucky’s head.

“He might become a regular,” Peter overshares, zipping up the warpaint in the backpack, and it has Bucky going for the water bottle in the side door so he has an excuse to turn away, taking a long sip, trying to wash down the lump that had formed in his throat.

It goes downhill from there.

Starting with two hours later when Peter sways back, mascara leaking down his cheeks in black tears, looking more wrecked than a truck in a demolition derby.

"Not so bad," Peter falls onto the backseat, voice horse, and stretches his limbs, once again oversharing, “but fuck me, I am beat. You hungry?”

Bucky nods and doesn’t say anything; what’s there to say? He just hands over a couple of napkins from the glove compartment, and the gig—shit, he can't even call it that with a straight face anymore—morphs into the polar opposite of the distraction it was meant to be.

"It's not helping anymore. Quit driving him around," Nat says, planting her fingers over the piece hanging from his metal hand, and when it doesn’t budge, hisses, “Give me the fucking gun.”

Bucky doesn’t look at her; doesn’t need to. Seen it all before, heard it all before too, but he does let go.

“The clip’s empty,” she notes, sitting down next to him and placing his Beretta between them.

“I have a cat,” he shrugs. “Yori’s dead.”

“There’s one in the chamber.”

“It’s not a very good cat.”

There is no black, no rain, no hats or somewhat-grieving widow, not even an assassin in a wig overdoing it on the performance.

There's still a grave though, a priest, a too-shiny coffin that Bucky had paid for, as well as the scant number of attendees that wouldn’t even fill a jury box.

Three old-timers from the Bingo hall are huddled together, and there's that girl from the Chinese place, Mei. She's clutching a cheap bouquet of supermarket flowers, likely on a lunch break and probably rethinking her decision to show up, judging by the way she winces when the priest—mid-drone of his generic eulogy—calls Yori "Harold", causing Bucky fake a cough to hide his smirk.

Yori would've laughed his ass off for not making it into the Mad Libs book of the dead at his own funeral and would have pinched the priest’s wallet as a parting gift for the mix-up.

Bucky sees the sneakers first, sinking into the grass, and then feels an uncomfortably gentle tug on the sleeve of his leather jacket. A soft murmur of a "Hey," accompanies the touch, followed by a shoulder bump that's probably supposed to pass for friendly.

"I read the obits," explains Peter, sounding guilty, appearing on Bucky’s right. "And you are never 'busy.'"

A sad turnout that wouldn’t even impress a hermit, now with the addition of a hooker with a heart of gold.

"Hey, doll?" Bucky asks, suppressing a laugh, just as Peter unsuccessfully attempts to sneak a hand around his twitching fingers. "Get me the hell out of here?"

"Sure," Peter nods, not looking particularly offended at Bucky stuffing his shaking hands into the pockets of his jacket. "It’s not like I'm here for this verbal Valium. Not going to fuck you though. Just so we’re clear."

"Don’t sweat it. You are not my type," he lies.

It wasn’t Bucky’s idea.

It's the first time Bucky's been let inside Peter's building—hell, it's the first time he’s been allowed to see anything more personal about him than the usual backseat view. 

Peter’s place is almost too predictably messy, with every surface covered in the debris of his interests—everything out and nothing hidden, obscure tech gadgets sprawled across the coffee table, tangled with wires that seem more modern art than functioning equipment. Clothes are strewn all over the place, and there are dishes piled up in the sink, promising a future archaeological dig.

The bookshelf that Bucky is standing by is sagging under the weight of comic books, and he can’t resist pointing out, "Look at that, you read for pictures too."

"I have a Kindle," across the room, Peter's grin splits wide, and he impatiently motions at Bucky. "Come on, take your clothes off."

Bucky throws him a skeptical look, peels off his jacket, the leather hitting the back of the chair, and quickly works the buttons of his shirt. The shirt joins the jacket, and finally, the Henley—lifted over his head, tossed on top, leaving Bucky in the raw.

"Fuck, I actually can't wait," Peter says, visibly vibrating with anticipation, not quite bouncing but damn close.

A rough chuckle scraping out from his throat, Bucky flops down on Peter’s disaster of a couch and beckons him over with a flick of his two metal fingers.

"Can't believe this is happening," Peter mutters as he settles next to him.

"Go on then," Bucky says, cocking his eyebrow in a dare, and Peter finally reaches out, grazing the edges of the plates on Bucky’s arm with his fingertips, clicking his tongue with approval. 

There is a small toolbox on Peter's lap, and his "Holy shit" is mostly awe.

"Which one is it?" Peter asks after the metal arm is almost too thoroughly inspected.

"Fourth from the top," Bucky directs, flexing his bicep to better show where the plate has been catching. "You botch this, and you’re going to have one very pissed off Tony Stark to deal with."

“For real?” Peter recoils, which gets Bucky properly laughing.

“Nah, just fucking with you. I do it all the time, it’s a prototype.”

He'd only sworn under his breath when the plate got stuck while walking away from the funeral towards the bike. Peter, with that all-too-curious tilt of his head, had asked. Bucky, against his better judgment, had answered. And well, here they are.

And it's—alright.

Peter doesn't probe about the scars, but he is close enough for Bucky to count every freckle playing hide and seek on his bent neck. Close enough that the absence of that cologne leaves room for something mild—lavender shampoo—which makes a case for sniffing if Bucky was to let himself. 

Peter's hair looks soft; soft enough that Bucky's flesh fingers itch with the want to touch and confirm if it's as downy as it appears. And it’s been a very shitty day—week—so Bucky can forgive himself a fucked-up urge to rub his nose against that hair like some kind of affection-starved stray, still rattled from how tight Peter was holding on to him, sitting behind on the Bucky’s Ducati.

But—alright.

Even though Bucky is shirtless on a couch, and Peter's knee is casually nudging his thigh, grounding itself there as if it's staked a claim, and this is normal—just two guys, one half-naked, in an apartment where a grenade might have gone off, doing robot arm maintenance.

Later, after Bucky's back in his clothes, minus the jacket, and Peter’s lips are shining with pizza grease that looks more tempting than any lip gloss, Peter asks him:

"It doesn't bother you, right?" He’s been picking at the pepperoni on the leftover slices—too full to eat more but still fishing for the good stuff, amassing small pieces of cured meat on the edge of his plate. "That I sleep with men?"

Bucky chews slowly, buying time, and tossing crust back into the box, goes with a semi-truth that sounds exactly like another lie would have:

"No, it doesn’t bother me."

Peter hums a little, nodding, produces an almost unsure smile, hums a little more, and the room feels smaller, Bucky’s world tightening up.

“I should be going,” he says, just as Peter offers, “Wanna watch a movie or something?”

They don't end up watching a movie, although Peter does go on a disturbingly nerdy rant about how the first two episodes of "Battlestar Galactica" are technically a movie. They end up watching the miniseries, with the dip in the middle of the couch—a no-man's-land of sagging fabric—pushing Peter closer and closer to Bucky, until he is all but leaning his compact body that would fit just right between Bucky's arms against his left side.

"It comes off, you know," Bucky jokes. "If you two need a room."

Peter huffs out a laugh and shifts just enough to make it clear he’s not moving unless he has to. Bucky doesn’t move away either. The heat from Peter is a better comfort than the frayed blanket tossed over the back of the couch. 

Besides, it’s been a long time since anyone’s leaned on Bucky without being another dead weight to carry, and they're just there, slouched into each other tighter than a couple of war-torn coats thrown on the same hook. 

Until Peter turns to Bucky, a smile flickering over his lips, quick as a camera flash. Then turns away, lost to the flicker of TV light. And then back again, biting on his bottom lip, eyes scanning Bucky's, his face getting closer, his breath warm, his gaze dropping to Bucky's mouth.

Bucky slightly tilts his head—that's all he does.

But he can damn near see the flecks of different colors in Peter's eyes, can smell that lavender shampoo, and wonders for a half-crazed second how Peter would taste like—

Peter flies off the couch, as if he's been spring-loaded. He crosses his arms over his chest, his face twisted into something sour.

"I fucking knew it," he spits out, and it’s one of the few seconds of Bucky's life when time just stalls. Considering the shitshow it's been, you’d think he’d be used to pressure, but no, this dick move he didn’t expect from Peter rocks his boat just hard enough to feel it.

Bucky rises off the couch with a sigh, a quick lick of his suddenly dry lips, a shake of his head, and a bitter half-laugh, then walks past Peter to pick up his jacket.

"Nice, real nice," Bucky drawls, sliding into it. He's not rushing it, not giving Peter the satisfaction of seeing him flustered. "I don't want to fuck you, I'm a homophobe. I do, and I'm still an asshole. Well done."

Bucky should leave, should just snatch up his helmet off the coffee table and get the hell out the door. 

Instead, he moves toward Peter, whose back is turned to him, stiff and all but radiating "gotcha." Bucky comes up close from behind—closer than he's ever allowed himself before without permission, his hands hovering over Peter's hips.

“Just had to make sure, didn’t you?” Bucky quietly asks. “That everyone wants to shove their meat inside you, including me. Happy now?”

Peter’s shoulders tense even further, his arms still crossed in front of him, elbows as sharp as blades. Bucky can almost feel the prick of them, imagining the sting. 

He has to bend his head down for his breath to graze the shell of Peter’s ear:

"Yeah, alright, you got me. I’d fuck you. I’d fuck you real good too, but it’s not something you haven’t heard before, right?"

Peter doesn’t step away or turn around, but his breathing changes—sharper inhales, sucking in all the air out of the room.

“What’s the point, hmm?” Bucky moves his hand to catch the back of Peter’s t-shirt, the tip of his metal finger dragging itself on the bones of the spine, slowly pulling the fabric up and up. “The hell could I ever say or do that would even work here? Call you a pretty little thing, and have you thinking of some perverted lowlife with a beer gut? Say you have a nice smile, and have you probably assume it’s code for ‘open wide’?”

“Hey, doll,” Bucky keeps talking, whispering now, “you deserve better. Or, you know, bend over, since it’s all just another nickel in the jukebox.”

He pushes his groin into Peter’s ass—screwing the last thing on his shredded mind—both of his hands on Peter’s waist now, black splotches over eyes like ash.

"Why did you have to do that today of all days?" Bucky rubs his cheek against—so soft—hair on Peter’s head.

"I don't… don't know. Sorry," Peter finally blurts out, and Bucky shakes it off, calmer now, starting to let go. 

He’s done, so done, as he’s stepping away, Peter’s t-shirt taking its time falling back down, and—

Here they are. 

Fresh lines from a marker on the skin of his back. Dozens, maybe more. They join the black spots that are clouding Bucky's vision, lingering even after Peter turns around, straightening the t-shirt flat.

"And how much was that?" Bucky still can’t believe his eyes when Peter twists to glimpse over his shoulder, as if he could see that fucking artwork etched from there. “Moving up to a career on top of Pornhub's pig bottoms search? Or are we going for cum dumpster, and are now charging extra for ‘fuck safety’?”

"No, listen.” Peter looks back at Bucky, panic and possibly hurt flickering across his features. "You were gone a week and, I—I don't—"

"Fuck," Bucky rubs his hands over his face, starting to pace around the cramped living room, choking on something akin to protective disgust.

Peter's shoulders slump and he sits down, sinking back against the couch. "Wasn’t like that. At first. They didn’t film it, I made sure."

“Of course they did,” Bucky scowls through the coming up acid, grabbing his helmet. “For a smart one, you are an idiot. I'll fix it, but I am not your driver anymore.” 

Chapter Text

It doesn’t take much—not as much as it could have. A chunk of cash tossed into the right scummy hands, and Peter’s naivety never sees the filthy depths of the net. And Bucky wanted to punish—could have punished—his own brand of morality always skewing towards doing the dirty work so others don’t have to. But money talks, bullshit walks—or in this case, the thumb drive disappears into Peter’s mailbox, tail between its legs, with a note: “Didn’t watch it. You should.”

“You wanna tell me why there’s a sudden dip in our funds?” Nat notices the hole in their account first, eyebrows knitting together as she taps away at her laptop, about to read him the riot act.

“Just ask for more,” he leaves her to deal with their benefactor who has been bankrolling this fucking crusade ever since they've been under a shoot-to-kill order for not taking a life.

“Tony,” Bucky hears Nat make the call when he’s already climbing the stairs. “We had a slight budget overrun—"

"Not yet," Bucky tells to trigger-happy Sam, who has his finger circling the spot of red on the tablet’s touch screen. The SUV Bucky is watching through the binoculars is passing a bus, and Bucky has his hand up, waiting. "Now."

There is a scrub rustling next to Bucky’s boots when, with a tap and a swipe, the SUV speeds up. It jerks from the digital sting, wildly swerving, and careens off the road. The guardrail offers little resistance, crumples, and the general’s car tumbles past.

They don't see it rolling down the steep incline, but even from this vantage point, there is a dull and distant thud, quickly followed by a wisp of smoke curling up from the side of the mountain—a small, almost polite exhalation of disaster.

"Can I have your rig after you kick it?" Sam asks, as Bucky is already mounting his modded bike, about to leave Wilson’s Kawasaki in the dust.

"No. I’m fine."

Bucky slumps onto the bar stool, his body feeling like it's been through at least a mile of broken glass.

"Shit," he mutters, dropping his head down and then—forehead kissing the wood—reaches into his pocket, pulling out a phone. "Take it."

Not his. It’s a clone of Peter’s he’s had since the day he went looking for a lifeline. He slides it over to Clint, doesn’t need to have his head up to see the leer on his face, and waits for the whiskey.

“So, what’s the play here?” Clint pushes Glengoyne into his outstretched hand.

“No play,” Bucky admits. “He’s still working.”

"Barnes, fuck no," and the untouched glass of whiskey in Bucky's grip gets confiscated.

There were no new appointments for over two weeks, no meet-ups inked into the calendar. A part of Bucky was nearly expecting to pull up a college application in Peter's email—he could afford it now and then some, with all the dirty money he'd piled up. Turns out, though, Bucky’s doll was just letting the permanent marker—the one they used to tally each asshole who got inside him that night—fade from his skin.

So, back into the grind. No marks, no tells. Clean, if you could ever call it that.

When Bucky finally looks up, straightening his back, little shit to give as to the fact that he probably looks both lost and miserable, Clint is already dumping the clone of Peter’s phone into an ice bucket and hosing it down with water from the sprayer.

“You know what would be nice?” he asks Clint, eyeing with disdain a non-alcoholic bottle of Heineken pushed his way. “If you all quit acting like I am about to off myself.”

"You not?" ever-the-skeptic, Clint moves this insult of a bottle closer to Bucky. "Wouldn’t blame you if you were. We've all been there, man."

Bucky—the late bloomer of the bunch. It's just that Clint, Nat, even Sam—they’ve all had reasons beyond a collective tragedy of being manipulated, betrayed, and left for dead to consider a bullet, while Bucky had not. Held it steady. Until one day, out of nowhere, just… didn’t.

“Not over this,” Bucky uncaps the bottle, gives it a sniff and then offers it to Clint. “You try this piss yourself, then I’ll drink it.”

Bucky doesn't stalk. Doesn't hound or hover around Peter’s life with the zeal of a vulture circling a carcass. But not stalking doesn't mean not thinking, and god, does Bucky think—think and feel and stew and brew in bitter rot that poisons an already infected well.

He's elbows deep in the guts of a Ducati when his phone buzzes, Peter's name flashing on the screen. So it’s not a shock. It is. But not.

"Hey," it reads. Just that—one word as if they're pals catching up.

“No.” Bucky quickly types out a response, bracing for a ghost he’s half-convinced himself was just bullshit, only to find it grinning at him over his morning coffee.

“They say I can’t leave unless someone picks me up. Sorry.” And then, straight after, followed by a map pin: “And, ugh… not the bike, you’ll need a car.”

The first thing Bucky sees isn't Peter's face, or even the tousled mess of his brown hair. It's the wheelchair. It seizes him up long enough for Peter to wave at the nurse with an exasperated "Now?" and start pushing up.

There's a black eye, a real ugly one; a cut with butterfly stitches over his right cheekbone, and a very specific way Peter seems to attempt a shallow breath when he wobbles to his feet. It all paints a picture so vivid Bucky completely forgets all the snide digs and the underhanded comments he'd sharpened on the ride over mid-panic.

Bucky's still cataloging the damage when the nurse Peter had signaled earlier nudges him back into the wheelchair with the impatience of someone who's had enough for one day: “Not until you are outside.”

"Yours, I take it?" she asks Bucky, the sound muffled by a layer of blood that must be sloshing about Bucky's ears.

"Mine," he automatically nods but—flattened or not—doesn’t miss Peter's snort at the claim.

“You do this kind of work often?” asks Peter at the light, too casual by half, crammed right next to Bucky in Nat’s prized two-seater.

Bucky doesn’t laugh at the question. Doesn’t bite. Doesn’t worry about catching shit from Nat later for stealing her ride, but that’s what she gets for blocking him in—got more pressing matters, such as upending the paper bag with Peter's meds on the dash.

He sifts through a few plastic containers, checking the labels, and then digs through the center console, searching for anything to wash it all down. Coming up with only a nearly empty bottle of fizzled-out Coke, he hands it over, rolling a single set of pills worth taking to the left of the dash.

"Half a pill if you want to stay awake. Two, if you want to forget you are human," the traffic light flicks to green, and Bucky’s boot is heavy on the gas.

"I am fine," Peter insists, propping the bottle next to the pills Bucky had suggested, untaken. His voice is so flat it could level mountains, and Bucky’s after hitting another—fifth—red light in a row, his hand squeezing the too-small steering wheel of Nat’s flashy death trap. “You’re not going to ask me what happened?”

Bucky takes too long to settle on grunting out “That’s your business,” just as Peter states the obvious: “Oh, you’re taking me home,” and then “It—wasn’t business.”

And Bucky’s meant to be done.

“I don't have to take you home,” not done enough, apparently, since whatever he’s been stewing in coils its fingers around his ankle and yanks.

Bucky doesn't know what he was thinking bringing Peter here—where, in addition to the normal circus, a junkyard threw up earlier today, with Bucky’s motorcycle parts littering the wooden floor. The second they step in and Bucky locks the front door behind them, he regrets it. Clint, Nat, and even Sam are already waiting, and the whole setup makes it clear they’re less than thrilled to have a visitor—especially this visitor.

Clint's behind the bar, fully embodying his demented bartender fantasy. Nat's at the only makeshift table they have here—a few boxes and a plaster board on top—casually peeling an apple with a Gerber LMF. Sam’s by the darts, the most sane of the trio, until Bucky clocks he’s been using a printout of Peter’s photo ID for a target. It wasn't there last week. It’s also sure as shit wasn’t there when Bucky was hastily leaving after getting Peter’s texts.

He throws a don’t start look at Clint, motions for Sam to take the damn photo down, hoping Peter doesn’t notice, and catches Peter by the elbow when he’s about to walk into a Ducati’s detached handlebar, immediately letting go. Peter’s head moves about while he takes in this disaster, the knife-wielding Nat included, until stopping when his gaze must flicker over to the darts. Great.

Sam plucks the photo from the board, mumbling something about 'just a joke,' but the damage is done.

“Ugh, hi,” Peter says, voice shaky, eyes probably wide, although Bucky can’t see them. “What. Hi. Nice to—hi. What—what does S.H.I.E.L.D stand for?”

Nat ignores Peter's question, not even looking up, and asks Bucky:

"We bring trouble home now? Is that what we're doing?"

Clint does not ignore, while Bucky really wishes he did, and calmly delivers:

“As of five minutes ago it was not Stupid Hopeless Idiots with Esco—” which has Bucky cutting him off.

“Shut up.”

“Oh,” Peter breathes out, and Bucky can see the back of his neck flush crimson red. He then turns to Bucky, cheeks burning. “They know.”

Bucky has to give it to Clint—his stand-up comedian material aside—he isn't wrong about the hopeless part. He sees Peter's hand, white-knuckling the top of the meds bag, crumpling the paper like it's the only thing keeping him from falling apart. And that sight alone makes Bucky want to eat a grenade more than all the other crap ever did.

“They kill people for a living, they don’t know shit.”

And maybe it’s because Peter simply walks into Bucky after this bombshell, his forehead landing on Bucky’s chest and exhales, “I guess,” and Nat sighs, “Alright then.”

Or maybe it’s because, after standing like this for a better part of a minute with Bucky honest-to-god afraid to touch him, Peter steps away himself with a wince and sheepishly asks, “You’ve got anything except for roasted peanuts in here?” and it has Clint muttering about checking the back.

It could also be because even Sam, kind of, in his douchebag way, caves too—by offering Peter a Hello Kitty Band-Aid—when Peter barely manages to climb up on the stool.

Doesn’t matter, really. Why.

But not for the first time, probably not for the last one either, Bucky does not regret them all staying together when the smart thing would have been to scatter apart.

Although what happens after is still not normal, even though it’s normal for them on days ending with 'y'.

“Yeah, that's gonna scar,” Clint lets go of Peter’s cheekbone, letting him get back to his milkshake, and rolls up a sleeve to reveal a jagged scar down his own forearm. “Busted drone blade in Prague.” 

“This one," he continues, pulling up his top on the side, "came from a barbed wire fence in Chechnya.”

"Cute and bullshit,” Nat chuckles, chiming in, “that wasn't even during an op—just trying to steal peaches.” She stretches her top down, showing Peter a thin, pale line across her chest. "A knife fight in Nairobi against former Spetsnaz."

Never the one to be left out, Sam lifts his shirt too.

"Shrapnel, Kabul. Was too busy watching Nat’s six to watch my own."

Peter, who seems to be handling this whole thing better than Bucky had expected—possibly from the leftover hospital drugs in his system—turns to Bucky, as if waiting for him to continue this ridiculous show-and-tell, even though he has already seen the worst of it.

Bucky shakes his head and flips his right palm on the counter, demonstrating a barely-there scar below his middle finger you'd need to squint to see.

“Slipped on ice,” he explains and reaches across the bar to grab another plate of fries.

“In North Korea,” adds Clint.

“Bleeding out from four holes left by a PPSh-41,” says Nat.

“While carrying a two hundred pound defector,” clarifies Sam.

Assholes.

“Itched like a bitch,” Bucky places the plate next to Peter. “Eat.”

"I don't do that anymore, I swear," Peter rushes the lie out, his voice cracking, as if he's trying to convince himself as much as Bucky.

Peter's attempt at a kiss the moment they walked into Bucky’s small bedroom upstairs—which Bucky had stepped away from for too many reasons to fucking count before their lips could even touch, pushing Peter’s hands away from his belt—hangs awkwardly in the air between them.

"I, dunno, can take a shower if you don't believe me," Peter adds, it sounding more like a question.

Jesus Christ.

Bucky sidesteps him, comes up to the bed to get Alpine to move off the pillow, frowning when this menace refuses to budge and licks his metal hand instead. Another asshole, and this one is the reason why Bucky had to relocate his gun.

“You two are gonna have to share, sorry, she’s a bit territorial. Of the pillow,” he crouches to grab the gun from under the bed, temporarily shoving it inside the pocket of the hoodie and standing up again, his gut twisting at the expression on Peter's face.

"You don't want to?" quietly asks Peter, completely ignoring the firearm and the demon.

Bucky briefly entertains the idea of rolling through the window onto the slanted roof, dropping down, and running. For good. There are days when he suspects it’s not him who is wired wrong, but everyone else. And it’s one of those days.

This… this doll, sporting the black eye, the cut, the bruised ribs—not broken, thank fuck, because that’s a whole other circle of hell—is getting upset over Bucky not jumping at the offer to screw him in this state. 

"Sleep, rest, take a shower if you want to, I’ll crash downstairs," he says, taking out sweats and a t-shirt that are sure to drown Peter from the top drawer of his dresser and leaving them on the blanket. “I would reconsider the pills, you’ll be hurting more tomorrow.”

A gasket here, a hose clamp there—though he’s running out of parts to fit—and Bucky is almost at the state of mind-numbing calm when Nat plants her ass next to him on the floor and crosses her legs. She picks up a wrench by his side, flips it in the air, and then pokes with it at the lubricated chain greasing up the rag.

"Go on then," she pokes his arm next and yawns.

"Find out who did this."

"And then what? Cut their hands off, gouge their eyes out, rip their dick—" Nat stops when Bucky throws her a side-glance.

"Already did," she confirms, flopping with her back on the floor, stretching out the suspense. Bucky lets her. "Your tart got robbed. There's a police report."

"Don't call him that," he frowns. It’s late, or early, and the clicks of the parts slipping into place are less satisfying than they were a few minutes ago. "Find out anyway."

"Fat chance," she goes as far as to laugh. "Your itsy-bitsy harlot got robbed. In an alley. In New York. We have a better chance of finding—"

"Don’t."

"Why are you here?" Nat deflects. "The bed’s not that small."

Bucky’s eyes drift to where the door to the upstairs is cracked open. Peter is probably curled up in Bucky's tight-as-fuck bed, wrestling for space with Bucky’s possessed cat, whose idea of sharing involves taking up most of the mattress and acting as if whatever’s left is a giant favor.

"He doesn’t do that anymore, he swears," Bucky rubs the back of his neck, the coarse drag of his hand a shoddy distraction. Bullshit said with all the conviction of a liar nailed to the stand. Peter not getting beat up by a John doesn’t clean the slate—just paints over the cracks, and Bucky might not be a good man, but he’s still a fucking man. "Won’t be lied to about the grind that grinds you down to nothing and take it."

"Pfft, aren’t we fancy?" Nat kicks him on the thigh with her foot. "He’ll need his shit. Come on, as good a time as any."

"He'll leave in the morning."

"Oh, he isn't going anywhere," Nat yawns again, and Bucky tenses up, giving her an assessing look, but she just flashes him a too-wide smile. "At ease, soldier. Trust me, your floozy has no intention of leaving himself."

"You know something I don't?"

"Always. But in this case, it's just an observation. Your hooker—sorry, last one, getting it out of my system—is hooked. Maybe not on you, but on whatever fucked-up thing you two got going."

"Normal people don’t do this," he mutters, jiggling the pick.

"Beats getting shot at," Nat laughs—the bar too low—the lock gives way, and there it is; stale takeout and despair, but with the added spice of Peter's occupational hazards.

They look. She packs.

"Not this one," black silk slips through Bucky’s fingers like water, and he lobs whatever the fuck that was next to a strapped heel he doesn’t want to give a second’s thought.

"You think he wore these for speed or pleasure?" The second heel is hanging from Nat’s finger, both color and the gloss matching her red painted nails, and Bucky snaps.

"It's not Christmas, you're not Santa," Peter, buried in Bucky’s sweats and t-shirt, blinks owlishly at what is almost more bags than floor now.

"Nat went shopping," Bucky offers a bit too tightly for it to not sound like a cop-out, but it does help that Peter is completely buzzed off his ass. 

Nat did go shopping, but it was Bucky she dragged along, pointing at, frankly, too many unnecessary things and throwing them in the cart he was forced to push around for at least an hour. No doubt retaliation for him insisting she helps to put Peter's place back to how it was.

"Did she... buy the whole store or what?" Trying to step toward the pile, Peter stumbles over nothing on one square inch that is not taken up by a mountain of this crap, and nearly goes down.

Bucky's hand shoots out, but Peter shuffles away with a sway in his step, leaving metal fingers chasing air. Doesn't fall, just bends over with a hiccup and a sharp hiss, pulling out a completely off-the rocker pillow that Bucky doesn’t remember approving from a bag, and… hugs it tight. 

Bucky doubts that there is anything in those bags that would look nearly as good on Peter as his oversized clothes, and the cut on Peter’s cheekbone seems more raw than yesterday, making Bucky want to touch it, press into the hurt and thumb it smooth. Which Bucky doesn't do. For sane reasons.

"Yeah, let's get you back to bed," Bucky tells him instead, steering Peter by his forearm, purple fluffy monstrosity included. 

Bucky’s got the biggest room at the joint now that he's sleeping downstairs. The biggest room he’s ever had, if you don’t count the parts where it’s not actually his. Not an upgrade, what with the floorboards creaking, the refrigerator humming, and Peter… staying. Bucky hadn’t been sure he would, but maybe it’s more about the convenience of a convalescence suite with Bucky’s backstabber of a cat for an attendant.

But, hey, new normal. Bucky on the futon at the bar—a debatable luxury and a whole lot of vertical space, plus the rafters—and Peter in his bed. Recovering and a lightweight, mostly high as a kite on prescribed meds that would barely take the edge off Bucky’s constant nagging headache. The headache of not knowing what the hell to do, what to say, how to behave.

He sticks to the golden middle—checking, not asking, how Peter is when grabbing a change of clothes, as well as ensuring he gets at least five meals.

Bucky’s ladling soup into a bowl when Clint sidles up, fingers already making a move toward the pot.

“Since when do you cook?” Clint whistles with too much disbelief—fuck off, it’s just a damn soup—licking a spoon, snagging a piece of bread from the counter and dipping for more.

“Since I found out you’re shit at it.”

“They alright?” Four days into this calamity Sam skids to a stop by the open door to Bucky's bedroom, where Bucky’s been growing roots for the last two minutes or so, leaning on the side of the doorway.

“Happy tears,” Bucky reports, staring at Peter and Nat—and this woman once actually did kill a man with a pencil—huddled up on Bucky's bed, both bawling their eyes out at a movie on a laptop. There is a wheezing quality to Peter’s ugly sobs that makes Bucky feel a certain way, Nat’s eyeliner moonlighting as camo face paint, and Bucky has no words, except: “Allegedly.”

A safehouse is just that—a safe house. A place to lie low, heal up, and move on.

There is something aggravatingly confusing about having someone—someone you want to inhale but shouldn’t, partly for their own good—move into your shady-as-fuck safehouse subsidized by a billionaire with a shared vendetta. Move in, with it not being properly discussed but apparently universally acknowledged and accepted, and still not have a single solitary clue as to what’s going on after the bruises start to fade and the stitches come off.

Peter’s around. Bucky’s around. Everyone’s around. Even the fucking futon’s around.

Everything’s different, but nothing has shifted, and Bucky doesn’t know how to deal, having been less lost in a sandstorm. At least there, he had a mission—which, fair enough, did peak at “oh shit, survive, screw the mission, what mission”—but here, no orders, no clear objective. Just existing. While reading too much into the way Peter’s toothbrush is next to his, or how his clothes are mixed with Bucky’s in the closet. Small things that seem enormous.

Bucky’s never had this before. This. This—

Disturbingly comforting domesticity. 

Even if it is mostly revolving around freezing up seeing Peter scratching Alpine behind her ears while murmuring something, and spending too much time overthinking Peter’s fingertips peeking out from under the sleeves of Bucky’s hoodie he forgot to throw in the laundry.

But they don’t talk. Not a week after Bucky had picked him up at the hospital. Not two weeks later when Peter eases off breathing so carefully like he’s trying not to wake up a sleeping monster.

They don’t talk about what happened—before.

They don’t discuss what happens—now.

They just about exchange the basics of "Morning" and "Goodnight" when Bucky passes through his bedroom to grab a quick shower, wondering if there’s anything to the way the corners of Peter’s lips go up and down and up and down, as if he can’t decide whether to smile or scowl.

"It’s getting old having to trip over you to get to breakfast," Clint bitches to Bucky after week three, as if Bucky isn’t the first one up making the breakfast to begin with. "What’s your damage?"

Bucky nearly laughs, holding off at the last second—doesn’t want to encourage this further. But what isn't his damage? The list’s too long to start unloading before the coffee’s even kicked in. He doesn’t bother answering Clint, just grunts something that can be interpreted as a warning, depending on how suicidal one might feel.

Clint strolls over to the air fryer and prematurely takes out some bacon, crunching into it with a sly expression that could start a fight on a good day.

"Well, if he wasn’t done before, he is done now, right? And it’s not me or Sam he’s sticking around for," and then—feeling particularly immortal, aren’t we—Clint adds: "Don’t know about Nat though. And she seems to be getting a kick out of having another girl around."

"You take that back," Nat appears through the door from upstairs before Bucky can bite Clint’s head off, comes over, and stretches by the bar, Clint’s—oh, man—t-shirt slipping from her right shoulder. "I won’t have anyone calling me a girl."

Clint tries to placate her with more stolen bacon, which seems to work, but it’s bacon, and even Satan would pause for that. The problem is, suddenly, it's like watching your brother and sister get it on. They're not even doing anything, just eating bacon. Suggestively. And Bucky might be smirking, or possibly grimacing, because they both turn to him at the same time to take a break from eye-fucking over food, bacon halfway to their mouths, and ask in unison:

"What?"

"Nothing," Bucky lies, partly amused and partly nauseated. Needing to deflect from somehow the subject he wants to talk about even less, he points out to Clint, "He’s sticking around because he is afraid to go outside."

Bucky might not be doing much talking to Peter, but he’d have to be blind not to see what’s going down. Which has to be at least a factor in why Peter hasn’t left yet. How big of a factor Bucky honestly has no idea, but a factor nonetheless. In three weeks, Peter’s greatest adventure outdoors has been to haul the trash to the curb—and even that had a vibe of a tactical op.

And, sure, Bucky gets it—almost. But he’s no shrink. Coping strategies aren’t exactly listed in his skill set, unless you count punching stuff and downing whiskey as valid therapeutic techniques. He can’t even deal with his own issues, on most days also of the opinion that the outside world can go fuck itself with a serrated knife, although, for arguably different reasons.

“Then take him out,” Clint suggests. “Something low key. I don’t know, ice cream or something.”

Bucky does not dignify that piece of shit advice even with a shake of his head.

“And what? Watch him squinting suspiciously at every passerby as if they might pull a gun and demand his cone?” Nat seems to be in agreement, hopping on the counter. “Idiot.”

Bucky shoots Clint a look that says, ‘See? Even she thinks you're full of crap’, but Clint just shrugs, unconcerned.

"Idiot," Nat repeats, snagging Bucky’s half-drunk coffee, and this time it's crystal clear she's lobbing this missile at Bucky. “I swear, you’d all be six feet under without me.”

Which is how Bucky ends up under Peter, that soft brown hair tickling his forehead, both breathing hard and heavy.

They're sprawled on the training mat in the back, the improvised gym's stale air punched through with the sharp scent of sweat and rubber. It's not exactly a knockout—more Peter finally nailing a move Bucky's been drilling into him for the better part of an afternoon. So not a massive achievement, but Peter’s grin is splitting wide across his face, and Bucky barely holds in a smile.

"Told you," Bucky says, and Peter straightens up, still on top of him, light as a feather, his knees on each side of Bucky's thighs. "Strong enough. Just—"

"Small, yeah, I know," Peter agrees, nodding as he slicks that hair backwards, away from his eyes, bright and victorious. And hell, Bucky might be determined to keep his mind out of the gutter, but his dick is not quite on board with that. He taps on Peter's leg in a cue to move over.

"Again?" he asks, pushing himself up from the mat with a grunt, while Peter bounces to his feet, looking like he's just discovered fire.

"Yeah, come on," Peter's nearly smug, some confidence building—thanks, Nat. "I think I've got the hang of it."

Bucky narrows his eyes, but cracks just a half-smile.

"Think you can take me down twice, huh?" He baits him to approach.

They circle, feint, and Peter tries the same move—only this time Bucky counters, lets his weight shift, directing Peter’s momentum to flip him onto his back with a thud. The mat poofs with the impact, and Peter lets out a huff, the wind knocked out of him but laughter bubbling up a second later.

"Shit, okay, maybe not," Peter gasps, still grinning as Bucky offers him a metal hand up. "But, hey, once is better than none, right?"

"Don’t get cocky. Consistency is key," Bucky pulls him to his feet. "Again. Until you can do it in your sleep."

Later, when they're gulping down water as if it's about to go extinct, Peter starts fishing ice cubes out of his glass. He then presses them against his neck, a sharp exhale ripping out through his lips when the cold bites into his skin. It's such a simple thing, really—ice, skin, relief—not slow motion or anything, but it might as well be for all it slows Bucky's brain.

"You did well," he grinds out, turning away, his voice rougher than he intends, trying to ignore the noise Peter makes. That sound, half-moan, half-sigh, burrows under Bucky's own skin more than cold ever would. Annoying because he has no clue if Peter's putting it on or not. Not that it isn’t working either way.

"The move’s good and all," Bucky starts, clearing his throat and turning back only when the show appears to be over, although Peter's neck is still glistening with water that Bucky wants to lick clean. Bucky reminds himself that hydration doesn't require drowning and continues: "But when it comes down to an actual fight, running is almost always the better option."

"Run away?" Peter puts the now-empty glass down. "That doesn’t sound very heroic."

"It ain’t about being heroic," Bucky shakes his head. "Heroes die young. Smart guys run and live to be pains in the ass later."

"You wouldn't run," Peter asserts, his yellow t-shirt sticking to his collarbone. And there’s something in the way he says it that makes Bucky pause.

He doesn't know what version of this fucked-up sanctuary—and Bucky himself—Peter has cooked up in his head, but it’s off. Way off. Maybe that's why Peter seems unreasonably okay with the weapons not exactly haphazardly scattered but still too casually lying around, and with everyone disappearing at odd times only to come back quieter, even if, somehow, more relieved.

Bucky was straight-up when he said they kill people for a living. For a reason, yes, but there’s no twisting this guerrilla warfare into a Holy War. He’s about to rip that Band-Aid off when Sam strolls in with:

"Like hell he wouldn’t. He’s run plenty. So did I. So did we all. Ask him sometime why they call him the Winter Soldier."

Peter’s mouth is already opening, to probably ask right this second, but then, thankfully, Sam motions at Bucky with a nod:

“Come on, Nat wants you.”

Bucky is angry when he's opening the door to his bedroom—or Peter's bedroom, for now. It's the kind of fury that's hot and fast, and justified, and it does make him want to hurt something.

The thing though, that fire fizzles almost instantly, suffocated by the sight in front of him. Peter's there, sitting on the windowsill over the bed, one leg casually propped on the nightstand, the other dangling outside. And the anger just drips away, unspent.

"You alright?" Bucky asks, freezing in place only momentarily, but then taking a few steps forward and, nudging Peter's foot to make space, sits down next to it. The nightstand makes a protesting sound, but holds.

"Thinking," Peter says simply, not turning away from whatever he's looking at, as if that explains everything. As if perching like a bird halfway out the window is a perfectly normal way to sort through thoughts.

"Thinking," Bucky echoes, his eyes following the column of Peter's throat towards his jawline and higher, to where his lips are slightly tugging at the corners upwards. "Can you—can you do something for me? No questions asked?"

This does grab Peter's attention, drawing his face slightly downward, his eyes lowering to meet Bucky's. And Bucky isn’t a sap, really, he isn’t—gone for Peter or not—but he loses some time just looking at him. Long enough for Peter to have to move his foot and gently prod Bucky's knee with it.

"Anything," Peter apparently needs to repeat. "What's up?"

Peter seems to stay as relaxed as he was, his expression not changing too much, not jumping to conclusions or immediately assuming it's something drastic. Bucky likes that.

Likes it enough for it to probably be written all over him, so he looks down himself, eyes fixating on Peter's ankle, where the sock is sliding down, revealing a gap of skin between it and the hem of his sweats. He reaches out to move Peter's foot away from his knee, where it's still touching, but his hand doesn't follow the plan. It doesn’t let go when the foot has been safely moved away, clinging to that ankle with the neediness of a barnacle to the bottom of a boat.

"Nat's going to ask you for a favor," Bucky starts, his thumb now circling the small bone. "It's up to you. But—say no?"

He watches his own finger for a while, nearly hypnotized by the mellow motion, until he snaps out of it, realizing it's been quiet for too long. When he looks up again, Peter might not even be breathing. Or maybe he is, but his breaths are coming in so slow, he seems completely still. His eyes are slightly wider than normal, his lips parted, and—

Bucky moves his hand away—fast—Peter slacking back against the window frame.

"You don't need to," Peter says after a moment, gesturing below. "It's your room. And the bed’s—"

“It’s fine,” and fuck if it doesn’t come out even faster than Bucky jerked away his rogue has-a-mind-of-its-own flesh and blood appendage.

Bucky's dick might be two steps ahead of his brain, but stubbornness is not why he’s still cozying up to that futon. It isn’t about Peter lying about not working anymore. The fact is, Bucky can overlook that part—people lie, especially when they're cornered, and he's lied enough for a dozen lifetimes himself. He could let it go—he already did—as long as Peter doesn’t pick up where he left off in the future. But that’s just it, no future here. Not one that doesn’t end up shot to hell.

He's about to tell Peter it’s a sign of respect at this stage, more than anything else, when Peter turns away, shoulders hiking up, face back to the outside.

"I wouldn't want to either, I guess," Peter’s head tips to the side as he looks into the fading light over a street. 

Bucky gets up with a sigh, suddenly wishing he could just spit out the right kind of bullshit that normal people seem to have on tap. Bucky's never been the one to find the right words. What can he say? That he wishes things were different? That he wishes he wasn't such a fuck-up? 

"I just don’t want to drag you into my shit more than I already have," he settles on the truth, but it might as well be the classic ‘It’s not you, it’s me’ line, and he frowns as soon as it comes out, betting that Peter is frowning now too, judging by the way his body seems to tense up even more. 

“Can you leave then, please?” Peter asks, and fuck, why does he have to sound both so understanding and utterly broken? "I’ll think about what you said. About Nat, I mean."

Bucky expects Peter to say yes to Nat's hare-brained scheme. If not out of spite, then out of the sense of false obligation.

Sure, their next target is swarmed with more bodyguards than a third-world dictator—no casually bumping into someone like this without raising some eyebrows—but the idea's still criminal. On more levels than one.

Not because of something as straightforward as jealousy—although the thought of Peter laying it on thick with charm and fake-ass smiles for some scum-sucking target curdles Bucky's stomach—but because that would further pull Peter into this mess.

Bucky even has the argument ready for when he inevitably hears that Peter has agreed; still probably pissed at Bucky for not finding the right words and not laying it out clearer.

Arguments from accessory charges waiting to slap handcuffs around his wrists if all of this goes south, or worse, to the indirect hand in 'accidental' deaths if it doesn’t. And while it doesn’t exactly weigh heavy on Bucky's conscience, every car that just happens to swerve wrong, every heart attack that isn't a heart attack still adds to the roster, no matter how much you have contributed.

Bucky’s been—

Contributing.

And it's the last thing he’d want Peter involved in.

No matter how small, even if it is just batting eyelashes over drinks and slipping a tracker in, or playing the part in Nat's unnecessarily theatrics, or just signaling for the best time to hit the digital kill-switch, it’s not something you dust off your hands and head home after. This is dirt and grime under your nails, the sort that doesn’t wash off, and Bucky's been down that road, knows where it leads, how it can twist you up inside, leave you looking over your shoulder, waiting for this shit to catch up and kick your legs out from under you. Not to mention Peter is already swimming in enough of his own daft mistakes he probably can’t even feel the bottom anymore.

So when the door to the bar cracks open and some light spills out, Bucky does not expect Peter to pad across to Bucky’s futon barefoot, cross his arms over his chest, stand over him and say:

“No way in hell. Wouldn’t even do it if you had asked. Happy now?"

And Bucky's not sure if it's the way Peter's trying to climb onto the futon straight after or the fact that he's grumping something about "Not letting you sleep alone on this piece of shit" that does it. But before Bucky knows it, he’s already scooping Peter up.

"It’s not what you think," Peter mumbles into his neck, breath hot against the skin, clinging to him like a drunk koala as Bucky carries him up the stairs. "You're—safe. That's it."

Safe. That’s a new one. Bucky's got more blood on his hands than most people have in their entire bodies, but sure, he's safe. For Peter. About as safe as a live fucking grenade in a bouncy castle. The stairs creak under their combined weight, and Bucky's pretty sure he hears Clint wolf-whistle from somewhere. Bucky'll deal with him later. Right now, he's got an armful of this disaster in the making to contend with.

Shouldering the door to the bedroom open, trying not to think about how well Peter fits in his arms after all, lean muscle and soft edges, Bucky deposits his—this cargo—on the bed. He's about to turn away, go back to his sad excuse for a place to sleep downstairs, when Peter's hand shoots out, fingers curling around his metal wrist.

"Hey, come on, don’t be stupid," Peter mutters. Not pleading, not—not anything, really. “And don’t act like you’re doing me a favor.”

Bucky, well, he's always been good at denying himself things he wants, comes with the gig. Except, apparently, this. Whatever this is. 

“Scoot,” he gives up, motioning for Peter to move over, closer to the wall, and Peter does, quickly, even turning his back to him, confirming they are just going to sleep.

It's stupid whether they fuck or not. Bucky knows it's stupid, just can't help it. Can't help the way his arm automatically wraps around Peter's waist the moment the mattress dips below, pulling Peter closer. Can't help the way his nose buries itself in Peter's hair, breathing in—ah, hell—lavender.

Chapter Text

Unlike most of his mornings, Bucky doesn’t jolt out of a nightmare. But his eyes do snap open to the ass-crack of dawn, the room’s light being as much of a cockblock to sleep as his own shitty circadian rhythm.

Normally, as he blinks himself awake, those few initial hazy seconds would lead to the inevitable surge of adrenaline, an automatic scan of the room for threats, or just the cold, familiar touch of empty space next to him in bed.

Not today, though. 

Today he's practically handcuffed to domestic bliss, or whatever the hell this warm fuzzy shit is. Today, the bed's full, and, huh, so’s he—of something disturbingly close to contentment. He doesn’t even reach for the gun to make sure it’s still there. Which it isn’t, if he recalls right. Doesn’t move either.

His first conscious breath is heavier than usual, laden with that same lavender—thanks to the head of unruly hair mashed against his chest and tickling his chin. The bed might be on the smaller side, but is not exactly a single, however, he and Peter are tangled together. A couple of idiots who don’t know any better.

Bucky’s woken up next to someone before; he isn’t a monk, although he much prefers the hit-and-run of not sticking around overnight for obvious reasons, but it’s one of the rare times he doesn’t feel the urge to bolt before the sun’s fully up. A couple of months ago he’d be on his feet and halfway across the room by now, putting distance between himself and a man or a woman he’d decided to fuck for the night. Hell, the last time he let someone stay this close, it ended with a knife fight in the bathroom. Good times.

Peter seems asleep, his breath hot against Bucky’s collarbone. He’s curled up tight, burrowed into Bucky’s arms, and Bucky supposes that given everything that’s been happening, it shouldn’t surprise him how much he doesn’t hate it. Even the light filtering through the window isn’t that harsh, accusing glare it should be. Still, Bucky is not delusional enough to think he can be redeemed, but it’s hard to focus on the grim when Peter’s here.

He blames the sleepy sigh that Peter lets out next for not immediately detangling from this teddy bear with muscles. Peter stirs before snuggling back against him, and then shifts, his foot hooking over Bucky’s leg in an allegedly innocent act that sends a not-so-innocent thrill right to Bucky's traitor of a dick. Then Peter tries to nuzzle closer, and Bucky has to bite back a curse.

A new day, another chance to spectacularly fuck things up. Disorienting. Bucky’s metal arm—which has to be cold against Peter’s furnace of a skin even through clothes—feels unnervingly right where it is, thrown over Peter, fingers placed just over his shoulder blade.

So. A killer, safe. A warm body next to him and an impulse to stay put while Bucky’s mind churns with indecision. He lies there, feeling every fucking second tick by, unsure what to do with himself.

He’s got options. Loads of 'em. Choices, choices. Get up and rub one out in the shower or stay here, indulging in not feeling like the loneliest and world’s most wanted trash heap. He frowns, trying to find a middle ground and remember the million reasons why another—the third option—is a bad idea.

Peter moves again, and Bucky can’t help himself. His fingers start tracing slow patterns on Peter’s back.

“Hey,” Bucky murmurs, voice rough and low, not sure if he’s waking Peter or just talking to the quiet. Maybe Peter will wake up, realize what a colossal mistake this is, and finally move out. That would be the smart move. The actual safe move. The move that doesn't leave Bucky with more holes than he can patch.

But Peter only stirs more, mumbling something that sounds suspiciously like “five more minutes,” and Bucky smiles to himself, even if just a touch bitter.

Five more minutes.

As if they’re just two regular assholes with nothing more pressing than the snooze button. As if Bucky can afford to give in to that. Should be a small thing. Just a man holding another man, feeling the steady rhythm of life beneath his fingertips. It's not.

Five more minutes, and Bucky will never let him go.

He rubs his metal thumb along Peter’s back, counting the bumps of his spine. By the time he counts down to the fourth, he’s freezing up after Peter might as well be pressing a lazy, breathy kiss to his collarbone, the way his mouth parts in a soft snore. How easy it would be to just... pull him closer. Hold him tight. Shit, flip him over and fuck him awake, senseless, and then back to unconscious.

Ah, yeah, that third option.

Tempting as hell. Bucky's dick is all for it, but his brain—what's left of it—protests. He knows better than to fuck his way into a bigger mess. The shower wins out.

He carefully detaches. Not an easy task, given how Peter's managed to latch onto him tighter than an octopus. Eventually he’s free, and Peter just makes an unintelligible sound and rolls over on his stomach, claiming Bucky’s pillow with all the sleepy confidence of it being his birthright.

Bucky swings his legs over the side of the bed, feet hitting the cold floor with a jolt that wakes him up the rest of the way. Shower. That’s the plan. The only sane plan. He stands, glancing back at Peter one last time. His knee sticks out from under the blanket in a display that has no business being so damn distracting. Peter's out though, his hair a wild halo on the pillow.

The bathroom’s not far, but every step is a battle against a near compulsive want to turn back, crawl into bed, and let whatever happens, happen. Bucky shoves it down, deep, and shuts the door behind him, locking it out of habit.

Water on, as hot as it can be without literally boiling him alive. Steam fills the room, fogging up the mirror. Good. Can’t face himself right now. He strips from knee-long shorts and the t-shirt, throwing clothes into a pile. Steps under the scalding spray, hissing at the initial burn. Then braces his metal hand against the tiles, head bowed, water pounding down on his back. Thoughts start to chase each other in circles.

He grips his dick, the need for release overriding everything else. Quick and dirty, efficient, no time for anything else, no point in dragging it out. Jerks off, working himself hard and fast, the heat and pressure building quickly. Images flash behind his eyelids—Peter’s face, his mouth, the curve of his spine, the way he’d look spread out and begging. It’s over in minutes. Bucky stifles a groan as he comes, leaning heavily against the wall with his forehead.

Panting, he lets the shower wash away the evidence, the confusion, the frustration, both relieved and hollow. It’s a temporary fix, he knows that. He changes the water to cold, standing there in the cooling steam, trying to get his shit together. Cold water, hot blood. A different kind of burn, one he can control.

When done, he steps out and grabs a towel, running it over his hair, down his chest. Dries off and wraps the towel around his hips. Rubs the moisture from the mirror when brushing his teeth, and has a look after spitting mouthwash out. Same old Bucky. Newer mess, but at least he’s got some numb clarity now. Sort of. He steels himself and unlocks the door.

Peter’s still there, where he left him. Peaceful—eye candy, for sure—oblivious. One of his arms is draped over the blanket as if it’s a stand-in for Bucky. Bucky’s lips twitch in a reluctant half-smile, half-sigh. It’s cute, he guesses, that’s the word. Almost. If you’re into that sort of thing. Bucky’s sure he wasn’t before. He leans against the doorframe, watching Peter for a moment, something tight and painful squeezing his chest. Vulnerable, that’s what Peter is. And everything inside Bucky twists with realization he doesn’t need to name.

When Bucky trudges down the steps, Clint’s already at the main bar, with that insufferable “I know what you did last night” smirk plastered on his face. Bucky hates it, and he hates that Clint’s probably assuming a whole lot more than what actually happened. He tries to give Clint a deadpan look of his own, moving to pour a coffee, but can’t actually bring himself to frown. It’s easier to enjoy the way it felt to wake up next to Peter without being faced with the reality of a handful of him in his arms and having to be a rational adult about it.

Clint cackles, and Alpine pads through the crack in the door to the back room, where the dog flap has been installed a while ago. Because… furball overlord, as Nat has put it. She meows with a plaintive demand.

“There you are,” Bucky mutters, finally managing an unconvincing “drop dead” glance in Clint's direction before reaching for the top shelf where they should, in theory, keep the good liquor. But they don’t keep crap liquor, unless you count non-alcoholic swivel, and he’s not after a drink, pulling down a can of cat food. Chicken today.

Clint passes him a bowl and Bucky pops the can open. The smell hits—biohazard, gross—thin white strips of pale meat swimming in too much liquid. He tips the contents in, watching the meat slop out with a wet plop. It looks like someone blended up a corpse and decided it would be a great idea to feed it to something, but Alpine seems into it. She’s already weaving through his legs, purring loudly, impatient for breakfast.

“Your taste sucks,” Bucky says, setting the bowl down on the counter, picking up the cat and putting her there, watching as Alpine dives in. It’s routine, it’s simple, and it’s almost enough to drown out Clint’s nosy-ass silent curiosity.

“So?” Maybe not so silent.

“Nope,” Bucky responds, taking his mug of coffee and gesturing to Clint, who is rubbing the cat between her ears, to knock it off, so Alpine can eat in peace.

“How’s Peter?”

“He’s fine. Sleeping.”

Clint’s grin widens. “Still sleeping, huh? Must’ve been quite the night.”

Bucky shakes his head, running a hand through his still damp hair.

“Nothing happened. You would have heard if it did,” he says, not resisting his own smirk. He knows Clint means well—brother—but some days, the guy’s more of a pain in the ass than he’s worth. “Don’t flap your gums around him either way.”

“Alright, alright. Just making conversation.” Clint chuckles, raising his hands in mock surrender. “No need to get your panties in a twist.”

“Don’t you have something better to do?”

“Not really,” Clint shrugs. “This is the highlight of my morning.”

Things were so screwed when they first went on the run after dropping off their half-breathing bounty with Rhodes—one man in the military who wasn’t gunning for them at the time. Stark was too fucked to offer any real help at the start, and they were a few meals away from becoming Sister Margaret's regulars and seriously considering dipping their toes into mercenary work for real. Not a lot of options when you have no backup, no plan and a teammate with a massive injury. Just a whole lot of anger and fear. Then Tony finally woke up, reached out, and offered... Well, whatever the hell this setup is now. Resources, a chance to regroup. A lifeline. A frayed one, with a promise of a long-shot pardon, but a lifeline nonetheless. They took it, of course they did. Bucky took the arm too, although that came later.

Those first months even after they didn’t have to worry about cash were brutal, though. Everyone barely talked, more growling and grunting than actual words. Bucky was mostly out of it, broken. Just survival mode, a different safehouse every other week, paranoia at its highest, animals licking their wounds, too wary to let their guard down, uncertain future pressing on them heavier than a thousand-pound weight. No jokes. No Clint good-naturedly nagging at Bucky with that godawful grin of his.

Bucky must be staring because Clint suddenly frowns with "What?"

Bucky shakes his head, wondering when he became so fucking sentimental. "Nothing," he brushes off the weird nostalgia creeping in. "Just. Things are better. It's—"

"Yeah," Clint nods, almost serious. "And Nat says we are getting close."

That’s good too.

It’s quiet for a few more seconds, awkward as hell, Clint shifting on his feet, but it’s not like they are going to hug this shit out or something. Then Clint points toward Alpine. "She is kinda winking. What’s up with that?"

Bucky takes a closer look just to humor him, but Clint’s right. Her left eye is barely open, blinking more than usual, even as she munches on her disgusting breakfast.

"Damn," Bucky curses. "Since when?"

“Just noticed,” Clint hovers nearby, leaning over her also, hand rubbing the back of his neck. “Think it hurts?”

“Dunno,” Bucky's no vet. “I don’t speak cat.”

"Get it checked out?" Clint suggests, not unhelpful for once. “Bring your boyfriend with you. As decent of an excuse as any to get him outside.”

“He’s not—” But that’s not the dumbest thing Bucky’s heard. The part about bringing Peter with him.

Pretty dumb, all things considered.

Google is a nightmare. Bucky is behind the wheel, and Peter is in the backseat with a carrier on his lap, rattling off a hundred and one things that could be wrong. It’s driving Bucky nuts.

“Could be conjunctivitis, or maybe she's allergic to something, or—oh, what if it's glaucoma?” Peter’s voice is a steady stream of doom-loaded anxiety, glued to the screen ever since he hastily got himself up and got dressed while Bucky wrangled the cat.

“Can you shut the fuck up for two minutes?” Bucky grips the wheel tighter, glancing at the rearview mirror and instantly regretting the bite. “Sorry. Just—sorry.”

Peter moves his shoulders, his eyes on the phone. “I know. I am worried too.”

It’s… not that. The cat’s not dying, seems fine, keeps trying to lick Peter’s fingers through the open space in her cage. Whatever is going on there, Bucky will take care of it. And it’s different now, Peter in the backseat for a completely different reason too, but—

It still stirs up memories. Shitty memories. The kind where he’d drop Peter off at some mansion or a fancy high-rise, waiting outside with the taste of bile in his throat. Bucky is not proud of what flared up inside the second Peter didn't sit next to him for safety. Cat safety. Jesus.

“Could be a bacterial infection,” Peter mutters again, just as Bucky’s telling himself it’s all kinds of fucked, all of this. “Or maybe it’s just irritated—”

“Pete,” Bucky interrupts, trying to keep his tone calm, not wanting to snap more than he already did. “Let’s just get her to the vet.”

Peter looks up, nodding again. “Right. Of course.”

The clinic comes into view soon enough, a nondescript building that might as well be labeled the gates of heaven, and Bucky pulls into a parking spot, then cuts the engine.

“Come on,” he says, opening his door. Peter follows with a completely unbothered Alpine, minus the dodgy eye.

When they walk in, the clinic smells of antiseptic and wet dog, but it’s clean, well-lit, with bright posters of happy pets on the walls. And Bucky already suspects he’s being an absolute asshole, even before he strides up to the receptionist, a hot brunette with an easy smile, and turns on the charm, laying it on thick.

“Mornin’, sweetheart,” Bucky says, leaning on the counter, flashing a grin that used to get him places. “Need to get my girl checked out.”

He doesn’t know exactly why he’s doing this. Autopilot, a defense mechanism, or maybe he’s just a complete fucking idiot, wired to self-sabotage. But Bucky flirts, while Peter’s standing next to him, his expression getting tighter and tighter with each word.

Bucky keeps the banter going. Something about how vets must have it easier than doctors—pets don’t argue about prescriptions. He could do better, but she giggles, her cheeks turning pink, pen twirling in her manicured fingers. Flirting is second nature, muscle memory. He has his jacket and gloves on, so it’s not a pity in her eyes as she glances at the tags spilling out of his Henley with interest, lingering a bit too long on his biceps. The carrier in Peter’s hand shifts as Alpine moves around, now restless.

Peter isn’t his. They’re just… Bucky doesn’t even know what they are. They are something.

He doesn’t correct the girl when she tells him it’s going to be about half an hour and offers him and “his brother” to have a seat. By the time they do, Peter’s jaw is clenched to a point Bucky thinks he might crack a tooth. It’s there in the way his shoulders are hunched, the way his fingers grip the edge of the handle as he puts Alpine on his lap.

“You didn’t have to do that,” Peter says quietly, his foot tapping the floor. “My lease is up.”

Bucky knew about the former, didn’t know about the latter. But he is drowning, and Peter doesn’t sound irritated or pissed. Just hurt.

This is a new level of stupidity as Bucky sighs, elbows on his knees, staring down at Peter’s bouncing sneaker, then sideways at the old magazines scattered on the table by the window. A fresh hell of dumbass choices as he hums, only slightly frowning, licks his lips and not so much offers, but decides:

“We'll rent a truck. You’ve got a lot of crap.”

And that’s that.

They wait longer than an hour. Emergency cases take priority, and Bucky would be lying if he said he doesn’t give a shit about a small terrier who has ingested chocolate.

He watches people, counting the number of scrubs, the number of phones with cracked screens. Anything to pass the time. The clinic is a revolving door of chaos. A couple with a mangy mutt in a stroller. A massive Great Dane the size of a small horse. Kids sobbing, parents fretting. A woman wringing her hands, her pug shaking in her arms. A burly guy with a Rottweiler, both outnerving each other. An old lady fussing over her tabby in a basket.

And then there’s the guy right in front of them—a burly, red-faced middle-aged waste of space. He’s got a pit bull mix sprawled out at his feet, tongue lolling. Bucky clocks it immediately. The side-eyes. The sneers. The way the man shifts in his seat, pointedly looking everywhere but at them while ultimately doing that too often. Bucky’s seen that look before. Too many times. Then the man actually mouths "faggots" under his breath, spitting poison.

Bucky tenses, every muscle coiling. His jaw locks, eyes narrowing into a glare. He wants to smash that inbred face in, make him eat those words. He stays seated instead, truthfully only because Peter reaches out and simply squeezes Bucky’s wrist over the glove, stopping him from exploding. When he looks up at Peter, turning his head, still hunched over, he expects at least some annoyance or frustration, maybe even anger, but sees none. Peter beams at him, not even upset.

It floors Bucky.

Peter’s willing to overlook this lowlife, smiling because he had assumed they are together. Maybe.

Bucky almost opens his mouth to say something, but he’s never been good with words. So he just nods and leans back, trying to ignore the bigot in front of them, even if every instinct screams to rip that fucker a new one. He takes the gloves off, resting his metal hand on Peter’s knee to make a point. Leaves it there because—

Just leaves it there.

Alpine shifts in her carrier with a soft meow, and Peter smiles brighter, digging in Bucky’s jacket pocket for a bag of fish-shaped treats.

Bucky glances forward with a smirk, rubbing Peter’s knee with his fingers, daring that prejudicial piece of shit to say something louder. He doesn’t.

The wait drags on, Bucky’s own anger simmering down to a low burn. The vet finally calls them, and as they walk past the man, Bucky makes sure to give him a stare that promises the world of pain if he even breathes wrong. The fossil looks away, suddenly very interested in the linoleum under his feet. That’s right.

They spend two hundred bucks to find out that Alpine is a drama queen, get her eyes stained with orange dye, and leave with drops after hearing "probably a hair."

Peter tells Bucky they won’t need a truck. Only a few things to grab, he insists. Bucky’s skeptical but doesn’t argue. They drop off Alpine, who seems too damn pleased with herself, the eye already much better, and head right back out.

Peter's place predictably looks as if it’s been scrubbed clean by a team of obsessive-compulsive fairies. Peter grumbles something about an elf who emptied out his fridge and trash because Peter sure as shit didn’t, and Bucky pretends he didn’t hear it. He waits in the living room, flipping through a few comic books while Peter packs. It’s mostly the rustle of paper, the click of tech being unplugged, the shuffle of feet. Peter moves fast, almost as if he’s in a hurry to leave. He probably is, and Bucky gets it on a level that’s unhealthy.

In the end, it really isn’t much. Two boxes that could fit all the contents into a big carry-on, plus the graphic novels that fill a single suitcase. Even the TV doesn’t make the cut.

“The furniture came with the place,” Peter explains, looking around one last time. Not sentimental, just practical. Bucky recognizes that too. Peter locks the door after that, Bucky waiting in the hallway, and then shoves the key under the welcome mat. The aforementioned crap stays on the other side. Feels final. Unsettling as fuck.

Bucky should probably say something. Possibly how it’s not just about what you take with you, but about what you leave behind. Says nothing instead, since it’s both an insult and bullshit.

The walk to the elevator, Bucky carrying the heavier load and dragging the suitcase with broken wheels, Peter’s beside him, a smaller box balanced on his hip.

“Were you trying to make me jealous earlier?” Peter asks out of nowhere, and the only reason Bucky doesn’t trip over is because they have already stopped, waiting for the steel doors to open.

Jealous.

Bucky can feel Peter's eyes on him, waiting for an answer that he doesn't have. Bucky can’t even sort his basic shit out half the time, let alone figure out the maze of his own head. He wasn't thinking that far ahead, wasn't thinking at all. Just defaulting to old habits, he guesses.

The elevator dings, the doors sliding open with a mechanical whir, and they step inside. Bucky stares at the panel of buttons, his finger hovering over the one for the basement, stalling. The silence is oppressive, the sort that makes you want to claw at the walls just to hear something. Did he flirt with that receptionist on purpose? He hits the button harder than necessary, the jolt of motion snapping him out, and shakes his head.

“No,” he finally mutters. “But you are right, I didn’t have to do that. Sorry.”

When the elevator jerks to a stop, revealing the parking, Bucky gets out first.

They are already at the car, with Bucky dumping the boxes in the trunk, slamming it shut, planning to toss the suitcase into the backseat, when Peter leans on the car instead of getting into it.

“I got scared, if that matters,” he seems to swallow hard, biting on his bottom lip, and Bucky stills. “That night. Wanted to—just. Panicked.”

Panicked.

Bucky's already fucked up enough for one day, but it doesn't stop him from closing the door he is next to, pushing the suitcase in with it, and obliterating the distance until there’s barely a breath between him and Peter. The sound of his scuffed boots is almost overbearingly loud on the way there, bouncing off the walls, mixing with the distant hum of traffic and the occasional drip of water from the ceiling. The space is brighter than it should be, mid-day light seeping through the small barred windows.

Peter’s looking down, fixed on some invisible point at his feet, lips tight, as if he’s holding back more than words, and there is a slouch to his shoulders that Bucky has no fucking clue how to interpret. Doubt, maybe? Bucky wants to erase that doubt, to make him see that this—whatever the hell this is—is real. Unfortunately. Doesn’t quite know how, though, so he does what he does best. Acts, wondering, not for the first time, how something so simple can be so damn complicated.

He lifts his metal hand, gripping Peter’s chin, bringing his face up. Peter’s mouth parts slightly open, brown eyes wide. He’s still not looking directly at Bucky, but that’s okay. Bucky can wait. He’s good at waiting. 

He doesn’t have to wait long. 

A few seconds, at most, and then those eyes are searching Bucky’s face for something. Another answer. Bucky still doesn’t have answers. He has more questions than anything else. A metric ton of confusion. That and a lot of need—one thing he actually does understand. He’s close enough to see the flecks of gold in Peter’s eyes, the way his throat bobs as he swallows, the way his eyelashes tremble, air whooshing with every blink. Close enough to do something incredibly, monumentally necessary. 

Peter’s hand comes up, resting on Bucky’s chest, fingers curling into the fabric of his Henley, and Bucky’s grip on Peter’s chin tightens just a bit, not enough to hurt, but enough to—

Fuck, he actually doesn’t know. 

Not until Peter’s eyes move to Bucky’s lips for a split second before darting back up, and that’s all the confirmation Bucky needs.

“Why scared?” Bucky asks, stalling again, and Peter shrugs, frowning, just a small movement. 

“Didn’t know you,” he says. “Wasn’t sure.”

“You still don’t know me,” Bucky spells it out, but it’s pointless because his hand proceeds to move to the back of Peter’s neck, and Peter’s eyes widen further, his body easily leaning into Bucky’s touch.

Shit.

Funny, almost, since Bucky’s heart pounds in his chest, a fucking drumline, drowning out the world. Scared. Bucky can relate to that too. Terrified, if he’s honest, and it’s not him—to be afraid. Even so, he pulls Peter closer, hips against hips, feeling the warmth of his body, the heartbeat that matches his own frantic pace, Peter’s arm trapped between them.

“Sorry,” Bucky murmurs, apology slipping out before he can second-guess what he’s about to do. Couldn’t tell what he’s apologizing for. Dragging out the inevitable. Deciding to do this in the first place. He doesn’t mean to screw with Peter’s head. “Fuck, I am so sorry.”

The parking lot smells of oil, old concrete, and, frankly, faintly of piss. Less than ideal, too exposed, too open, despite the lack of people. Not what Bucky would have picked. Peter’s breathing is shallow, quick. His eyes dart to Bucky’s, then away, then back again. And isn’t that reminiscent of that messed-up night. Except Bucky is convinced he gets to have at least a taste this time around. Gets to kiss Peter until they’re both, if not breathless, then at least fucking lost. He leans in, the scent of Peter’s soap, his smell, pushing everything out.

The fuck did Bucky expect? To flirt his way out of this?

A car door slams somewhere in the distance, and Peter turns to have a look, following the sound. Just for a moment, a quick knee-jerk reaction to check, and by the time he’s turning back, Bucky already has his palm on his cheek, further pushing him against the car, inhaling a broken, surprised gasp.

The kiss hits harder than a blast wave from an explosion.

Bucky’s not gentle, and Peter’s not passive, even though he immediately melts into him. Bucky doesn’t just want more after that first press of lips—needs more—trying to keep himself in check, but Peter claws at him, fingers curling into Bucky's hair, both soft and desperate, as if he’s afraid Bucky might pull away. Fat chance. Like Bucky fucking could.

He tilts Peter’s head back a bit more, taking control, and Peter yields, pliant, small against Bucky’s body. Within seconds, Bucky’s fighting to not lose the plot completely, to not just push Peter into the car and fuck him numb right there. Peter’s not making it easy, the way he’s pressing himself against him, shaking, making these noises, his mouth opening, letting Bucky in. Bucky’s forced to let go of his cheek, to grab Peter’s hip to stop him from vibrating; that would drive him fucking feral if allowed to continue. His head’s already spinning from what he doesn’t deserve but will take anyway, and he licks into that inviting mouth. Oh, hell.

Peter tastes sweet, as if he’s been sucking on something sugary. Gum or mints. Had to be something, although if Bucky could trust himself to string two coherent thoughts together, he’d struggle to recall either. He pulls back just enough to nip at Peter’s bottom lip, earning a low moan that goes straight to his dick. Fuck. This doll. Bucky takes full advantage, tongue sliding in again, hearing himself groan, and Peter arches into him, whimpering. God, Bucky wants to wreck him. He nearly loses his fucking mind when Peter shoves him back just far enough to free his arm and runs his fingers down his chest, over his abs, stopping at his waistband, teasing the edge.

Bucky’s been here before, been in love before too, but never like this. Never been almost knocked off balance. Then Peter’s tongue brushes against his, and Bucky’s grip tightens. The little shit pulls back, gasping, and Bucky chases his lips, not ready to let go. His metal hand tightens on Peter's neck for a spell, fingers splaying, then moves to his face, the corner of his mouth, over the eager drag of lips and the ragged breath. He deepens the kiss, tongue sliding against Peter’s, tasting every moan. Sucks in the sounds Peter makes, feeling them in his chest, echoing in his bones. Peter’s nails scratch lightly against his scalp, tugging, demanding more, and Bucky obliges, pressing harder, angling Peter’s head to take what’s being offered.

It’s not enough. Bucky wants to feel skin against skin, wants to be inside him so much he’s practically shaking with it himself, can’t get enough of the taste, the everything. Shit, for a weak second or so, Bucky actually entertains the idea of doing him against this car, in broad daylight. And it has its merits even as he grips Peter’s hip harder, taking care not to bruise, the unsavory urge to mark him until it sticks sobering him up.

Bucky trails his lips to Peter’s jaw, biting and sucking a path to his ear. Then whispers a hushed “Get in the fucking car, doll. Now,” and finally tears himself away.

Neither of them push the conversation on the drive back.

Bucky’s eyes flicker to Peter too often, his mind miles back at that kiss, replaying every detail. Traffic's a bitch, as always, clogged streets turning what should be a ten-minute ride into a slow crawl. It gives too much time to think, too much space for the silence to grow heavy.

Peter, for his part, seems to find the seatbelt the most interesting thing in the world, his fingers messing about with the latch, at first never quite locking it down, just clicking and unclicking. Peripheral vision is a bit of a curse, and instead of contemplating the various ways this could spin out, Bucky is preoccupied with the occasional quick dart of Peter’s tongue over his lips.

There is a lot of fidgeting on the passenger side, now with the hem of Peter's t-shirt, and every time the car swerves or bumps, Peter’s hands clench tighter, probably rivaling the death grip Bucky has on the wheel. It’s fucking adorable, Bucky thinks, not that he’d say it out loud. Neurotic as hell, sure, but part sweeter, part rawer, and Bucky’s own doubts seemed to have scattered faster than shrapnel.

Still, the closer they get, the more Bucky is straddling the blurry line between what he wants for Peter and what he just wants. The anticipation is a living thing in the car, crawling up the windows, fogging the glass with its heat, and Bucky might as well be steering through a fog. Each red light is a stop too long, each green light not green enough. At the dozenth set of lights, they hit another prolonged red, idling, and Peter rubs his hands over his face—the sort of thing that could make a guy’s insides churn. Bucky’s definitely do.

There's a hesitation before Peter speaks, his words almost swallowed by the hum of the engine.

"Does this mean you will not sleep downstairs anymore?"

Bucky nearly laughs, genuinely surprised by the question. He wouldn’t be shocked if Nat, with her "you are giving him a complex" meddling, hadn’t torched the fucking futon by now under the guise of an 'accidental' spill of something flammable. Hell, he’d bet his last bullet on the fact that it’s at least hidden in the bowels of their basement already. 

"What do you think?" The smirk that tugs at one corner of Bucky's mouth is pulling the trigger, easy and dangerously familiar. He knows his own voice is dipped in that rough-around-the-edges tone, can’t help it—he used to be good at that—and, alright, maybe he’s screwing with Peter’s head just a little intentionally now.

Except—

Peter flinches slightly, his skin suddenly flushing a shade of pink. And fuck, if it isn’t the most curious thing.

Bucky rolls it over in his head for the rest of the ride, and when they finally park in the private garage attached to the bar, the shoddy lighting inside has shadows pooling over the massive space where they stash away their Stark-provided fleet.

Bucky kills the engine, and the quiet is expectant. He turns, facing Peter fully for the first time since the car door slammed shut behind them at Peter’s old place. Peter’s answer is in the unsteady breath he takes, the slow nod that doesn’t quite match the apprehensive tilt of his lips.

Shit, it’s just bizarre, this whole thing, and Bucky’s more high than anything else as he watches Peter’s stilted movements when he reaches for the door handle. The door clicks as Bucky pushes it open on his own side too, and rounds the car making it there while Peter is still sliding out.

“C'mere,” he grunts, rough and almost abrasive, more a command than an invitation, and Peter mumbles something about unpacking, but fuck unpacking, because Bucky will go absolutely fucking mad if he doesn’t kiss him again between this breath and the next.

He's got a grip on Peter's wrist, steering him toward Sam's workbench, his fingers squeezing tight with a firmness he knows isn't protective—downright possessive. There are drone parts, some other tech on the bench, and Bucky's not even sure what half this shit does. Doesn't need to. What he does need is to get Peter at his level, physically, for once, instead of always looking down. A screwdriver falls on top of his boot when he hoists Peter up to sit, and a cascade of small bolts follows—satisfying clinks against the concrete that pairs well with the startled huff Peter lets out.

Peter cocks his head, that tongue peeking out to wet his lips—like a reflex, like he can’t help making Bucky want to do filthy things to that mouth. Their noses brush, a brief, accidental nuzzle that has Peter smiling, small but genuine. It's one of those smiles that could mean everything or nothing, and Bucky hates how much he wants it to mean something more. He breathes Peter in, letting his hands steal under Peter’s t-shirt, exploring the warm skin beneath with tentative strokes.

Peter’s still blushing, near innocent if Bucky didn’t know better, and that thrills Bucky more than it probably should. There’s something unspeakably enticing about it, and Peter’s looking at him with those wide, uncertain eyes that are quickly becoming Bucky's favorite thing to get lost in. Bucky… grins. Something he doesn’t do often enough judging by the way it feels so damn unnatural. But—also—damn if that blush isn’t the most fucking delightful thing Bucky’s seen in a long stretch. That, and a bunch of freckles on the bridge of Peter’s nose.

"So, you like women too," Peter says, quiet and soft, not quite accusatory, and that has Bucky's thoughts splintering in all directions.

"Yeah," Bucky wedges himself in, his knees brushing the inside of Peter’s legs, feeling the jut of sneakers against his shins. "I won’t step out on you if that’s what you're worried about."

It takes a second—maybe more—for what he just said to hit him. Shit. That… had layers of what might be promises. Bucky’s never been one for vows or promises—they’re just air and noise, too often broken. But Peter’s hands come up to frame Bucky’s face, palms brushing against the stubble, and Bucky is just about ready to promise him world peace. There is a slight tremble in Peter’s fingers, the quickened pulse where his hands rest.

So. Alright. Promises. Fucking hell. Heavy promises, the sort that sink hooks in, somehow without tearing something in the process. Peter doesn’t flinch away, though. Should, but doesn’t, and there is a real good chance he might be not as smart as Bucky gives him credit for, not looking for the nearest exit.

“Bucky,” Peter breathes out instead, the name a hot puff of air against Bucky’s lips.

“What?” Bucky slides his hands to Peter’s back under his t-shirt, slips one out to rest it against Peter’s ass. “You really think I’d let you go now?” And then he leans into him, kissing, drowning in the feel of him, in the taste of him that sends all the blood rushing downward. Fuck, he must have actually been holding his breath, because he’s instantly dizzy with it.

Shit, shit, he’s in so much trouble.

Bucky's head spins—fucking spins. This isn't supposed to happen, not now, not ever, and most certainly not here with the dust, dirt, and oil stench clinging to the stale garage air, but Bucky's kissing Peter as if the world's about to end, and he's not even sure how the fuck they got here. He had plans, decent ones, about keeping his shit together, not diving headlong into whatever this thing with Peter was. Plans or walls erected brick by stubborn brick, notions of distance, safety, no fucking future here because who the hell could want a future with a guy like him? But here he is, devouring Peter’s lips as if he could just suck the sin straight out of him.

Blown to hell, those plans. Gone—fuck, all gone, as if they ever stood a chance. The sharp inhale Peter takes, the way his body leans into Bucky’s, gravity shifting—it all pulls Bucky deeper, shorting out his brain, for good this time. His fingers dig into Peter’s back, the muscles under his shirt tense and alive. Bucky’s always had a thing for strength—respects it, recognizes it. But Peter’s strength is different; it’s not about how much he can lift or how hard he can punch. Frankly, he’s pretty disastrous at both, but resilience is attractive too, and godfuckingdamn if Bucky doesn’t respect that more.

So, yeah, no resolve. That beat-up, battered resolve that's been his shitty compass through countless fucked-up situations, just evaporates. Dissolves. Disintegrates under the press of Peter’s lips. Where the hell does that leave Bucky? Right here, apparently, all theories about no future, no attachments, and definitely no fucking relationships tossed out the window of the shady safehouse he didn’t think of as home until Peter moved in.

He squeezes Peter’s ass with his metal hand, sneaks the other arm around him, t-shirt riding up, pulling him closer, because closer still isn’t fucking close enough. Peter sucks on his tongue, moans into his mouth, and it snatches the breath from Bucky’s lungs, snatches the sanity right from his skull. Peter’s melting into Bucky yet again, as if he’s meant to fit right there, against him, with him, and tastes so—so—addictive. It's the kind of flavor that writes itself into your memory, claws in and sets up shop, opens a fucking franchise. It stains Bucky’s mouth, this taste, and it’s just them, Peter’s ragged gasps filling the air, his fingers tight in Bucky’s hair now. Could probably hold Bucky here forever, if he wanted to.

Still not enough though. Bucky’s greedier than that, hungrier, and the more he takes, the more he needs. He yanks on Peter’s hips and there’s a clatter around them—tools or parts or who the fuck cares—because Peter’s making these small sounds again that drown out everything else, making Bucky crumble from touch and spit and need. Peter bites, nearly climbing him, legs lifting up, sneakers digging into Bucky’s ass, and the way Peter’s teeth catch on his lip draws a hiss that’s half-pain, all pleasure. Then Peter grinds down against him, shameless and sharp, his skin under Bucky's fingers burning hot, and Bucky loses it, pulls back just enough to start hastily opening Peter’s jeans, Peter’s keening moans so perfectly needy.

Peter’s mouth is at Bucky’s ear, mumbling something that might be approval or encouragement, maybe just nonsense, but it’s all the same to Bucky, who’s already halfway to forgetting what planet he’s on.

That’s when Bucky's phone starts buzzing in his front pocket, and they both pause.

It’s the worst timing and ironically the best placement as it vibrates right next to his dick. Hell, it feels better than almost good for a split second, and Bucky’s head drops, lips against Peter’s shoulder, over a patch of naked skin by the wide stretched-out collar.

“Fuck,” he murmurs, restarting battling Peter’s belt, through the insistent buzz demanding attention.

Peter moves against him, trying to wiggle away—come back, where do you think you are going—and Bucky growls out, “Forget it,” because there’s no way in hell he’s stopping now. He’s about to drag Peter back in when Peter groans—sexy as fuck, but also clearly annoyed—and ignores Bucky’s command. Peter’s hand slips between them, into Bucky’s pocket, and fuck, that’s not helping. Peter's fingers brush against him through the fabric—has to be intentional—as if he needs the time to find a massive piece of glass and plastic.

When Peter pulls the phone out, still pressed against Bucky, his breath hot and ragged against Bucky’s neck, Bucky’s done with the belt, popping the button on Peter’s pants, and the phone’s still ringing. Bucky’s half a mind to just grab it and throw it across the garage, but Peter’s looking at the screen now, eyebrows furrowing, lips parted in a way that’s both frustrating and utterly distracting.

Peter’s looking at the phone, and Bucky’s looking at Peter. What a mess of priorities. Because all Bucky wants to do is slam Peter against the bench and fuck him until he begs him to stop and then fuck him some more.

Then Peter glances up, eyes dark, pupils blown, lips red and swollen—questioning—and Bucky’s not sure if he should be at least mildly insulted. Everything feels off-kilter. Peter hands him the phone, and Bucky takes it. He looks at the screen, eyes narrowing. Just Nat.

“Answer it,” Peter whispers, his lips brushing Bucky’s jaw, teeth nipping. Huh. Not a request. An order. And damn if Bucky isn’t at least partly intrigued by how much he’s into that tone. He has to switch hands to hit the accept button, bringing the phone to his ear, and his metal fingers only slightly fumble with the zipper before he can palm Peter’s dick over his boxers, and, yeah, alright, two can play this game. Peter shivers, gasping soundlessly, and Bucky grins.

“What?” he’d snarl into the phone under any other circumstances—still tempted to—but Peter’s shaking under the smallest touch, his heels digging into Bucky’s ass again. Now that’s a good look on him, flushed, mouth open, so desperately fuckable.

“First off,” Nat’s voice crackles through the line, dripping with smugness, “about time; we can hear you from the bar. I was beginning to think you didn’t have it in you. So, you know, good for you.” She pauses for a beat, letting it sink in, and Bucky winks at Peter, still grinning, dragging his fingers over his dick, loving the way Peter shudders from barely anything. “But, ugh, and I am sorry in advance for this one, soldier, you might want to put a pin in it. I—I found him.”

Bucky freezes. His entire body goes rigid, every muscle locking up, his grip loosens, and the phone might as well be a lead weight. Blood turns to ice. Fuck. This is not happening. The line goes dead as he drops the call, hand falling limply to his side. He stares at Peter, through Peter, past him. He shouldn't have picked up. Should’ve let it go to voicemail, should’ve—fuck. Should’ve kept his priorities straight. Now everything’s fucked.

“Sorry, I gotta—” Bucky mutters, strained. He’s already moving, stepping away from Peter, almost stumbling.

“What?” Peter sounds confused. Bucky can hear it, feel it, but doesn't explain. Doesn’t have the time or the words.

It takes less than five minutes to gear up. Tactical vest under the zipped-up leather jacket, weapons. Knife in the boot, two guns at his side, hands moving faster on autopilot than his thoughts can catch up. Nobody argues when he grunts he’s going in alone.

Peter's bewildered "What the fuck?" barely registers. He must have followed him from the garage, but Bucky's already mentally checked out to properly process. He does see Nat gesturing at Peter and Clint herding him out of the bar, dragging him upstairs, but it’s easy to ignore. Bucky doesn’t have the bandwidth to deal with Peter’s confusion, frustration, or whatever the hell he’s feeling right now. He can make amends later.

It’s a good thing Peter isn’t around when Nat hands Bucky her tablet with the map pin.

"I know this place," the recognition settles in slowly. It doesn’t click immediately. He does know this place. Been there before. Been there when—

The tablet almost slips from his hand, saved by Sam’s quick reflexes.

It takes twenty minutes on the bike to get to the location. A few hours to case the joint, studying every entry and exit, every shadow and blind spot. Thirty-four seconds to pick the lock—quick, clean, no mistakes. 

By the time the door opens from the outside, letting the hallway light spill in, Bucky’s already in the chair facing the door. Gun pointed directly at someone he once called a brother.

"Hey, punk," Bucky exhales, steady, calm, finger on the trigger. "Long time no see."

Chapter Text

Steve's digs. The kind of place where money goes to show off—screams it, shoves it in your face. Has to cost more than even Tony threw at them for the roof, if not expenses, and Stark’s beyond loaded—could burn cash for fun and still not make a dent.

It’s… not really Steve. Not the Steve Bucky remembers. Then again, Bucky had plenty of time to obsess over the fact that it’s possible he never knew the real Steve, so there’s that.

Bucky had gone through everything before he sat down in this chair and waited. Swept for bugs, too. 

The kitchen’s all granite countertops and stainless steel. There’s a knife set on the counter, the barely noticeable plastic peel still on the handles. Steve never cooked. Sure as shit didn’t start now. Who knows, maybe this new Steve is into catered bullshit from restaurants that serve you foam and call it food. The Steve Bucky served with used to like burgers.

He found suits hanging in perfect OCD rows in the bedroom walk-in closet. All custom-tailored, pricey fabrics—not what a soldier’s salary, even black-ops, would ever cover. Each pocket empty—no loose change, no receipts, nothing that told him where Steve’s been, what he’s been up to. Steve’s thorough, though, always was, and Bucky’s never seen him in a suit until today. Could have lived without the privilege, if he's honest. 

The bed’s made with military precision, hospital corners and all, and that was a blast from the past. Steve was always a bit extra, had a stick up his ass about that. Guess old habits die hard—or maybe not at all. And if that’s the case, there’s a chance Steve was always a backstabbing cunt.

Bucky also found a few stashed weapons and a stack of cash, neatly banded, a fucking mint. More money than they ever saw on the field in a year, that’s for sure. A couple of passports, some fake IDs, but nothing with Steve’s real name. Has to be more identities than friends. Bucky flipped through them, ripped the whole place apart already, but no paper trail, no notes, not even a grocery list.

No personal photos, no reminders of who Steve used to be either. Just abstract art, colors smeared on canvas that has to mean nothing to him. All curated, all calculated to fit a certain image. Bucky’s just unsure what kind of fucked-up image it’s meant to be. Unsure of what’s the point of erasing every trace of the man Bucky used to know who would pass time sketching and replacing him with this—this stranger in a tailored suit. A man who drops a thousand bucks on a tie and doesn’t even blink.

A man who keeps a bowl for his keys. They clink against glass—crystal, maybe—when Steve throws them in after closing the door behind him.

Bucky loved Steve like family. Would have taken a bullet for him if it came down to that. Hell, actually did take a bullet for him once. This asshole, though? This polished, fake piece of shit? Should be thankful Bucky didn’t make him eat lead the moment he stepped inside.

“You cut your hair,” Steve says, casual as fuck, ignoring a gun aimed right at him. Bucky almost laughs but instead tightens his grip, finger itching for a reason to pull. Steve doesn’t flinch, doesn’t even blink. Just strolls further into the room with a relaxed gait. The walk is new also. Or maybe it’s not, and Bucky just never noticed.

“Got a cat too.” Bucky moves his feet, the office chair he’s sitting on spinning to maintain the line of sight. “If you'd rather talk about the shit that doesn't matter.”

Steve heads straight for the bar, rifling through a few bottles, untouched and still sealed. Bucky smirks when Steve’s hand hesitates over the emptied hidden compartment by a decanter. Looking for something, are we? Too bad. This party’s Bring Your Own Gun, and Steve’s is already gone.

Steve picks a bottle, pours a drink, and Bucky doesn’t miss the slightest pause, the barest flicker of irritation when he doesn’t find what he’s after. Good. Let him stew in that.

“Didn’t peg you for a cat guy,” Steve takes a sip, scowling, and that somewhat defeats the purpose of still trying to act like Bucky isn’t two seconds away from ventilating his skull. Fair play for trying, A for effort.

“That’s rich coming from a guy who I didn’t peg for a traitor. So what’s new with you, pal? Since we’re playing catch-up. Besides—” Bucky waves the gun at him, motioning up and down Steve’s form, “—the douchebag couture. Didn’t realize ‘sellout' was trending this season.”

Steve glances down at his suit, puts the glass down, then looks back up at Bucky, almost amused, and moves to stick a hand in his pocket.

“Nuh-uh,” Bucky motions for him to stop. Tight around the crotch must be in season too, and Bucky’s not worried about a gun there, but he’s not reckless either. “Let’s keep those where I can see them.”

"I’d rather talk about you," Steve leans against the bar, making a mocking gesture of raising his hands, but then grips the bar counter with them on each side. "Heard you’ve got a boyfriend too. Real sweet thing."

Steve must have a death wish—has to—if he’s dumb enough to bring up Peter. Bucky could practically taste the shitstorm on its way, but it still hits harder than it should. 

When he was still Peter's driver, Bucky parked next to this building four times after dropping Peter off. Sat there, engine idling, watching the door. Watched people go in and out. Watched the lights at the crossing flick on and off, changing colors. Waited, letting time crawl by. Eight hours in total of sitting in that car, fingers drumming on the wheel, eyes mostly glued to the entrance. Eight fucking hours of trying not to picture Peter with some faceless John but picturing it anyway. That’s eight hours total of Bucky’s life he’ll never get back, eight hours of now knowing Steve was in here with Bucky’s—

Ten hours for Peter. That Bucky knows of.

“Don’t make it this easy to want to off you,” Bucky warns.

“Touchy, huh?” Steve tilts his head to his shoulder, rubbing his beard. “Must be serious. Can’t blame you, got yourself a keeper there. Sucks dick like a—”

“Don’t.”

But Steve just shrugs, the picture of nonchalance, as if he’s forgotten there’s a gun pointed at his face. As if he’s forgotten who the fuck he’s dealing with.

“Okay, okay. No need to get all excited. I’m just curious, that’s all.” Steve keeps pushing, clearly angling for this reunion to end in a body bag. “It’s been a while since we’ve caught up. Figured I’d ask about the new developments in your life. Since we’re old friends. You know, he isn’t exactly my type, but a hole is a hole, right? And I gotta say—”

“Steve,” Bucky forces a crooked smile, not moving. “What do you think is going to happen here? Do you think I’m going to charge you just because I’m now painfully aware that you couldn’t even get it up without him wearing makeup? Lose my shit at you, give you an opening, and then what? Please, you know me better than that.”

“Oh, I do,” Steve shoots back, now grinning as if he’s got the upper hand. “The makeup was all for you, thought you’d appreciate it. How do you call them again?—” Bucky knows exactly what’s coming. Steve’s always been predictable. Boring, even. Until he flipped the script and sold them out—nobody could have predicted that. Certainly not Bucky. “—Doll. He really didn’t like it when I called him that last time. Left me high and dry, bailed on our next appointment too. Real upsetting, couldn’t have that. But I suppose that’s what he gets for cutting through dark alleyways. Or maybe that was always the plan? To give you a chance to feel like a protector and a good guy, for once. Who knows, maybe your doll is exactly where he is supposed to be now. You ever think of that?”

“Bullshit.” Bucky spits the word out like it's poison, though it may taste of fear on the way out. He keeps the gun steady, not letting it show, but Steve’s always been good at finding cracks, knowing exactly where to press until something gives. “No fucking way.”

Sure, Peter’s got his secrets—everyone does—but he’s not cold. Not calculated. If he were playing Bucky, he’d have seen it by now.

Bucky can almost feel the smirk growing on Steve’s face as the silence stretches. He keeps his expression locked down, willing himself not to react, and eventually, Steve laughs. It’s not a deep laugh, more of a chuckle, still casual as hell. He doesn’t seem at all worried, and that’s what does start to worry Bucky.

“Fine, fine, you got me,” Steve admits, chuckling as if they’re old pals shooting the shit over beers. “And for the record, the alleyway? Wasn’t me either. I mean, come on—do you really think I’d waste my time orchestrating some mugging? I’ve got bigger fish to fry. But hey, this city really does need to do something about citizen safety.”

Bucky’s jaw tightens, and now he actually can’t tell if Steve’s lying or if he’s just fucking with him for the sake of it.

“Enough,” he says.

“Just saying, Sarge.” Steve shrugs, looking all too pleased with himself. “You’re getting all worked up over nothing. Maybe you should take a step back, breathe a little. Wouldn’t want you doing something you’ll regret.”

“Like trusting you?” Bucky snaps, more rattled than he should be. 

“Alright then, if you want to go there,” Steve says, his tone sharpening. The smirk fades, and something a helluva lot colder replaces it. “I wasn’t the one who betrayed the trust here, brother.”

“Seriously?” Bucky’s disgusted. “This how you see it? You sold us out, Steve. Sold out your own fucking team—your family. For what? For some bullshit orders? Wasn’t right and you know it.”

“It’s called doing my duty,” And there it is. That old righteousness that Bucky used to find amusing and now sees for what it is. “Something you and the others forgot when you decided to bail on the mission.”

“Don’t you dare pull that shit on me,” Bucky leans forward. “You think you’re better because you followed the fucking chain of command? Because you bent over for whatever asshole in a suit told you to?”

“This isn’t about being better. It’s about doing what we've all signed up for. I didn’t sell you out—you sold yourselves out the second you stopped being soldiers and became Stark’s guns for hire.”

“You really buy into that, don’t you?” Bucky laughs, a short, bitter sound. “The whole ‘honor and duty’ crap? You think the assholes giving the orders give a shit about honor? About what’s right? You were there, Steve. You’ve seen what we’ve seen. Trust me, you didn’t miss Stark regaining consciousness and trying to buy our loyalty. Ain’t something you can buy, gotta earn that. And you lost ours the second you gave away our position and agreed to take Stark out while I was bleeding out from where my left arm used to be.” Bucky's disbelief is overshadowed by anger and he pauses, reigning it in, before continuing. “You’re so far up your own ass, you can’t see the difference between right and wrong anymore. They used us, Steve. They let Rhodes send us after Stark, assuming we wouldn’t make it. And when we, by some miracle, did after walking into an ambush, they found the only idiot on the team who’d take another order without asking questions. Suppose it did work out for you, though, Cap. Some leader you are.”

“Maybe,” Steve’s voice drops again to an unsettling calm. “But at least I can live with myself at the end of the day knowing I didn’t break my oath. Can you?”

“I live with my choices just fine. And if you want to keep living with yours, this is the time for you to give me that name I came here for.”

“Wouldn’t you rather know why you’re still alive?” Steve checks with him, back to smirking.

Bucky had plenty of time to think on this while waiting for Steve. Had words with Nat before leaving too. If Steve knew about Peter, he obviously knew where they were. Wouldn’t have been difficult to follow Bucky. He’s good, sure, but Steve’s got friends in high places now, and while Bucky can smell a tail a mile away, even he wouldn’t be able to spot every drone or every hijacked camera. That said—

“Yeah, it’s crossed my mind,” Bucky shrugs. “But my best guess? Whoever pulled the strings on Stark’s kidnapping and tried to have him iced during the extraction still finds us useful. Cleaning up their mess, one by one. Aligned goals and all. Or, and I am leaning towards this one, you think you’ve got a game to play here instead of reporting our location to whoever your buddy is. Either way, it works for me. This is almost over, Steve. Whether you’re breathing when it’s done is up to you. So unless you’re planning on going down with the ship, start talking.”

One name, and they’re done. Tony gets his rat, and Bucky and the rest of the team get their shot at freedom.

Steve pauses, chewing over the words, the silence dragging, thick as tar, and Bucky waits. Let’s Steve consider his options, lets him shift where he’s standing, eyes fixed on Bucky’s with that thoughtful, almost clinical look. Then Steve taps his foot. Once. Twice. A slow, deliberate beat. Tap. Tap, tap. Tap. It’s annoying at first, but after a few more taps, Bucky’s eyes narrow. 

Something’s… off. 

The second he locks onto that rhythm, his metal arm seizes up.

The pain is instant and white-hot, his nerves on fire. The arm spasms, jerks, then drops to his side—dead weight, useless—while lightning crawls under his skin. He grits his teeth, mentally screams for his fingers to move on the trigger, but it’s too late—Steve’s on him in a flash.

He grabs Bucky’s wrist, twisting it with enough pressure to make Bucky want to bite back a curse if he wasn’t already grunting through the pain. The gun’s yanked from his grip before he can even think about holding on, the shock still slamming through his system. Everything blurs for a second—disorientation, more pain, and the bitter, metallic taste of blood in his mouth.

Then the world tilts. He crashes down hard, the impact knocking the breath out of his lungs. Steve’s weight pins him down and the bastard’s got him locked in place before Bucky even has a chance to blink the stars out of his eyes.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, all the pieces finally clunk into place. Tony keeps a close circle, and it’s so goddamn obvious—Stane has to be behind all of it. Bucky would curse himself for not realizing this sooner—Stane's the only one who could have set Steve up with whatever bullshit tech short-circuited Bucky’s arm—but he’s got different priorities now, and there’s no time to regret not looking into Tony’s business partner more, what with Steve’s mug inches away, his breath blasting Bucky’s skin.

Steve’s leaning over him, gun pointed at Bucky’s chest, arm just about not crushing Bucky’s windpipe, eyes bright and calculating. The kind of brightness that makes Bucky’s gut churn, but not in fear—nausea. This is the man who’s convinced he’s the fucking hero of the story. And that’s always been Steve’s problem, hasn’t it? Can’t see the forest for the trees.

“I think you were jealous,” Steve says with a drawn-out exhale, as if he’s been waiting a long time to throw it in Bucky’s face. “Jealous that I made captain over you. That I was trusted to lead your team. Couldn’t have that, could you? Of course, they wouldn’t keep you in charge after you were careless enough to get yourself captured. Who the fuck would? You think anyone in their right mind would trust the ‘great Winter Soldier’ after that? Couldn’t handle it? Watching ‘some punk’ take the reins. Watching me do what you were no longer fit to do. That’s what really burned, isn’t it? Not the orders. Not the mission. Me.”

“Did you actually escape, Sarge?” Steve goes for the kill. “Or did you spend four months getting brainwashed into betraying your country instead of wading through snow in the Siberian outback until you crawled your ass back to civilization?”

That one hits home, more than Bucky’s willing to admit. Four months. He doesn’t even remember most of it, having repressed the hell out of it after coming back. Cold. Pain. The endless fucking snow. But Steve twisting the metaphorical knife has nothing on every nerve ending incinerating Bucky’s capacity to think.

“Maybe that’s why you’re so pissed off all the time. Maybe you’re still wondering if you’ve been flipped and just don’t know it yet.” Steve’s leaning in even closer now, his beard scratching Bucky’s jaw, the gun pressing harder against Bucky’s chest. ”So tell me, Sarge. Who’s the real traitor here? The guy who followed orders? Or the one who got himself captured by Russians, allegedly got away, then broke the chain of command less than a year later, got the rest of the team to do it, and can’t even be sure whose side he’s on anymore? And all for what? To save a billionaire piece of ass? Did you betray me because you were thinking with your dick? I sure hope you at least got to fuck him at some point for all of it to be worth it.”

Bucky cults his lips into a defiant, bloodied grin. 

“Sure did,” he grunts out. “Would fuck anyone, honestly—that’s me. A hole’s a hole, right? Long as it’s not yours.”

A shoot in the dark, but… it lands. Steve’s eyes go wild, a flash of something unhinged, and Bucky uses it. “You forgettin’ somethin’, punk?” he snarls. “I’ve got another arm.”

He moves, going for the gun in Steve’s hand. Knows Steve’s reflexes are sharp, knows he’s gonna go for the shot. Bucky’s counting on that. The second Steve pulls the trigger, the gun zaps him instead, and he yelps like a kicked dog. Thank fuck for Tony and his biometric locks.

“Must’ve fucked him real good too,” Bucky taunts even as they grapple for control. “He’s taken such good care of me.”

Steve’s face contorts in rage, and Bucky takes the opening, rolling over him, the weight of the dead metal arm slowing him down. Steve fights back and they wrestle on the floor, the gun skittering out of reach.

Bucky swings with his right, a wild haymaker aimed at Steve’s jaw, but Steve ducks, grabs his wrist, and slams Bucky’s good hand into the floor. Pain explodes up Bucky’s forearm, and he grits his teeth, trying not to lose his grip on the fight. Steve’s no slouch—he’s quicker, and Bucky’s barely holding it together when he feels the knife.

If Bucky was asked how the fuck he’s still standing, he wouldn’t have an answer. Not a good one, anyway. Pure spite, probably. Dumb luck, definitely. Whatever it is, it’s wearing thin. His left arm hangs limp against his body; he had to push his way in using his shoulder, while his right wrist is a fucking disaster, barely moving, knuckles swollen. The thigh… yeah, let’s not even go there. The belt cinched tight around the wound is doing jack shit to stop the bleeding, so pulling out the knife to stab Steve just above his kneecap with it wasn’t his smartest move. The blood is dripping down his leg in a slow, steady stream under his tac pants, and it’s a bit messed up how ticklish it is. Considering.

Regardless, when he stumbles through the front door of the bar, the world does a splendid job of still tilting around him in a bad acid trip. His vision’s blurred at the edges, black spots dancing in and out of focus. He can’t even grip the doorway properly to keep himself upright and ends up leaning on it instead. He’s been better.

The taste of copper won’t leave his mouth, and he spits on the ground, swaying, croaking out, “A little help here,” before trying to step forward but having the floor rush up to meet him instead.

His legs give out, crumbling like the rest of him is about to, but not before he catches the brief flash of movement—someone coming his way, fast, just can’t tell who through the haze. Not fast enough though, or maybe his body is simply too quick to fold.

Fuck, that hurts. 

Stark’s driver catches him from behind.

The taste of blood thickens, his eyes roll, and he’s dimly aware of voices, frantic and too far away. Now would be a great time to pass the fuck out as payment for not dying in that goddamn apartment with a knife in his thigh or a bullet in his brain. No mercy, though, and he feels multiple sets of hands holding him up.

They haul him up onto the bar counter, the wood creaking under his weight, the sound of glass shattering as something—maybe a bottle, maybe a cup—hits below. Hell if he knows. Doesn’t care either. His brain’s too busy trying to figure out which part of him hurts the most. He considers passing out just for the sake of it now when someone jams a needle into his arm.

Sweet. Sweet. Fucking. Relief.

The morphine kicks in fast, the pain dulling from flaming pile of shit to a bearable throb, followed by a warm, fuzzy numbness, and suddenly, everything's a helluva lot funnier than it was five seconds ago. Hilarious, actually. He wants to laugh, almost, but his throat’s too dry for that. Instead, his lips move into something lopsided that probably looks as fucked up as he feels.

He even manages to lift his head up, and Nat promptly sticks a towel under it. Saint Nat. Clint’s got a knife—no, scissors—and he’s cutting through Bucky’s pants. Bucky’d protest, maybe throw in a comment about buying him dinner first, but the morphine’s got his tongue feeling thick and useless.

Sam’s digging through the medkit, pulling out gauze, more syringes, and other shit Bucky can’t be bothered to identify. He feels a sting as someone—oh, yeah, Clint—starts prodding around the wound, but it’s distant, could be happening to someone else, someone Bucky’s just watching from a few steps back.

“Shit,” Clint mutters, the sound oddly muffled, and Bucky might be hearing it through a wall. He blinks up at the ceiling, the dim lights flickering above him, and wonders if this is what floating on a cloud feels like. Except, y’know, with more blood and less actual floating.

Where’s Peter?

Nat’s barking orders now, and a whole lot of cold and wet hits his face—water, probably. Nice try, but all he wants to do is ride this morphine wave straight into unconsciousness. His eyelids are heavy, so damn heavy, and he has to fight to keep them open.

There’s more pressing down on the wound, hard enough that Bucky should probably be screaming even through the drugs, but all he can manage is a sluggish groan. Someone sticks another needle into his arm—oh, hell yeah, that’s the stuff. His muscles loosen up, his breath evens out, and for a second, everything tilts again but in the most glorious way possible. The bar lights blur into soft halos, and Bucky could swear he’s actually floating now.

“Is it done?” asks Nat, her hand in his hair, and Bucky tries to nod, but blinks instead. “Did he talk?”

It takes him a few seconds to remember he’s got a mouth.

“He sang. Tony’s got him now. Later. He’s—where’s Peter—be here later. Can you, can I—fuck—can you—”

“Easy, he’s here,” Nat murmurs, her hand brushing his forehead, pushing back his hair. That’s... nice. Almost tender. If Bucky wasn’t circling the drain, he’d make a note to give her shit about it after.

Peter’s face swims into view, blurry at first. Bucky blinks, moves his head—fuck, nope, bad idea—trying to focus, and there he is. Clearer now, but pale as hell, eyes wide as if he just saw Bucky crawl out of a grave. He looks so worried.

How the hell did Bucky get so lucky? How the fuck did someone like Peter end up giving a shit about someone like him?

“Hey, Sam?”

Sam grunts in response.

“You see my guy over here?” Bucky slurs, words coming out half-mumbled, half-dazed.

“Yeah, yeah, I see him.”

“See how amazin’ he is? Not gettin’ in the way or anythin’,” Bucky should probably tell Peter it’s all fine, but his brain is a bit stuck on how fucking pretty he is. “Gorgeous too.”

“Yeah, man, sure,” Sam mutters, and Bucky feels the thread drag after the needle through his skin.

“Been in love with him for months now,” the words slip out through his brain-to-mouth filter that's been totalled. He tries to shift, to get a better look at Peter, but someone’s hand clamps down on his leg, keeping him down. “And. And you know what?”

“What’s that?” Sam’s still humoring him, and Bucky knows he should probably shut the fuck up, but his mouth’s on autopilot now.

“Only got to kiss him today. Isn’t—isn’t that somethin’?” He blinks slowly, the pain ebbing in and out in waves, and his eyes refuse to stay open after the next blink down, the world turning to darkness around Peter’s face. “So. Don’t—don’t let me die. Got a lot of makin’ up to—”

“That’s real sweet, B—”

Bucky’s first thought when he wakes up is that he’s far from comfortable. Screw the pain, praise the lingering drugs, but his back recognizes that futon instantly. The springs are digging in, and it seems that even in the darkest corners of hell, you can’t escape cursed furniture.

"You gotta be fucking kidding me," he swears. His eyes flicker open, and he immediately regrets it.

“You’ve been cheating on me,” hums Tony, hunched over him, tools in hand, digging into his busted arm. “We’ve talked about it, sunshine. I don’t go around killing people; you don’t go around putting your mittens inside proprietary tech.”

“Not my fault the plates keep sticking,” Bucky rolls his eyes, or at least he tries to, but the whole world shifts around him when he does.

“Here,” Peter materializes on his right, shoving two pills into Bucky’s mouth and holding up a half-full glass of water for Bucky to gulp down so he doesn’t have to swallow them dry.

“Back to work, kid,” Tony motions for Peter to come around before Bucky is even done. “See this one? This one’s a doozy. Gotta peel it back, but mind it, or—”

Peter’s frozen over Bucky, not taking his eyes off him while Tony pokes at something, and Bucky hisses, nearly choking when a small spark flashes from his left side. A few plates are stacked on his bare stomach like it’s a damn tray table, adding to the general sense of “what-the-fuckery,” and Bucky tries to move his right arm to get this shit off him, only for his wrist to refuse to bend.

He stares at the makeshift cast with a dick drawn on it in black marker. 

Well. 

Classy.

“How long was I out?” he asks, and then, straight after, focuses on Peter again, who hasn’t moved an inch and is still looking at him with the oddest expression. As if Bucky’s about to pull another knife out of somewhere. “You alright?”

“Shouldn’t I be asking you that?” Peter puts the glass on the floor. He sounds calm. Fair play, Bucky guesses, something nagging at him, but he’s still too groggy to give it proper thought.

It’s only when Tony mutters, “If you are not going to help, give us a few minutes, will you, Pete?” that it starts to click. Bucky’s brain, still moving slower than a rusty tank, suddenly slams into a wall of memories.

He remembers Sam patching him up, Peter’s face hovering over him, and then—oh, yeah—he might’ve said something. Something really fucking stupid. To Sam. About Peter. In front of Peter. Jesus Christ, of all the times for his mouth to run off on its own—

Ah, fuck him.

When’s that oxy supposed to kick in? He’ll take it right the hell now, thanks.

Peter’s eyes meet his again, and Bucky’s not sure if the look there is concern, confusion, or something else entirely. Whatever it is, Bucky’s not in any state to deal with it right now.

“Talk soon,” he tells Peter, resisting the urge to look away at the ceiling and start to count the cracks in the plaster.

Peter nods, seems to bite the inside of his cheek just a little, and shuffles away toward the bar. Bucky follows him with his eyes and sees him climb on top of the stool, take a cup of something from smirking Clint, and wrap his hands around it.

“You know your boy-genius is a hooker, right?” Whispers Tony, and then twists something inside the arm with a muttered “There you are, fucker,” and the metal arm re-engages.

“First time I hear about it,” Bucky sighs in relief, only now noticing how much the weight was pulling on his shoulder when the arm was offline, even lying down. “You got him?”

“Not yet,” Tony snags one of the plates from over Bucky’s abs and starts fitting it in. “Got a few things to work out first. So—”

“We done?” Sometimes Bucky really wishes he couldn’t smell bullshit coming from a mile away. Yet—

“Yeah,” the plate clicks into place, and Tony pauses. “About that.”

And there it is.

The back of the bar opens into a dark, depressing dead end.

Bucky adjusts the jacket he’s thrown over his shoulders and doesn’t bother with the sleeves, just lets the fabric hang loose. The drizzle is light, barely a mist, but it feels like a hundred little needles stabbing his skin. He tilts his head back, letting the rain slap his face, the cool droplets mixing with the sweat still sticking to his forehead, some making it to his bare chest. The night air is almost refreshing, but it’s got that heavy, shitty smell of wet asphalt and something rotting nearby. Perfect.

Tony’s standing half a step away, close enough to catch Bucky if he decides to eat pavement. Not that he would. Probably.

“Why would you want a pardon anyway?” Tony asks, his expression turning even more sour as a rat scurries by, “Pension and disability benefits?”

Bucky grinds his teeth; turns away. Hears the flick of a lighter, the familiar scratch of metal against flint, and then the scent of burning tobacco hits his nose. A cigarette is pressed into his metal hand, and he takes it without a word, bringing it to his lips. The first drag burns, but it’s a good burn, the kind that settles deep in his lungs and takes the edge off. He leans back against the wall, closes his eyes, and keeps his weight off his injured leg as the oxy finally kicks in.

“Funny how even a dump like this,” Bucky drawls, smoke curling from his mouth, “can start to feel like home after a while. All this time, busting our asses, and what do we have to show for it?” Bucky continues, not keeping his voice down—no one’s around to hear. “Could’ve told us sooner,” he adds, flicking the ash to the ground and looks at Tony, the tip of his smoke glowing red. “Not like we had a helluva lot of options anyway.”

“Got passage ready for Wakanda,” Tony says, hands shoved deep in his pockets. As if that makes things right.

“The fuck we gonna do there? Herd goats?” Bucky asks, mostly pissed. That, and bone tired.

“I don’t give a shit. Work security, learn basket weaving. Whatever gets your rocks off.” He seems frustrated.

“Wasn’t the deal,” Bucky winces when he momentarily forgets that leaning on his right leg is a one-way ticket to pain. “Shit.”

“Yeah, well,” Tony grabs the cigarette from Bucky’s fingers, takes half a drag, grimaces like he’s just tasted week-old coffee, and then stubs it out against the wall, the embers flaring up before snuffing out completely. 

“Figure it out.” The truth is, Bucky doesn’t actually think Tony can pull it off. It was always a long shot, and they’ve torched too many bridges to just waltz back onto the right side of the law. Might as well be stranded on a deserted fucking island. But all that cash has got to be good for something, and Bucky wouldn’t forgive himself if he didn’t at least try. God knows he doesn’t want to be the one to tell the rest of the team it’s running until they finally bite it.

Tony’s jaw tightens. He doesn’t say anything else for a while, and Bucky waits. 

“Ah, fuck you, Barnes,” he curses eventually, rubbing a hand over his facial hair. “Right. Let me get my house in order, deal with Obie, and see what can be worked out. Your arm should be fine, had him locked out as soon as you called me, he shouldn’t even notice. In the meantime… Stay put, lay low, heal up. I’ll be in touch.”

“That’s more like it,” Bucky half-smiles and yawns, stretching, the jacket slipping down from his shoulders and falling right into the muck. “Dammit.” He starts to lean down to pick it up, but Tony beats him to it, holding it by two fingers with a look of pure disgust.

“Back inside, Rambo,” Tony gestures at the door with the dog flap. “I didn’t pump two pints of my own blood into you for you to KO from catching a cold.”

“Oh yeah?” Bucky grins despite himself, leaning on him. “Does that mean I’ve got some Stark in me now?”

“Yup, only the good stuff,” Tony huffs out a laugh, his tone lighter now. “Although your buddy Steve was heavily implying something of yours was in a habit of getting into me instead. Care to elaborate?”

“Don’t even start, man,” Bucky shakes his head, stopping in the back room to pet Alpine, who’s curled up on a stack of crates. “He alive?” Bucky hesitates, the question out before he can stop it. He shouldn’t care, but, what do you know, does.

“Was when I handed him over to Rhodey,” Tony pauses by the cat too, eyeing Alpine with some suspicion. “Which reminds me, Happy says you owe him new upholstery.”

“Fuck that noise,” Bucky considers it for all of a second, then scoops up Alpine and dumps her on Tony. The jacket he’s holding falls to the floor. “Tell him to send me the bill; I know exactly who to forward it to. Which reminds me, you brought my ride back?”

“Sure did,” Tony answers, fumbling with suddenly very alert Alpine. He looks at Bucky, then at the cat, clearly debating something before shoving the cat back at Bucky. Bucky manages to hold onto her with his metal arm, pressing her to his chest. “You’re kinda chatty on drugs. Any national secrets I should know about?”

“Nah, I got nothin’.“ Bucky releases the Alpine back onto the crate without thinking things through, and then picks her up again. She feels pretty fucking terrific against his skin, and, yeah, he might be hitting the good high now. Tony offers him his shoulder again and Bucky continues his limping routine towards the inner door of the bar.

“A little birdie told me you were getting awfully chatty when Sam was patching you up too.” If smug as hell was money, Tony would be rolling in more dough than triple his current net worth.

Bucky opens his mouth, closes it, then opens it again, frowning when Alpine takes her chance to escape. He doesn’t quite feel the sting of the scratch she leaves on his skin, and shrugs it off. His bruises have bruises at this stage—ain’t a problem.

“I take it back.“ He sighs, another wave of high rolling in. “Those assholes you can ship off to Wakanda yesterday.”

It’s a pain in the ass. The way the clingfilm sticks to his metal hand as Bucky tries to wrap his wrist support—dick doodle and all.

“Leave it, I’ll do it,” Peter tells him from below, where he’s on his knees on the white tile of the bathroom, the slight crease between his eyebrows deepening as he smooths out another strip of plastic over Bucky’s beat-up thigh.

Bucky leans against the sink, his side braced by the counter, head hanging low, and just watches Peter quickly but carefully succeed where Bucky has failed.

Quiet. That’s what strikes Bucky. Not just regular quiet, but the kind of quiet that sneaks up on you when you’ve been running your mouth all damn day. He feels like he’s talked—blabbed, really—more in the last twenty-four hours than he has in the past year, and now that it’s just him and Peter, all those words seem to have evaporated. Poof. Gone. Left him with nothing but the sound of clingfilm stretching and the annoying drip of the leaky faucet.

Peter’s fingers brush against Bucky’s skin, way too cautious as he secures the protective layer. He’s so precise, making sure there’s not a single gap where water could seep in. More precise than Bucky would’ve been even if he had two good hands, half a clue, and a fuck to give, since he’s been through worse; a lot worse. As far as injuries go, this doesn’t even make his top ten.

He shifts on his bare feet, trying to ignore the dull ache in his leg and the way his heart’s pounding faster than a methed-up squirrel’s, and Peter’s up in no time, reaching for the roll again, squinting at the shitty job Bucky has done, fixing it right up. He’s so close, inches really, completely engrossed, Clint’s artistic genius visible even through the transparent plastic, his shoulder brushing against Bucky’s skin with every move of his arm. Then Peter flattens the edges with his fingertips, looks up at Bucky, and Bucky can’t help the way he turns his face away and to the empty shower that he’s about to take, as if he’s been caught doing something he shouldn’t.

Peter tends to get past all of Bucky’s defenses without even trying, and the whole thing is too domestic, considering the blood that’s caked onto Bucky’s skin, dried and flaking off in patches. He’s about two seconds from being mistaken for a crime scene if he doesn’t get a shower soon, but standing here, letting Peter handle him like some fragile fucking porcelain doll—it’s... weird. Unnervingly weird, but good. 

The problem is that Bucky’s never known what to do with good.

Especially not when that good is standing right in front of him, slowly pulling at the rubber band of Bucky’s boxers. Normally not a bad thing, not even when you are barely awake, but Peter’s eyes glisten, a sob choking out before he can swallow it down, and all the air gets sucked out of the room.

“Hey, what—” Bucky tries to reach out, but Peter shakes him off, starts yanking at his own clothes instead, leaving Bucky’s alone.

“I like sex,” he rushes out, the words tumbling out as he kicks off his sneakers, nearly tripping over his own feet. His voice is cracking, catching on something sharp, and Bucky’s not sure if it’s the truth or the lie that’s sticking in his throat. “You’ve never asked me, and I don’t know if you think there’s some messed-up reason for what I do—did—but, just. I never did need saving. I like sex, my aunt’s medical bills were piling up, the creditors wouldn’t stop calling, and I thought... I like it, it’s quick money, so why not?”

Peter’s got his t-shirt off now, flinging it at the laundry basket, and Bucky just stands there, not knowing what the fuck to do with his hands, his feet, or any other part of himself.

“And I’ve always been safe,” Peter continues, even faster now, voice low and tight. “Honestly. Tested every two weeks. But. Sam wouldn’t take my blood to give to you, but took Mr. Stark’s, even though it’s the same blood type, all three of us. Also, Tony Stark. What the hell? What—I have no idea what is going on or what to do, and you look like shit, and is the shower even smart right now? Like, should you even be walking and be up, or maybe you need a sponge bath, and you saved me anyway, and—”

“Peter—”

“—and I don’t know if I should sleep in the same bed with you,” Peter barrels on, tugging off his socks. “Because I am afraid I am gonna hurt you in my sleep, and do we need ice packs, and should I go cat food shopping, and you said what you said—and I—and I have no idea what to do with that right now either, so I am—” Peter’s breath becomes more ragged as he wrestles out of his jeans, taking his underwear with them in one desperate pull. “I am going to wash you now, and we are not going to talk about it, because if you take it back or even say it again, I think I am gonna freak out more, reg-regardless, and—”

Peter’s naked now, in every sense—stripped the fuck down—and Bucky’s so battered and bruised, so fucking raw from everything, that all he can do is lean back further and try not to fall apart while Peter quickly pulls down his boxers, making sure they don’t snag the wrapped bandage, and then starts the shower, adjusting the temperature before he steps under the water.

He motions Bucky over, looks past him, and the space is tight when the cabin door slides closed.

“Shouldn’t be this complicated,” Peter mutters, grabbing the washcloth and starting to soap it up. “It’s just a shower, right? But no, I’ve gotta make it weird, and you’ve gotta be half-dead, and now I’m… I’m about to wash you as if you can’t do it yourself, or maybe you can’t and I am not just being me, and fuck, why am I so bad at this? And I—I think I might also—but you you you—”

He pauses, washcloth halfway to Bucky’s skin, foam dripping from it, and then whispers so quietly it takes effort for Bucky to make out the words:

“—You got stabbed. Who gets stabbed, has surgery or almost surgery in a bar, has a direct blood transfusion from Tony fucking Stark, and then cracks godawful jokes for four hours while everyone else gets drunk? Who—”

Bucky grips the base of the showerhead with his metal hand and hauls Peter in, his other arm awkwardly placed on his shoulder and bent at the elbow. Peter nearly slips, catches himself, then buries his face into Bucky’s neck, pressing in so much he could be trying to disappear into his skin.

For a moment, it’s a bit surreal—Bucky’s body prickling under the spray, and everything else blurred out by the sound of water hitting the tile.

Then Peter slowly brings up his hands to Bucky’s sides, ghosting over. Touching too hard will not make Bucky shatter. He ain’t someone fragile, basically the opposite of that, but Peter’s one hand is still holding the washcloth, wrinkled and slick, and Bucky doesn’t actually mind at all when Peter eventually pulls back just enough to start gently, painfully carefully, washing him down.

The water mixes with soap and blood, a sickly pink swirling down the drain.

Frankly, it’s not even a great shower; the water’s all wrong, too cold for Bucky—not that he’s ever really warm unless it’s summer and he’s outside—but Peter seems to like it a little cooler, and Bucky can’t bring himself to ask for hotter. Hell, lukewarm’s probably better anyway, because Peter’s naked, Bucky’s naked, and there’s a minefield of things neither of them seems willing to look down at, let alone deal with right now. Assuming Bucky even could without tearing a stitch or ten. 

The lower the washcloth gets, the redder Peter’s face gets with it, and he’s blushing—again—it’s fucking cute, almost makes Bucky smirk, if he wasn’t so exhausted he might be sleeping already with his eyes open. Then again, it’s still all he can do to keep his eyes on Peter’s face and not let them drift lower.

When they finally get out, Bucky slings a towel around his waist, and Peter’s off to the bedroom to grab clothes, leaving Bucky standing there dripping and thinking—thinking about how reckless, how fucking stupid he was. No backup. Went in solo for no good reason. Could’ve—

Could’ve lost everything.

Also thinking Peter’s got an absurdly toned and perfect ass, but that’s not a helpful observation right now. 

It takes a while to find a comfortable position that works. So long that it makes Bucky consider if comfort is even a real thing or just some myth people talk about on slow news days. The drugs are wearing off, the sweet spot between being in pain and being just plain fucked narrowing fast. It’s too early to pop more, and more pain creeps in—still dull at first, just more, then not dull at all. Bucky tries to shift, but the mattress seems determined to punish him for all his more recent and possibly even past life choices. Good for it. He’s definitely made enough shitty ones.

Meanwhile, Peter’s doing his own brand of nonsense. His body’s mostly at the wall, basically trying to merge with it while positioned in a way that can’t be conducive to actually falling asleep. His head’s on Bucky’s chest, though, right over a spot that twinges every time Bucky breathes. Steve really put in the effort—equal opportunity pain distribution, punches everywhere, and Bucky is starting to feel every single one of them.

“Peter,” Bucky yawns, “for fuck’s sake.”

Peter, of course, doesn’t respond. Just keeps lying there, committed to being as inconvenient as possible. He’s trying to be considerate, Bucky guesses, which would be endearing if it wasn’t so damn annoying. Bucky’s having none of it. He moves, wincing as every muscle protests, and grabs him, tugging him closer. Peter makes a startled noise—something between a squeak and a whimper—but doesn’t resist. In a matter of seconds, he’s no longer glued to the wall but plastered against Bucky’s side, right where he should be.

“There. Better,” Bucky yawns again, his hand resting on Peter’s back. “You’re small,” he adds, yawning for the third time, can’t stop now, because, fuck, he’s tired. Soul-worn tired. “I like that you’re small, but you are small.”

“Huh?” Peter shifts like he’s about to sit up, probably to give Bucky that confused look he’s so good at, but Bucky hisses through his teeth, and that stops Peter in his tracks.

“Ufgh, please don’t move,” Bucky grunts. “Hurts like a motherfucker when you do that.”

Peter freezes, stays so still he’s potentially no longer breathing, and Bucky would absolutely slap himself for being an idiot, but there isn’t a single inch of his body that hasn’t been properly fucking tenderized already.

“Anyway,” Bucky says, moving his foot an inch to let Alpine curl up between them and stick her head on top of his ankle over the blanket, “I can’t speak for Sam, but I wouldn’t take blood from you because you look like you weigh about two and a half pounds. Direct blood transfusions are dangerous as hell, this ain’t the movies, and he knows I’d end him if something happened to you, so—”

“Oh,” Peter breathes out and doesn’t say anything else, just burrows a little closer, making Bucky ache just a bit more. But fuck it, what doesn’t hurt right now?

“I—me too,” Bucky hears when he’s already halfway out. “I think. Incaseyouwerewondering. Shutup.”

Chapter Text

The first few days post-patch-up have the decency to blur together.

Day one, the painkillers are doing their job, and everything’s a brain-dead, floaty haze. Bucky's got enough drugs in him to tranquilize a horse, and he’s not thinking too hard, which is fine by him because thinking usually leads to places he doesn’t want to go. Peter’s glued to Bucky’s side on the bed, also seemingly content letting the idiots on the screen do all the heavy lifting when it comes to talking. Bucky couldn’t have asked for more.

Day two’s fine too. Same with the next one after that. Bucky sleeps a lot.

By day four, though, the party’s over. And so is the drugged bliss of Peter nuzzling against him and watching movie after movie on Netflix. 

Nat, in all her merciless glory, takes away the good shit.

“You’ve had enough,” she says, doing Bucky a favor. Not that it feels like one. Bucky glares at her, too much in pain to argue, too pissed to thank her. He’d flip her off, but that requires energy he doesn’t have.

He swallows a couple of anti-inflammatories that morning, and yeah, those aren’t worth a damn. Might as well be Tic Tacs for all the good they do. The restlessness that comes with it drags him downstairs—away from the comfort of Peter's hand on his stomach, his breath tickling Bucky’s collarbone. Just away. A mistake. Bucky knows himself, knows his body too, but.

Peter… can’t sit still now that they’re outside the bedroom, and Bucky’s stuck in a special kind of hell where the pain’s sharp, his patience is shot, and everything fucking sucks—limbo—not quite living, not yet dead; can’t do much, can’t bear not doing anything at all. And while pain itself might not be a stranger, that doesn’t make it any less of an asshole. Doesn’t make Bucky less of an asshole either, the fuse becoming shorter and shorter with each passing hour.

“Don't,” he just about not snaps at Peter’s attempt to adjust the sliding ice pack over his elbow.

Another thing Bucky’s not used to—someone sticking around when he’s like this instead of telling him to shut it and stop being a dick. He’d apologize properly for flying off the handle if he could muster up the words, but they get stuck somewhere between his brain and his mouth, so he doesn’t at first. Rips the useless ice pack off and flings it over the bar counter and into the sink, giving Peter a look that’s half-grimace, half-sorry, hoping it’s enough to make up for being a shithead.

It is. Or at least, Peter pretends it is. Goes back to smiling as if nothing happened, walking away and getting busy with that ancient Pac-Man machine he and Clint brought up from the basement.

It’s not.

Even if Bucky wanted to believe it was, Sam’s by the darts, watching them, and he’s got a look on his face that confirms it. Sam’s right, of course, and Bucky has to get off the stool, limp his sorry ass over to where Peter’s working, crutch and all, and pull him close, resting his chin on top of Peter’s head.

“I am trying. Can fuck off if you need me to,” he mutters.

“Tell him to stop being a pussy, Parker,” suggests Clint, bringing in another box of old parts. “Found this. There’s more.”

“Stop being a pussy,” Peter mumbles into Bucky’s chest, and Bucky runs his hand through his brown hair before releasing him.

“Want help?” he asks, looking at a snake pit of cables and frowning at the rat droppings. “On second thought—”

Bucky’s got no fucking clue why he’s doing this or why he offered to begin with, but he ends up on the floor, back against the bar, a rag in hand, wiping down parts that are older than he is.

He'd rather go back to bed. But Peter seems to have a vested interest, so Bucky works methodically, if not a little aggressively, sorting everything into piles after the wipe-down—useful, maybe useful, and what-the-fuck-is-this. The “what-the-fuck” pile is growing. Half of everything in the boxes is corroded to shit, and Bucky’s sure that the arcade hasn’t seen electricity in at least a decade, maybe more. Still, he’s scraping gunk off a resistor. 

Across from him, Peter is cleaning the inside of the gutted Pac-Man, amassing a small pile of his own—dead spiders, mostly—but he’s humming to himself, buzzing with energy, and Bucky’s left wondering if Peter’s slowly losing his mind, stuck here for so long. It shouldn’t bother Bucky this much, he guesses—that’s Peter’s choice—but every time Peter grins or mutters some technical mumbo-jumbo to himself, so excited over nothing, Bucky feels that sting deeper, guilt and doubt creeping in. This isn't enough. Can't be.

Eventually, the boxes are empty, parts scattered across the floor, and Peter spends a few minutes sorting them into more “accurate piles,” which, honestly, look nothing like the ones Bucky made. Bucky’s no expert in this, his specialty lies elsewhere, but it inevitably irritates him all the same. Just does. Everything does, hence this being a mistake. He shouldn't be around Peter right now. The more parts Peter reclassifies—that smile of his no less gorgeous, no less endearing than it was before—the more Bucky thinks he’s not even good at sorting rusty junk. His leg throbs in time with his pulse, and he knows this feeling. The “What good am I to anyone?” with a side of mild opioid withdrawal.

Knowing why doesn’t make it better, though. 

His words dry up, not that he was actively participating in the conversation. He doesn’t have anything useful to say anyway, just a head full of angry noise, a body that’s betraying him at every turn, and Bucky oscillates between telling himself it's only pain and wanting to be anywhere but here.

He gets up with a wince, giving up. Doesn't want to snap again. Doesn't want to be this guy.

The crutch that’s been propped against the stool falls down with a loud clack, and everything’s a bit off—he’s swaying, nauseous, every muscle cramping up.

“Wanna go up?” Peter’s by him in a second, crutch being thrust into his metal hand. Fuck. Bucky doesn't need this. Can't handle this.

“I’ve got him,” Sam waves Peter off, getting Bucky to lean on his shoulder, holding him up—not their first rodeo—and Bucky clamps down on the frustration, forcing himself to ignore Peter’s concerned and slightly lost expression when he leaves.

Peter shows up a few hours later, footsteps light as he slips into their bedroom. Bucky’s drifting, but awake, and hears the door click, then the shuffle of feet on the floor. He knows it’s Peter before he even bothers to check, turning his head to the side. Gives him a lot of credit for holding out this long.

Peter doesn’t climb into bed. He kneels beside it, head right next to Bucky’s, eyes wide and worried. “Anything I can do?” he asks.

Bucky doesn’t answer at first, hums—a no, a don’t mind me—but since he’s actually trying, he has to add something.

“Takes longer than it does in the movies,” Bucky manages with a weak smirk. Presses his lips together tight, keeping the rest of the bullshit in. Because, really, what else is there to say? It hurts. It’ll stop hurting eventually. Not much to do about it in the meantime but wait it out.

“What, you telling me you couldn’t spring up now and take down a bunch of bad guys if you felt like it?” The corners of Peter’s eyes crinkle a little, but his voice is cautious.

Bucky could, probably. In theory. He’s fought with broken bones, bullets lodged in places they shouldn’t be, and enough stitches holding him together that he looked like a fucked-up quilt. Adrenaline’s a hell of a drug, and when you’ve been trained to fight through the pain, your body goes on autopilot. Survival and recovery are two different things, though. One’s a sprint; the other’s a crawl through glass. And Bucky… Bucky can't stand actual recovery for a reason.

“We are the bad guys,” Bucky reminds him, inching a bit closer, not even fucking sure why he’s at it again. He knows Peter isn’t going anywhere, and it ain’t even true, depending on how you look at it, but—

He’s lying on his back, the wrist of his left hand still almost as messed up as the rest of him, but he lifts it anyway. Brushes his thumb over Peter’s lower lip, it taking more effort than it should. Bucky’s knuckles are swollen, the joints stiff and sore, all wrong against Peter’s face. There’s a fresh scar on Peter’s cheekbone from when he was mugged, but even with it, he’s so far out of Bucky’s league it’s almost laughable.

“C’mere,” Bucky whispers, the angle all wrong too, but he wants it, maybe even needs it. Peter doesn’t hesitate.

The kiss is slow, unhurried, and while it has to be somewhat uncomfortable for Peter, he melts into Bucky. Sighs. Chases away some of the chill with the warmth of his mouth. This—this is good.

Peter hovers over him, leaning in closer. Deepens the kiss, slips his tongue into Bucky’s mouth, soft lips pressing harder. Threads his hands through Bucky’s hair, scratches his scalp. So fucking gentle it’s nearly insulting—until he tugs rougher.

Moves lower, skimming down Bucky’s neck, tracing the line of his dog tags. He plays with the chain, rolling the small metal balls between his fingers, pushing them into Bucky’s skin. Bucky can’t help the small sound—a cross between a groan and a moan. Peter hears it, his lips curving into a smile against Bucky’s, and eases off, slowing down, not soothing the burn he just lit. Catches Bucky’s bottom lip between his teeth and leans back.

Then looks at Bucky, pupils blown, searching, digging for something Bucky probably doesn’t have. Yet again. Answers, clarity, whatever the fuck Peter thinks he’ll find. Try another store, kid. Bucky would be lying if he said he didn’t want to tell Peter to stop expecting anything, to stop looking for something deeper in the fucked-up excuse for a person that is Bucky Barnes. But for some reason, everything in Bucky’s shitty, dark, cobweb-filled head feels a little less shitty when Peter’s there. And Peter’s always there now. This—this state of Bucky’s—will pass. He just hopes Peter doesn’t wise up and decide none of this is worth the hassle before it does.

“Can you—can you say it again?” Peter asks, uncertain, as if he isn’t sure he wants to hear it. Maybe needing affirmation that Bucky’s worth the effort, questioning things already. 

Or maybe it’s Bucky circling a different kind of drain, the one that leaves him feeling useless and helpless, when he’s got nothing to do but lie around. It’s gotta be a real fucking treat, dealing with him right now—cranky as hell, no purpose beyond getting better and trying not to be an asshole. Real prize to win.

Bucky smiles, brings Peter closer, the back of his neck sizzling hot against his palm, fingertips brushing against the short hairs there.

Regardless, this—this—Bucky can do. Can push all that shit aside; if there’s anything he’s good at, it’s surviving. Can’t fix everything else, can’t make himself get better faster, but can get Peter’s lips back on his, kiss him again. Can murmur, low, quiet enough without turning into a complete sap:

“I love you, trouble.”

“Oh,” Peter exhales, a little too loudly, then bounces back. Takes a few steps away from the bed, making Bucky prop himself up on his metal elbow, watching him with a mix of curiosity and an unhealthy dose of fear. “That’s—” He beams at Bucky. Blushes, which will never get old. “I am gonna go before you get an urge to take up knitting and adopt another cat. But—” he grins even wider. “Thanks.”

… Thanks?

It’s not so bad, having a cat. She’s a pain in the ass, sure, but she’s got a tail that makes for prime entertainment. When Sam plants himself on Bucky’s bed a few days later with coffee in one hand and cards in the other, the tail in question gets sat on, and Bucky doesn’t have to fake really laughing at a white fluff ball that weighs less than a bag of sugar bringing a two-hundred-pound soldier to his knees.

“Your cat’s possessed,” Sam grumbles, rubbing his scratched forearm, and starts shuffling cards over the blanket. Alpine, the victor, settles down on Peter’s pillow. “She’s got a real attitude problem. I said I was sorry.”

“Must have not meant it,” Bucky shrugs, sipping on the coffee and spotting a marked corner on one of the cards. “I know this deck. Whatcha playing at, Wilson?”

“Clint’s taking Peter to get the rest of the parts they need,” Sam chooses to ignore him, but Bucky’s the one who marked the deck in the first place, so it’s fair game. “I told him he drives like a maniac, but does anyone listen to me? Nope.”

Cards shuffle, and Nat joins them before the hand is dealt.

“Here,” she tosses a new deck onto Bucky’s lap, throws a couple of twenties into the pile, and attempts to make a move on Bucky’s coffee. Nice fucking try.

It’s easier to not be completely miserable when you’re surrounded by people who’ve mastered the fine art of not giving a damn. Bucky can’t put his finger on it, but Peter makes him... softer. Weaker. 

Later, when Bucky has successfully taken Sam for all the cash he had on him and his sunglasses, and Nat took Bucky for everything in his wallet, his drawers, and, possibly, the cat too, Peter bursts through the door, looking like he’s been through hell and back. He crawls onto the bed, past Sam and Nat who are perched on the edge, and all but collapses onto an unimpressed Alpine, clutching to her for dear life.

“He’s crazy,” Peter shares, opening one eye after squeezing a somewhat resisting cat for at least ten seconds. “I thought I was going to die.”

His mood comes and goes. Gets better, gets worse, then better again. Over and over. Until Bucky can finally shuffle around without wondering if the hole in his thigh will ever close or if the bruises all over his body will ever quit getting darker and darker. 

After that, it takes less than a week for Bucky to stop jonesing for something stronger than ibuprofen. 

Of all the fucked-up shit his brain could conjure, it’s always snow, and Bucky’s trapped in it again, neck-deep in that frozen hell, the whiteout swallowing the world.

He wakes up with his heart slamming against his chest. Sweaty, skin clammy and hot despite the lingering chill. Tries to remember where he is, when he is. His eyes snap open, but the room’s too dark to see much beyond the blurry outline of the ceiling. Bucky stares at it anyway, focusing on the cracks and stains. Not there. Not then. Just here.

He counts his heartbeats. One, two, three—steady, fucker. One, two—calm the fuck down.

Peter shifts, his hand sliding under Bucky’s t-shirt, settling against the scar on his side.

“Bad dream?” His voice is groggy, barely awake, and somehow, Peter’s nailed it. Nailed the timing, giving Bucky enough space to pull his shit together before asking.

“Uh-huh.” Bucky hugs him tighter, feeling Peter’s hand flatten against his ribs, the heat from it now radiating out faster. “Sorry for waking you up. Go back to sleep.”

Peter makes a disagreeing noise that’s halfway between a sigh and a yawn.

“It’s nearly morning,” he points out, and Bucky glances at the clock on the nightstand. Five-thirty. Peter’s internal clock is freakishly accurate, which Bucky’s got to admit is a little surprising. But then again, Peter’s always been full of surprises. “You should tell me about it.”

A lot of unnerving—this calm persistence. But Peter’s telling him it’s okay to unload, not forcing Bucky into it, and Bucky’s weirdly tempted.

“Why do you wanna know?”

“Why wouldn’t I?” Peter sounds almost annoyed, but no judgment there. No longer yawning, no longer sluggish. “Stop doing that.”

Bucky could play dumb, pretend he doesn’t know what Peter means by that, but who’s he kidding? He knows exactly what that's about.

“It's not that fun,” he doesn’t lie. “Want to hear about that one time Clint got shot in the ass instead?”

“No,” Peter’s frown presses against his shoulder. “Want to hear about what keeps you up at night. Also, please, he told me that story weeks ago.”

“Yeah?” Bucky isn’t shocked; Clint does take a special pride in taking one for the team. Literally. “Fine. Put some pants on.”

“Huh?” Peter moves, lifting himself up. “We going somewhere? You need props or something?”

“No props,” Bucky’s the first to swing his legs off the bed and flick the lamp on. “But my hair is not nearly long enough for you to braid it.”

Peter gives him the oddest look from where he is. But there’s no way in hell Bucky’s laying there, spilling his guts while wrapped up in blankets.

“Fine, but you are making me breakfast,” Peter slides off the bed too and grabs a pair of sweatpants from the chair, slipping into them faster than it takes Bucky to get dressed. He’s all smooth lines and quiet strength, and fuck, how did Bucky end up here, with this person who’s always there, always pushing enough, but never actually too much?

He fastens the string on his own sweats, but then pulls Peter to himself by his t-shirt, crams himself into his space. Wraps his arms around him, thick fleece under his skin when he moves his hands to grope his ass. They kissed a few more times when Bucky wasn’t too busy being a fucking downer, but haven’t gotten much further. And now that he’s standing on his two feet without needing to be held up, it gives Bucky ideas. Alright, he’s been having ideas for the last few days, balls more blue than the fading bruises, but nurse Parker has been playing hard to get. You rip a few stitches when bending over for a shoe once—

“Or we could stay here and—” Bucky doesn’t get to finish.

“Not a chance,” Peter interrupts, wriggling out. “Not when you are finally willing to share more than your last name. Move it. Now, where is your crutch? I swear it was somew—augh, shit. Found it.”

“Fuck this thing,” Bucky catches Peter by the waist. Gives him something to lean on while Peter hisses at his stubbed toe. “It’s retired. You want eggs?”

Peter does want eggs, as it turns out, and Bucky tells him while making them. He starts when he’s got the mini-fridge door open, rummaging through the cold abyss for supplies. One of the perks of not dying back in Siberia and gaining the dumbest nickname he hates—fridge raiding at five in the morning.

“Mission was a shitshow from the start.”

He grabs a carton and some milk, slaps the door shut. The bar’s quiet, save for the hum of the mini-fridge and the soft rustle of Peter settling down on the stool. Bucky’s made the same meal dozens of times before on that counter, and his hands work through the motions, making it easier to talk with his eyes occupied elsewhere.

“Orders came in, and before we knew it, we were shipping out, boots on the ground where the sun never fucking set.” Bucky flips the carton open, rolls his shoulders, shaking off the memory. Crack—egg meets bowl, a sharp split. The shell crumbles easily, like they all did when things went south.

“Got bad. I called for a retreat. Too late for myself, on time for others. Got captured.”

Bucky whisks the eggs, thinking about when things got real fucked. He skips the details, no point in laying it all out—Peter doesn’t need to hear about every scream. But the torture itself lasted so long, Bucky started wondering if time even existed anymore.

“Thought years had passed.”

His wrist flicks, the eggs frothing up in the bowl, and he can feel the phantom pain in his ribs, his fingers. The kind of pain that digs in and doesn’t let go, not even when you’re begging it to. You can’t be great at recovery as a general thing, he supposes, but months of waiting for the beatings to begin again as soon as he’s no longer dying would make the wait to simply get better a different kind of torture. He doesn't… can't talk about it. Hopes that one day he'll black it out for good.

Heat from the portable burner flares up when he turns it on, the blue flame licking the bottom of the pan. A hiss, and the butter melts. He pours the eggs in, watches them spread out, sizzle, and leak around the surface. There’s a small scratch on the right side of the pan that always burns the food. That’s how he got out.

Not because of some heroic escape plan or a daring rescue.

“Got lucky during a shift change; a stupid flaw in their security,” The luck you don’t count on, the luck that leaves you wondering when it’ll turn. “Thought… thought it was over. Thought it couldn’t get any worse. It wasn’t. It did.”

He zones out staring at the eggs, almost fucks it up when it’s time to flip them over. The scent of coffee hits his nose, pulls him back a bit, and Peter pushes a cup toward him, inhaling the steam from his own.

When Bucky slides the plate in front of Peter, he tosses a fork his way with a quick smirk and, “Dig in.” Loves him all the more for not needing to be told twice, scooping up a mouthful, humming with appreciation.

“You know what a Gulag is?” Bucky continues.

Peter nods, keeps eating. Good. Saves Bucky from having to give a history lesson.

“Ever wonder why they put ’em in the middle of bumfuck nowhere? Was clear the moment I got out and realized where I was. Just snow and more snow. No hope of getting your ass far on foot.”

Peter forks some eggs in and waits for Bucky to lean in and try. He does. Not bad.

“First two days—” he grabs a fork of his own and starts poking at the side of Peter’s plate, “—I was more worried about the blood I was leaving on the snow. Thought it’d be too visible, thought someone would follow the trail. Red on white, real subtle, right? Fuckin’ moron. Should have been worried about other things. Should’ve doubled back, tried to get what I needed to survive out there.”

He swallows a mouthful of his own and chases it down with coffee. Settles against the counter, mug in his right hand.

“Ate snow for water. That’s something they don’t tell you—how it doesn’t help. Makes you colder, weakens you more. If you can melt it, sure, but who the fuck’s got a campfire going in the middle of a death march? I had clothes. A gun with two bullets. Nothing else. Anyway, ditched the gun when starvation kicked in. Couldn’t even carry it, couldn’t even carry myself properly.”

Peter keeps eating, silent, eyes on Bucky as if he’s trying to memorize every word. It’s… something. That’s—

“After a while, I was almost hoping they’d find me. Just to be fed again.”

He sets the cup down, empty, grabs Peter’s with a cheeky smile.

“Hypothermia was setting in by then. Mind was slipping, body shutting down. Then someone found me. Got lucky again.” Bucky produces a humorless laugh, noticing Peter had now stopped chewing. “Thought it was a hunter at first. Looked maybe… East Asian. Said his name was Sergei. Lied, of course, his Russian was worse than mine. Took me in, patched me up. I kept… kept waiting for the military to show up and crash his cabin. Got the hell out of there as soon as I could stand. Took his rifle, his supplies. Thought about taking his life too, but rolled the dice, didn’t feel right. He died anyway—Yori’s son. Looked him up… after. He was doing some research or somethin’ out there. Went missing. You know… missing.”

Bucky moves Peter’s half-finished plate to the side with, “Well, if you don’t want it,” and Clint, who’s been lurking in the doorway to upstairs for the past minute, makes his move, grabbing the stool next to Peter.

“What happened after that?” Peter asks, reaching over the bar to swap Clint’s fork for a clean one. “Savage.”

Clint makes a face. Bucky shrugs.

“What do you think? Cold. Snow. Just… kept moving. Alone. Scared shitless. Made it to a small village. Got a hold of a radio. Sent a message, moved on. Couldn't stay there.”

“And then I found him,” Clint pipes up, having hoovered down the eggs in a nanosecond. “Got more of this?”

“Bullshit,” Nat walks down the stairs in her obnoxiously skimpy shorts—damn, Bucky might have eyes only for Peter, in theory, but he’s still a man—and sits on the other side of Peter. “Wasn’t Clint. Wasn’t me either.”

“Sam?” Peter asks, coming around the bar to put another pot of coffee on.

“Nope,” speaking of the devil. Sam yawns, walking in, dragging a hand over his face, obviously still trying to wake the fuck up. He plops into Peter’s spot, stealing it, joining them. Which is fine by Bucky, because he’s suddenly freezing his ass off and needs a human heater. And there ain’t nothing like a compact furnace that Bucky gets to press into front-to-back. He hugs Peter from behind, doesn’t care that he’s getting in the way and restricting his movements while Peter diligently empties the grinder and pours new beans in. Doesn't care it's probably needy as hell.

“I ask again, is there more?” Clint clacks a fork on the empty plate. “Seconds or what?”

Nat gets up. Moves around the bar too, and everyone watches. Sam and Clint with mild horror, Peter with vague interest—if Bucky’s reading the one visible side of his face right—and Bucky smirks. This is gonna be good.

She grabs the pan, tosses in some butter, and immediately cranks the heat up way too high. The butter doesn’t simply melt; screams for mercy. Starts bubbling as if it’s about to jump out of the pan and run for its life. Sam’s eyes widen, and Clint twitches, likely considering making a break for it too. Bucky rubs his cheek against Peter’s.

“Thanks,” he tells him. Grateful. For listening. For existing. For putting up with Bucky's shit.

Nat cracks the first egg.

A few stray pieces of shell join the egg in the pan, sinking into the rapidly browning butter. She jabs at it with the spatula, and Bucky can feel Peter smile, his interest turning into amusement. The edges of the egg go from golden to burnt in the time it takes Nat to reach for salt. Impressive, really.

“So, who did find you?” Peter puts his hands over Bucky’s arms, which are crossed over his torso. Leans with more of his weight into Bucky, relaxing.

“Steve,” Bucky replies, the name out before he really thinks about it.

“Could’ve been anyone,” Nat cuts in, waving the spatula, a piece of raw egg dangling off the edge. “We had four choppers in the air.”

“Steve,” Sam echoes, shaking his head. “Even if it wasn’t his chopper. Wouldn’t let it go. Called in every favor, made us do the same. Kept saying, ‘he’s alive.’” Sam frowns too. “Was right, I guess. I still can’t—”

Bucky doesn’t say anything; watches as Nat flips the egg. It folds over itself, a sad, wrinkled mess that’s somehow still burning around the edges. That takes a special kind of skill. But Nat doesn’t look bothered. She never does.

Peter shifts, turning his head to look at Bucky, but Bucky’s still focused on the pan, on the egg that’s now more charred than edible. Steve’s name is hanging in the air worse than cigarette smoke, curling around the room, stinking up the place. Sometimes Bucky can’t believe it either. Steve found him, didn’t he? Even after Bucky had given up.

Nat finally plates her creation. Sets it down in front of Clint with a flourish.

“No,” Clint pushes it away. “And I am—” he gestures at Nat. “—tapping all that. But, yeah, not a chance.”

Sam’s face twists, eyes flicking from Clint to Nat and back again. 

“Ah, shit, not you too,” he grimaces.

Less than an hour later, Bucky’s staring at the laptop, not believing his eyes. Reaches over to physically close Peter’s gaping mouth with his fingers. This is the second time they’re watching the video, since the first time didn’t quite register. 

On the screen, Tony is beating the ever-loving shit out of… some massive robot monstrosity. The robot’s getting trashed, pieces flying off, the video cutting to explosion, and then Tony steps out of the metal red-and-gold suit, dusts off his hands, and—because of course, he fucking does—bows for the cameras.

Bucky presses replay. Peter’s fingers reach over to pop Bucky’s mouth closed too. Touché.

What. The. Fuck.

“What the actual fuck?” Clint’s voice rings through the stunned silence as he emerges from the back. Bucky looks up, catching him pocketing his phone. “Did you see?”

Nat doesn’t even flinch. She’s hunched over the Pac-Man, laser-focused, fingers flying over the controls. Probably convinced Clint’s trying to mess with her head, throw her off her game so she’ll miss out on beating his high score. Like that’s gonna happen.

Sam, perched on the windowsill with his phone in hand, lets out a nervous laugh. Bucky turns to check if he’s alright. He gets it. Thought he was losing it for a second there too. The neon light from the S.H.I.E.L.D. sign outside spills through the glass, casting a fucked-up halo around Sam, but otherwise, he seems fine. Expression of ‘What the fuck’ also, but without the courtesy of words. A bit shocked, like the rest of them, bar Nat—no fucks given there.

Sam locks onto Bucky’s eyes and waves his phone:

“I need to get laid. Yesterday. Is Tinder still a thing?”

As good a response as any to what just happened.

“Sure, you’ll get right on that,” Bucky mutters, still processing.

“He’s really hot,” Peter exhales, tilting his head at the screen. “Like, really hot.”

“I am straight,” Sam states. Bucky huffs out a laugh. Presses replay one more time.

“Had his poster on your wall when you were a kid or somethin’?” Bucky still nods in agreement, despite the barely-there twist of jealousy. Because, well, Bucky might have had a poster too, back in the day. Years before he first saw Tony Stark in real life, with a hole in his chest and a car battery keeping him alive.

“Yup,” Peter tilts his head the other way, mesmerized, not that Bucky can blame him. “Holy shit. Did this just—”

The door to the back slams closed behind him, and Bucky pulls out his phone, fingers already dialing Tony’s burner. The phone rings. One ring. Two. Bucky counts them off out of habit. By the fourth, Tony picks up. Bucky didn’t actually think he would.

“Stark Industries: We make better toys than Santa, and we don’t judge if you’re on the naughty list.”

Bucky blinks.

“I—” Words fail him, which isn’t exactly a first, but it’s still annoying as shit. He coughs, trying to reel in the scattered pieces of his brain. “Is it done?”

Did you really just blow up a guy on national TV?

“It’s done.”

Tony explains. Bucky listens. The lack of emotion is almost disturbing.

“We’re still staying put, I take it?” They are. He knows the answer before Tony even says it.

“Yeah, sit tight. I’ve got a few more things to handle on this end. Gimme a few days. When I’m back in New York, I’ll hit you up.”

Tony hangs up before Bucky can respond. Bucky stares at the phone for a moment, thumb hovering over the screen as if it’s going to magically give him the answers he’s looking for. It doesn’t. He slips it into his pocket as he lowers himself onto one of the wooden crates stacked in the corner. Flexes his metal arm powered by the same reactor that’s apparently sitting in Tony’s chest.

This... this is way above his pay grade. Hell, it’s above anyone’s pay grade.

It’s still early when Bucky steps out of the shower. The towel’s rough against his skin as he drags it over his chest, but barely stings when it brushes against the stitches. Healing up nicely, even if it never ceases to amaze Bucky how something as small as a blade can cause so much fucking damage. 

He slaps a fresh bandage over his thigh, the adhesive sticking to his still-damp skin, and stretches his neck, shaking off the ache. The improvised cast is off, wrist’s moves like it never got messed up in the first place. Then brushes his teeth, feeling every bit of the wear and tear when bent over the sink. Rubs a hand over his jaw, the stubble scratching against his palm. Thinks about shaving, but gives it the mental finger. Peter seems to like it.

Bucky strolls out of the bathroom with a towel hanging low enough to piss off a nun and runs straight into him.

“Finally,” Peter rasps out, barreling into him so fast the door barely has time to close before Bucky’s slammed against it, head yanked down into a kiss.

Bucky’s game.

Peter’s mouth is on his, hard and fast. Impatience is a turn-on, and who needs talking when you can just skip to the good part? Not Bucky. His hands grip Peter’s hips, and he spins them around, shoving Peter up. Solid thud, not too gentle, but Peter seems into it, fingers digging into Bucky’s neck. He moans, licks Bucky’s tongue, sucks on it, and Bucky barely holds back the urge to rip him apart.

“Stark?” Bucky grins, fucks with him a little, stirring the pot.

“Flying robots,” Peter blurts out, chasing Bucky’s mouth, standing on his toes, trying to even the height difference—yeah, that’s cute. “Life's being weird. You’re more or less better, and I am getting a carpal tunnel from all the jerking off in the shower, so—”

Bucky doesn’t need a play-by-play, broad strokes are good enough; whatever floats Peter’s boat. Leans in close, lips grazing Peter’s neck, just to tease. Peter fidgets, slips a hand under Bucky’s towel with zero hesitation. Wraps it around Bucky’s dick, grabs him like he means it, firmly.

“No, for real, come on,” he pleads, desperate, as if he wasn’t the one that’s been leaving Bucky high and dry. “Kiss me.”

Bucky was planning on it. Presses in closer, one hand moving up to tangle in Peter’s hair, other still glued to his hip. Peter twists his fist around the head of his dick, applying just the right amount of pressure. Strokes him. Fuck. There’s a brief flicker of something in Bucky’s chest—possessive. He wants to make Peter feel so good he’ll forget anyone else even exists. Not like him to feel insecure about that.

“You tell me what you need, yeah?” Bucky asks against Peter’s lips, and Peter gets him. Always does.

“Yeah, yes,” Peter starts pushing him away and towards the bed, ripping the towel off, having a proper look. Bucky smirks, a bit smug, raises an eyebrow, half hard already, Peter's hand on his dick looking rather small. “Shit, you’re so big.”

He launches himself at Bucky's mouth again, and Bucky groans into the kiss. Can’t think straight, doesn’t want to. Still does, though. About how Peter probably said it to a hundred—

He fists Peter’s hair, annoyed that it’s working on him. Annoyed that his mind went there as soon as—

Peter lets him go, gives him a small push, and Bucky's back hits the mattress. 

Peter stays standing, taking off his t-shirt and dropping it on the floor. No seduction, only urgency as he fumbles with his pants, eyes locked on Bucky, licking his lips. The sweats follow the t-shirt, kicked off with zero grace, almost taking him down with them. He bends over, fights with his socks out of Bucky's view, then shoots him a wink that’s more cocky than cute. Bucky can’t help but pump himself off once or twice, not-so-subtly motioning him over.

“Alright, listen up,” Peter climbs on top of him, all wiry muscle and flushed skin, serious look on his face, possibly about to give a lecture judging by the tone. “You’re gonna call me names, okay? Doll, baby, sweetheart—whatever. If you want. I’ll like it, I swear. You take every single one, and make them yours, deal?”

Bucky’s brain stalls quicker than a cheap engine but he nods while Peter settles above Bucky’s dick, maybe overshooting the mark a bit, rubs his hands on Bucky's chest. Eyes wild, but all kinds of adorable, the way he’s rambling.

“And don’t overthink it if I get loud. I’m loud, alright? Always have been. Although it depends. We’ll see; the mood comes and goes. Either way, it would suck if you think I’m putting on a show.” He rattles it out, pauses, but Bucky’s not about to interrupt. Might not even be breathing at this point.

“And. Hmm. I know what you must be thinking. It's just. Well. It's probably normal to think that? But. Don't? Ugh, I am not explaining it right, had a whole disclaimer ready, but you are naked and so you, and I want this, don’t want anyone else—maybe Tony Stark, but he’s Tony Stark, kidding, relax, sorta—just. If you start to think stupid shit, think instead about how I’ve been climbing the walls since you walked into that restaurant, sat down, all broody, growly, so fucking hot.” Now that really gets Bucky’s attention. “I’ve been half gone since the day I met you, so freaked out I was catching feelings that I pushed you away and nearly fucked everything up. Like. Come on, you are—you are—fuck, Bucky, you are a badass with a metal arm, who takes care of me and loves me back, and how is this even my life?”

Peter stops, doesn’t make another move. Sits there on top of Bucky, light as a feather, his naked ass pressing into Bucky’s hip bones, thighs squeezing the sides of Bucky's ribs. Waits. Bucky’s not exactly the type to get thrown off his game, but the way Peter’s laying it all out there, it’s—

Bucky doesn’t even know. Convenient? Thoughtful? Honest? Whatever it is, sure nice to have it out in the open and out of the way.

“All this time, doll?” Bucky finally asks, seeing how Peter’s gonna react. His body shivers slightly at the word—yeah, Bucky can definitely work with this. Then Peter nods, bites his lip, as if he’s got something else to say, but clams up instead. That’s fine, Bucky’s got the idea.

“Peter, darlin’,” Bucky mutters, gripping Peter’s waist with his metal hand, pulling him down to himself by his chin with the other. “Could’ve just asked.”

“I’m asking now,” Peter whispers against Bucky’s lips. “Fuck. Please. I—”

Bucky kisses his cheek, then his neck, trailing up to his ear, enjoying how Peter trembles when Bucky's breath brushes against it. “You gonna tell me what you really want right now, baby? Mmm?”

“Oh, god,” Peter grinds down against Bucky’s abs. “I—Fuck. Want me to suck you off? Please.”

Bucky’s dick twitches at the idea, but that’s not what he's after.

“I’m askin’ what you want.” He licks the shell of Peter’s ear, thumbs the soft skin on the inside of his thigh. “Not what you think I want.”

Peter freezes up for a second. Just a flicker, a blink—if Bucky wasn't paying attention, he’d miss it. Then Peter goes back to running his hands over Bucky’s chest, fingers tangling with the chain. Keeps grinding himself against Bucky, dragging his dick against Bucky’s stomach. Bucky pulls back, shifts both hands to cup his ass—skin softer than velvet, and for a second, almost forgets how much this matters. Peter's eyes drop to the side, lashes fluttering down. Yeah, hiding.

Not used to someone wanting what he wants, not just what he’s good at giving? Bucky hates that. Something they'll have to work on.

“Bucky…” Peter’s voice comes out shaky, the cocky bravado from earlier gone, leaving something almost fragile. Bucky frowns.

“Don’t do that,” he murmurs, kissing him, gentle, holding back. “Come on. Tell me what you like, I’ll tell you what I like. It’s easy. No pressure. I’m still half-broken, so really, no pressure. Might make me eat my words about fucking you real good. Doesn’t have to happen at all, if you’re not into it. Come on, love—”

Peter swallows hard. Hesitates.

“Kiss me for a while?” eventually asks, tugging on Bucky’s tags, hand sliding up his metal arm. “Hold me for a bit? Let me—let me come like this? On top of you? I—” Peter makes a point to grind down on Bucky again, moaning quietly. Does it one more time, needy and fucking precious. “Then… then use your metal fingers to stretch me when I’m all soft? Let me ride you as slow as I want? I—”

It knocks the wind out of Bucky. He closes his eyes for a spell, gets his bearings, opens them up, and then smiles because he’s just won the lottery. So fucking simple. Pulls Peter in for another kiss, all that mushy, sappy shit he swore he’d never do creeping in. I’m here, I’ve got you, just say the word. Jesus. Right.

Straight into sap territory, but who gives a crap when Peter’s body starts to relax, the tension melting out of his shoulders as he gives in to the kiss, letting Bucky take the lead. Somehow way better than all the quick and rough that’s been building up for months.

If Bucky wasn’t so into him, his mind might wander down the what-the-fuck-is-this-even road, but for now, it’s hitting just right. He kisses Peter for another minute or so before checking with one hand under the pillow, fingers brushing past the stock of an unloaded gun—something Bucky needs to work on himself, yet again—knocking into a loose magazine and a few other odds and ends until he finds what he’s looking for. Lube. Didn’t plan for this for today, but Peter seems to have. Tactical preparedness—Bucky approves.

“Alright, alright,” he pulls out the tube, catching Peter’s grin—half-wicked, half-shy. Lethal combo, that. “If you’re gonna use me as a slip ’n slide, might as well do it right.”

He snaps the cap open and grabs Peter’s hand, squeezing a cold line right into his palm. Peter laughs into the next kiss, then slathers the lube everywhere between them—more clinical than sexy, but Bucky’s not about to critique the technique. Then Peter moans louder, almost purring, his ass bouncing against Bucky’s dick on the way down. Not enough to do much, but that’s beside the point; not the point.

“Ah-h, fuck,” Peter starts nipping at Bucky’s neck, licking, biting, leaving hickeys—what they are they, high schoolers?—grinding into him in earnest, and Bucky hums, deep and low through another smile. Never had someone get off on him like this, but hey, he’s not complaining.

Maybe there’s some psychological rabbit hole about why Peter wants this specifically, some deep-seated shit buried in that beautiful head of his, but Bucky’s not in the mood to dig into that. Could be anything—control or something darker Bucky doesn’t want to touch right now. Or ever. Regardless, that’s for shrinks and people without the hottest piece of ass on top of them to worry about. Bucky feels too good to give a damn. Peter’s grinding down on him, breath hitching every time Bucky’s hands squeeze his ass, chasing something just out of reach, and Bucky’s barely lifting a finger; just lying there, letting every sound Peter makes go straight to his dick. What’s not to fucking like?

Soon enough, Peter’s panting, quick and shallow, biting down on his lower lip to keep from crying out too loudly when he stops going at Bucky’s neck and instead hovers above him. Not that Bucky would mind the crying out part. Wants him to be loud.

“Fuck, Bucky… just, yeah,” Peter gasps, and, sure, maybe it’s taking every ounce of control Bucky has not to just flip them and take what he wants, but the slow burn that starts in Bucky’s gut, spreads through every nerve and sets his whole body on fire has his head spinning. Ain’t bad at all. He’s not wasting brain cells on why Peter’s so needy, just soaking up those sweet, broken sounds every time Peter shifts on top of him.

Peter’s getting there, that much is clear. Fast. Fucking himself on Bucky’s abs, hips moving in a way that tells Bucky he’s barely holding it together, nails starting to scratch Bucky’s chest. Stings a bit. Bucky ignores that, lets Peter take what he needs, and holy shit, does he seem to need it.

“Come on, baby, you’re almost there,” Bucky urges, and Peter responds with a choked-off moan, his pace faltering. 

“Shit, Bucky, I—” Peter’s voice is wrecked, raw, and Bucky doesn’t let him finish. Reaches up, kisses those trembling lips, swallows whatever mess Peter was gonna say.

“Could have just asked to fuck me, I’m already on my back,” Bucky smirks into the kiss, and Peter moans in a way that’s pure fucking music. Bullseye, Bucky guesses. At some point. 

And that’s it. Barely takes anything. Peter shudders, goes stiff for a split second, then he’s gone, shaking, hips stuttering as he comes between them, gasping into Bucky’s mouth, falling apart over him. Bucky keeps him there, holds him tight as Peter’s whole world collapses, riding the waves until it’s all over.

“Oh,” Peter sags, and to Bucky, he’s all soft and pliant, completely spent and satisfied, even with the actual mess they’re lying in now. So, no deep thoughts here. No need for any.

Peter tries to move—too fucking fast—but Bucky’s got other plans. No way is he letting him go yet. He tightens his grip, keeping Peter pinned against his chest, waiting out the last of the tremors still rippling through him. 

Only when Peter’s finally still, breathing closer to something resembling not hyperventilating, does Bucky let him roll away. 

Peter stumbles off the bed, legs visibly wobbly, and Bucky very much enjoys the view as Peter bends over to grab the towel that got ditched on the floor earlier. Peter’s face is flushed, pink creeping up from his neck to his ears. Cute. Real fucking cute. All business now, focused on cleaning up the mess on Bucky’s torso. Efficient, if a bit awkward, not saying a word, probably trying not to think too hard about the fact that he just came all over Bucky’s abs. Kinda all Bucky can think about, though, if he’s honest.

Still no complaints. The towel’s damp, a little scratchy—perfect, really—gets the job done too, soaking up the come, the lube. Peter works quickly, keeps his head down, but steals a look or two at Bucky from beneath his eyelashes, big brown eyes still glassy from the come-down. Bucky could eat him up and ask for seconds.

Once the mess is more or less gone, Peter chucks the towel back onto the floor. It lands with a wet slap, and Bucky snorts. Peter’s already onto the next thing, busy little bee that he is. He’s digging through the crumpled blankets, muttering something Bucky doesn’t catch. Bucky’s content to just watch, head propped up on his hand, ogling Peter’s ass in the air. Yeah, this—this Bucky could get used to. He could help, but where’s the fun in that?

Peter finds the discarded lube with a triumphant little noise, and Bucky can’t resist a half-laugh. He grabs Peter by the elbow, yanking him back into him, hard. Kisses him for so long Peter starts to protest. Fine, be that way. Bucky’s still laughing as Peter squirts a generous amount of lube onto his metal fingers, rubbing it in with way too much focus. Adds some more. Bucky’s louder laugh—can’t stop, fuck—earns him a light punch in the side. Ow. That blush of Peter’s hasn’t faded either, spreading down his neck as he settles back on top of Bucky again.

“Now, now,” Peter demands, wiggling his hips in a way that’s more obscene than it has any right to be. Then reaches over Bucky, fishing around for something else. Comes back with a shiny condom wrapper, waving it like it’s a fucking victory flag. If Bucky thought too hard about any of this, he’d probably think it’s the most ridiculous thing. But somehow… normal. Not two people with more baggage than they know what to do with. 

Peter rips the condom open with his teeth, flashes those pearly whites, then reaches back and blindly rolls it onto Bucky’s dick. Fuck. Bucky’s so hard he’s practically leaking, and too busy closing his eyes just for a second, trying to keep it together at Peter’s touch to fully appreciate the skill involved. Then Peter’s fingers wrap around Bucky’s wrist, guiding the metal to his ass, and Bucky follows, no questions asked, pressing those cold fingertips against Peter’s hole, wishing only he could feel more with them.

He takes in the sight of Peter perched on top of him, all flushed skin and half-lidded eyes. Tells himself not to rush it, no matter how much he wants to. Can’t wait to get inside him. But Stark tech or not, it’s still tech, and Bucky knows better than anyone how dangerous that shit can be if you don’t handle it right. Last thing he’s gonna do is screw this up. He’s not about to let that happen here. 

Bucky grazes along the edge of Peter’s hole, teasing, not pushing. Enough to make Peter shiver, a little gasp flying off his lips. Would kill to see it up close, having to stretch his arm to reach properly, but there’s something to having Peter on top him, soft and relaxed, that’s pretty fucking great too.

“Mm-hmm,” Bucky dips the tip of his index finger in, feels that tight ring give, and holds Peter back from pushing down—greedy bee. “Easy, sweetheart. You wanna enjoy this, right?”

He adds a bit more pressure, slides in deeper, and Peter’s whole body responds. Peter leans down for another kiss, opening up himself wider, and the kiss leaves Bucky almost dizzy. Very sneaky on Peter’s part, but Bucky’s not above more teasing, wants to see Peter squirm. Keeps it slow, deliberate. A solid rhythm, in and out, not even a knuckle deep.

“Feel okay, doll?” Bucky knows damn well it does; he can tell it in the way Peter’s muscles flutter around his finger, in how Peter’s own fingers dig into his forearm, but he wants to hear it. Wants Peter to say it.

“Y-yeah,” Peter wraps his arms around Bucky’s head, shaking on top of him, trying to move his hips in that needy, almost pleading way, desperate for more of that cold, hard metal inside him. Bucky’s not giving in yet, though. Smirks, drawing this out, making it last. Slow. Real slow. He pulls the finger out completely, pressing it against Peter’s hole again, just circling the rim, coating it with lube.

“You’re gonna wait?” Bucky murmurs. “Gonna let me take my time, sweetheart?”

Peter moans, frustrated but compliant, kisses Bucky, licking into his mouth, whimpering while Bucky keeps teasing, only the tip of one metal finger pressing in before pulling back.

“You like that, huh?” Bucky whispers, feeling that tight ring of muscle give easier, earning another delicious sound from Peter. “You want more?”

“Please,” Peter breathes out, almost sobbing, still trying to roll those hips, trying to take what Bucky’s holding back. Bucky hums, finally pushing in past the knuckle.

Tight as hell. Almost makes Bucky regret not using his flesh hand. He tells him that too.

“You’re so damn tight. Gonna have to work you open nice and slow.”

Peter whimpers again, louder this time, hips bucking slightly as Bucky starts to move, still with just that one finger, curling it inside, searching for a spot that’ll drive Peter wild. When he finds it, Peter jerks in his arms, crying out as his body trembles, and Bucky chuckles.

“There it is,” he says, adding a second finger, slow, gentle, stretching Peter inch by inch. “Just relax and let me take care of you. Okay?”

“Shit,” Peter curses, moans more, and Bucky grins wider.

Yeah, that’s what he likes to hear. Not exactly a conversation, but Bucky gets the gist. He keeps teasing until Peter’s a writhing mess on top of him, until three fingers are sliding in and out easily, and, fuck, okay, Peter was made for this.

“Now, now, now,” Peter’s head is thrown back, his pretty dick bobbing up and down, hips rocking despite Bucky's steady grip holding him mostly in place. “Stop playing. Give it to me, please, Bucky, please. Don’t make me beg.”

He’s already begging.

Peter’s cracking, and Bucky would be more smug if he wasn’t just as desperate. He leans in to kiss Peter’s jaw, sucking a mark right where it meets his neck, then drags his fingers out and replaces them with his dick, the head pressing against that stretched-out hole, warm and inviting even through the rubber. He takes note of every reaction, every shift in Peter’s body.

“Shh, baby,” Bucky says with a bit of an edge, really having to hold Peter’s hips now. “Don’t wanna break you. You gonna be good, or you gonna do somethin’ stupid? Like you said, I ain’t that small, and you are—ah, fuck.”

Bucky’s head lolls back when Peter shoves his hands away and starts easing down on his own. Just down. 

Doesn’t take prisoners, this one.

“Don’t. Fucking. Move,” Peter orders, all bossy, and Bucky wouldn’t dream of it.

Wouldn’t even think of dreaming. He might’ve forgotten his own damn name right now, but yeah, whatever Peter wants, Peter gets. Peter’s in charge, and Bucky’s just the lucky bastard following orders, like the good soldier that he is. He steps on the urge to thrust up and meet him halfway, and Peter’s mouth parts in that perfect O, the softest gasp slipping out. 

He sinks down on Bucky’s dick, inch by torturous inch, and if Bucky had some kind of plan for this, he sure as hell forgot it now too. He’s buried deep, and Peter’s just sitting there, taking his sweet time adjusting, waiting until the burn melts into pleasure. Time’s a fucking blur. Bucky’s lost in it, in the way Peter’s body wraps around him, that heat, that tightness.

“Still hurts a bit, but fuck it,” Peter mutters, breathy, and locks Bucky’s hands to his own chest, holding them tight, using him for leverage as he starts to move.

“Don't be stupid, I’m already impressed,” Bucky grinds out.

“Shut up,” Peter tells him, a sly smile curling his lips. And, fuck, does it work for Bucky. Peter lifts himself up, barely an inch or two, then sinks back down. He licks his lips, throws Bucky a look that’s downright sinful. Does it again. Damn. It’s a bit agonizing. A lot fucking perfect.

“You like that?” Peter’s voice is shaky, but there’s still a smirk on his face that tells Bucky he already knows the answer. Smug little shit.

“Yeah,” Bucky rasps out. He runs his hands down Peter’s chest, thumbs over his nipples. That gets a reaction, small shifts that are monumental. Tiny increments of up and down that make Bucky feel each like a fucking earthquake. Too good.

“You’re not gonna move,” Peter states, making it clear.

“Not a fucking inch,” Bucky agrees. Hell, he’d stay like this forever if Peter wanted him to.

“Great,” murmurs Peter, almost absentminded, the muscles in his thighs flexing as he pulls up until only the head of Bucky’s dick is still inside him, then starts that slow descent again. No rush, no hurry, so good at this. It makes Bucky sweat. Not from exertion—just from holding back. Those eyes half-lidded and dark, flicking to and away from Bucky as if daring him to move. He seems to know exactly how to push Bucky's buttons. Bucky’s okay with that. More than okay.

Peter keeps it up, dragging it out, making Bucky feel every fucking second. Pauses so many times, just sitting there with Bucky buried up to his balls. Then he grinds those hips, up and down, so goddamn slow that Bucky wants to scream. Has Bucky shaking with it. And it’s—

A lot. It’s just a lot. The daylight streaming through the cracked blinds, their shitty bedroom with the peeling paint, the boxes of Peter’s crap half unpacked because who the fuck knows where to put them. And Bucky’s not a man who’s ever been good at handling feelings. Peter creeped up on him—more dangerous than a sniper in the dead of night—then hit; hit hard. Peter’s on top of him, hot and heady, throwing him these looks as if Bucky’s the only thing tethering him to the ground—well, his dick is definitely doing that job—and Bucky’s drowning. He’s in love, no fucking doubt, but it’s the kind of love that carves you open and leaves you bleeding out, and he’s got no clue what to do about it.

Bucky just… wants to give him everything. Would tear the world apart for him. Just not the guy with the right flowery words. Instead the guy who fucks up and then maybe does something halfway decent to make up for it. But all of this is going down, and Bucky can’t just do nothing.

Doesn’t want to do nothing either. Christ, he wants to—

His hand moves on its own, reaching for the chain. The tags had slid off, now resting against his metal shoulder. They’ve been around his neck for so long they’re a part of him now, in some ways more so than even the scars. And it’s not like he owes the government shit anymore, not like those tags mean jack to anyone but him.

Peter freezes when he sees Bucky’s fingers wrap around the chain. Bucky hesitates for a second, doubt crawling up his spine, but fuck it. 

Bucky yanks the chain over his head, the metal tags clinking together. Half-expects Peter to back out, to say something that’ll make Bucky feel like the dumbass he knows he is being, but Peter just stares.

Bucky doesn’t say anything himself—what the hell could he say? That’s sorta the idea. He just leans up, slips the chain over Peter’s head, lets the cool metal settle against Peter’s chest. The tags dangle there, catching the light, and for a second, Bucky’s pretty sure his heart’s stopped. It might as well say property of Bucky Barnes, and isn’t that a thought to chew on. Impulsive and more than possessive.

Peter’s fingers find the tags, touching them as if they’re made of something more valuable than just a bit of stamped metal. For a moment, nothing else exists but the way Peter’s hand trembles slightly as he grips those tags, the way his eyes start to shine as if he’s holding back something too big to let out. Then Peter’s lips twitch, a small, shaky smile breaking through brighter than the sunrise.

“You,” Peter mouths. “You really…”

“Yeah,” Bucky cuts him off, kisses him, back straining without support, almost embarrassed by how much he’s putting out there. “Kinda means—”

“I know what it means,” Peter murmurs, sliding his hands down Bucky’s sides, fingers tracing the ridges of his scars. “Means I’m yours. Means you’re mine.”

Smart little bee. Bucky lets his back drop onto the mattress, head hitting the pillow, and Peter follows him down, pressing himself against Bucky, slipping up on his dick, kissing him fast and frantic. Doesn’t give Bucky much choice but to bend his knee for leverage, thrusting up slow and deep, making them both groan into the kiss.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, but he does it again, and then once more. Not rushing it, taking his time, feeling every inch of it with Peter wearing his tags, moaning on top of him, skin warm and sweaty. “Sorry, I—”

“Shut up,” Peter cuts him off, shaky but firm. And judging by the way he meets Bucky halfway, working his dick, Bucky suspects he’s doing just fine. “Keep going.”

Bucky swings his hips up, carving himself into this pliant body, and Peter doesn’t complain, just moans louder, louder, as if he’s honest-to-god getting paid for it. Bucky doesn’t mind. Doesn’t care—he savors it.

“Fuck,” he mutters between clenched teeth. “Fuck. Peter. Feels so good inside you.”

Just a bit faster, a bit harder, and Peter’s back arches, his hips meeting Bucky’s in a rhythm that’s starting to get frantic.

Peter’s wearing Bucky’s tags. His fucking tags. Bucky can’t stop thinking about it. He fucks into him, owning every inch of that tight ass, kisses his face, bites down on his jaw, the bed creaking beneath them. Peter’s sobbing now, that high-pitched, broken sound, as Bucky shifts his angle, hitting that sweet spot with every thrust.

“Oh, god, please don’t stop, don’t—” Peter chokes out, and Bucky’s all too happy to keep pushing. He thrusts up again, harder this time, just enough to make Peter cry out, and fuck, if that sound isn’t the best thing Bucky’s ever heard.

Bucky’s close. He can feel it, the pressure building up, his balls zinging with it already, can’t stop it from happening. He holds back with everything he’s got, waiting for Peter to tip over into that freefall, because the second he does, Bucky’s going with him.

“Come on, doll,” he rasps, slipping his hand between them, reaching for Peter’s dick. “Let me feel you, I—”

He barely touches him, fingers brushing the head, and Peter’s whole body seizes, clenching around Bucky so hard. Ah, fuck. Fuck.

“Bucky, Bucky,” Peter’s mewing into Bucky’s ear, his ass spasming around Bucky’s dick. “Oh, fuck, love you, love you so much, god, ohh—”

It’s a sick sort of satisfaction, knowing he’s got this kind of power over someone. And that’s the kicker, isn’t it? That Peter sees him. Not the Winter Soldier, not the fucked-up mess he’s been, but him. Bucky Barnes. The guy who’s so happily screwed by feelings he doesn’t know which way is up anymore.

“Fuck, baby,” Bucky groans, his right hand coated in Peter’s come, his metal one gripping Peter’s ass so tight it’s definitely leaving bruises, pumping into him, his dick milked for all it’s worth.

Bucky’s skin is cooling down, sweat drying sticky on his chest, and the ceiling’s got this strange blur to it, like it’s slowly sinking closer. He’s not worried. Couldn’t give a shit if the whole world caved in right now. Doesn’t move. Doesn’t think he can.

Peter’s draped over him, fingers tracing lazy patterns on his skin. Nothing better to do than play connect-the-dots with Bucky’s scars, apparently. A curious one, always digging, never knowing when to stop. He hits a raised line near Bucky’s collarbone, and because Peter’s Peter, he asks:

“This one?”

“Shrapnel. Clint rigged to blow up a warehouse in Prague. I was too slow getting out.”

Peter hums, might be taking notes or something, filing that away for future reference, Bucky’s not checking, and those fingers drift lower, finding a jagged scar across Bucky’s ribs. “What about this?”

“Rio. Knife fight. Close quarters.” Bucky keeps his tone flat, if not relaxed, but there’s a hint of something there—respect, maybe. The guy was quick, after all. Bucky still won, but it wasn’t a sure thing. Warm fingers skim over his abdomen, pausing at a round, puckered scar near his side. 

“And this one?”

“Bullet. Didn’t go clean through. Afghanistan. Same place as the arm.” Bucky’s metal hand twitches, muscle memory doing its thing. Some pains you never really forget.

Peter’s quiet for a second, letting it all sink in, then his hand slides lower, fingers brushing Bucky’s thigh, stopping right by the bandage.

“Steve,” Peter doesn’t ask. He confirms.

Bucky knows where this is going, and he’s not exactly thrilled about it. Not that he doesn’t want Peter to know. Just doesn’t want to talk about what happened. That fresh wound says it all, in a way—betrayal, more pain, the shit that lingers even when it shouldn’t.

This is the part where most people would back off. Peter’s… not most people. He waits. Patient. Would actually make a good sniper.

“Okay,” Bucky sighs, puts his right hand on Peter’s ass, dragging his fingers over the soft skin.

Tells him everything.

Piece by piece, ripping out stitches one by one, poking at a scab that never healed right.

Starts with the basics. How a dumb kid from Brooklyn, sporting a chip on his shoulder the size of Coney Island, found himself in the army. The way he became a sniper, picking off targets from a mile away, pulling the trigger and watching lives snuff out through a scope. How there was something darkly satisfying about it—not that Bucky expands too much on that. Doesn’t want to spook him. Just moves on, as if becoming a cold-blooded killer is the natural progression.

Black-ops, also naturally, came next. You’re good at one thing, they mold you into something worse. He talks about meeting Clint and Nat, their first joint mission in some mosquito-infested jungle hellhole where even the air tries to kill you. Clint, the prick who could hit a fly on the ass with an arrow from a hundred yards, and Nat, who’d probably off you with a fucking paperclip if you looked at her wrong. They got along. Or at least, as much as three damaged goods could. Still, they made it work.

Then there’s Steve. Good old Steve. The punk Bucky actually knew before all this. Except Steve rolled in older, bigger, and better trained, a fucking team leader in the making, dragging Sam along with him. Sam, who followed Steve around like a lost puppy, loyal to a fault. In retrospect, Bucky’s still a bit surprised Sam didn’t take Steve’s side when shit hit the fan. Always figured Sam would follow Steve off a cliff if it came to it. But, hey, loyalty’s a funny thing.

He skips over the Winter Soldier bit. Peter’s heard it before, and Bucky’s not in the mood for a rerun, even in the post-orgasmic bliss that loosens his tongue. Jumps straight to the rest. The moment when word dropped that Tony Stark, the military’s golden gun Santa, got himself kidnapped by Afghanis. Big fucking deal. Rhodes briefed them, all stiff-upper-lip and professional, but Bucky could tell the guy was gutted. That didn’t raise any red flags.

Black-ops retire by getting retired, no way to sugarcoat that. Bucky just didn’t think it was their time yet.

Didn’t pick up on it until it was too late, strutted right into an ambush. More bloody than Budapest, or so Nat and Clint say, but Bucky wouldn’t know—never had the pleasure of that clusterfuck. All he knows is they weren’t supposed to walk out of that shitshow alive, but somehow did.

Well, mostly. Bucky and Tony didn’t exactly stroll out unscathed.

Bucky’s arm got blown clean off, the kind of pain that feels like the devil himself decided to set up camp inside your nerves. Him and Tony both got dragged out, looking more like corpses than survivors. Allegedly. Death warmed over, and all that.

“Funny thing is, Steve blamed the rest of it on me. Like I had a fucking clue what was going on when I came to, doped up, missing a limb, and about three seconds away from a complete mental shutdown. Nothing made sense—Nat aiming her gun at Steve, Steve playing cowboy with Stark in his sights, Sam staring at them, and Clint going for his own gun too. Then Nat got clipped, Steve took one in the side, and I was too busy… well, shit, sorry, bit too heavy, but thinking that wouldn’t it be just fucking perfect to die right now, please and thank you. Passed out again before I could even piece together what the hell had just gone down.”

Bycky pets Peter’s hair, cards his hand through those silky strands. 

“When I finally came to, really came to, Steve was already in the wind, and we were on the run too. Stark got handed off to Rhodes for safekeeping— the only guy left we could trust, or at least, the only guy who wasn’t actively trying to get us killed. After that. Well. Months. Months of nothing but running and hiding. Shoot to kill ain’t no joke. Then, out of the blue, Tony reaches out. Kind of thought he was out for the count. No. Set me up with a new arm, threw us some cash, give us a place to crash. Said someone’s been gunning for him for a while, but couldn’t pin down who.”

Bucky pauses, letting the silence hang there, Peter nuzzling closer, dropping a few kisses here and there, coaxing more out of him like some kind of soft-touch interrogator. Damn if it doesn’t work.

“Anyway,” Bucky continues. “Nat started pulling at the threads. You know, to make sense why they didn’t just off us nice and quiet. Why play pretend and send us after Stark. Was simple. Stupid, even. Wanted to convince Rhodes that the military was all-in on saving Stark. Two birds with one stone. Make it look like something was being done. Retire us in the process. Permanent-like. Classic scumbag move. And the more Nat found, the more clear it became… not what we’ve signed up for.”

He kisses up Peter’s jaw, pulls him closer, flicks the dog tags with a finger, a crooked grin tugging at his lips.

“So this is what you’ve been doing?” Peter murmurs, taking one of the tags in his hand, rubbing the metal thoughtfully. “Tracking down your buddy, taking out the rot, trying to figure out who wanted Mr. Stark dead so bad? You said Stane when Sam was stitching you up. Wouldn’t it have been obvious from the start? I mean, haven’t you guys ever watched TV? It’s always the business partner or the wife. And he’s got no wife.”

Bucky half-laughs, more of a huff, really. Yeah. Touché, again. Tony and his fucking “tight circle.” Could’ve saved them a hell of a lot of trouble.

Keeping their hands off each other is a bit of a problem. Doesn’t take long for the team to notice, and they’ve got plenty to say about it.

Sam’s the loudest, of course. Always is. Walks in on them once, when Bucky’s got Peter on his knees in the back, getting his soul sucked out of him through his dick, decidedly too lost in it to notice. Sam’s horrified grunt is the only warning they get, and by the time Bucky pulls back, Sam’s already halfway out the door, one hand covering his eyes as if he’s just walked in on his parents having sex.

“Jesus Christ, Barnes!” Sam hollers over his shoulder. “Get a goddamn room!”

Bucky just smirks, doesn’t even bother responding. What’s the point? In comparison to the rest of them, Sam’s still got a stick so far up his ass, it’s a wonder he can walk straight. Peter laughs it off, but gets up, kisses Bucky, drags him upstairs. 

When there, Bucky’s not too proud to admit that Peter turns him into a whimpering fucking mess with his mouth, gets Bucky so desperate he very clearly recalls begging to come. Best head of his life, hands down. Until the next morning, when Peter wakes him up with one, then licks his balls for a better part of an hour and refuses to finish him off until Bucky eats him out even longer. 

Room’s not a problem, honestly. Getting out of the room is. 

Still, the next time Sam catches them kissing, Bucky makes a point of grabbing Peter’s ass, just to watch Sam’s face twist in horror. It’s the little things in life, even though Bucky’s so fucked out for the day, he probably couldn’t get it up again for hours. 

Nat’s more subtle about it, but even she can’t resist a few digs. A raised eyebrow here, a sarcastic comment there. About behaving. Still, it’s hard to care when Peter’s looking at him like that, all wide-eyed and needy. Hard to think about anything else when Peter’s hands are on him, pulling him closer.

Clint’s no better, chiming in with his usual brand of dumbass commentary. Calls them horny teenagers at one point, like he’s one to talk. As if he himself can go five minutes without trying to get into Nat’s pants, though Bucky keeps that to himself. No need to drag her into that. 

And it makes sense, Bucky figures—the way he is with Peter, how they’re constantly finding excuses to touch, to fuck, to just be close. Not that they need them. Excuses. When you’ve spent as much time in the shit as Bucky has, you learn to take what you can get. Life’s too short for playing it safe, and Bucky’s already burned through his nine lives. So, if he wants to spend every waking minute fucking Peter on every flat surface they can find, who’s gonna stop him?

Nobody, that’s who.

Not even Tony Stark, as it turns out.

Bucky’s currently busy—really fucking busy, in fact—when someone bangs on the door. The timing’s fucking terrible, of course. Bucky’s a bit tied up, literally, gagging too, because Peter’s got a damn belt around his neck and is putting it to good use, yanking on it while his sizable dick is stuffing Bucky’s throat. On an unrelated note, holy shit, Bucky didn’t think Peter had it in him. But also, holy shit, does it do it for Bucky. To be fair, though, everything they try does it for Bucky. Everything they’re systematically trying, checking off the list, making it theirs.

So, yeah, Bucky’s a bit preoccupied, choking on more than just words when the banging continues.

“Stark’s downstairs!” someone’s yelling, maybe Sam, maybe Clint—Bucky’s not exactly in a position to care. Peter doesn’t seem inclined to stop either, tight grip on the makeshift leash, keeping Bucky exactly where he wants him. And, fuck, Bucky’s not complaining, swallowing him down. Bit proud he can actually do this, since Peter had tried and, what do you know, failed to do the same. Now, Bucky could complain, a little, but who the fuck would about having a dick too big for deepthroating? Nobody he knows, that’s for damn sure.

He manages to free a hand that’s been pressed against the floor by Peter’s knee, slaps Peter’s thigh in what he hopes is the universal sign for pause the damn rodeo, but all it does is make Peter grin wider and tug a little harder. Bucky’s vision blurs at the edges, in the best way, until the door rattles again with more urgent pounding. This time, Peter finally relents, and Bucky’s grateful for the air, but already missing the pressure.

He’s fucking ruined.

Licks Peter’s thighs for a good few minutes, winks at him for green, knows exactly how he’s going to pay him back as soon as he can. By the time Peter comes on his face and they untangle themselves, Bucky’s throat is sore, and he’s sporting a few new marks that’ll probably take a while to fade. Good marks. They get washed up, dressed in a hurry, which, honestly, feels like a crime when Peter’s standing there all flushed and half-naked, but duty calls or some shit. They stumble down the stairs, half-expecting to be yelled at, only to find Tony already gone.

And the rest of the team looks serious.

“Who died?” Peter jokes.

Bucky lightly punches him in the shoulder. In this line of work, you don’t joke about that.

Nobody answers.

“Right,” Bucky mutters, a sinking feeling in his gut, dread taking over. He drapes an arm over Peter’s shoulders, tucks him at his side, trying to steady himself. “What the hell happened?”

Clint’s staring at the floor, Sam’s got his arms crossed.

“No pardon,” Nat says.

Bucky’s heart plummets. No pardon means Wakanda. And Wakanda means one thing—they’re not just being sidelined; he’s being benched permanently. Off the grid, out of the game. Safe, sure, but neutered. And Peter? Christ, he can’t ask Peter to come with him. Can’t drag him into that kind of exile. Bucky’s suddenly, absolutely fucking terrified in a way he hasn’t been since he woke up missing half his body.

“Peter,” Nat sighs. “Go upstairs. I need to talk to Bucky.”

Bucky frowns. Peter frowns. Sam and Clint look like someone just slapped them with a dead fish. Nat, though, seems about two seconds away from collapsing. Bucky’s first instinct is to tell her to fuck off, but he’s got just enough self-awareness left to realize maybe he’s dragged Peter a little too deep already just by opening his mouth. Peter’s not exactly innocent, but he is when it comes to this.

He catches Peter’s eye, gives him a small nod.

“Go on,” he says, voice gruff. Peter’s got that stubborn look on his face, the one that says he wants to argue, but he listens. He always does. Bucky’s fully aware he’s going to catch hell for this later, but that’s a problem for future Bucky. Right now, he’s got bigger shit to deal with.

As soon as Peter’s out of earshot, Nat’s face goes from exhausted to stone-cold.

“We’ve discussed it between ourselves already, but you… you need to think real fucking hard about your next move,” she says, not wasting a second. Straight to the jugular, that’s Nat.

Bucky moves to the bar, grabs the pint Clint slid over. The asshole’s probably gonna miss this place, especially after he went through the trouble of getting the taps fixed up. Bucky takes a long sip.

“What move? What’s Tony offering as an alternative to goat herding? A free vacation to Siberia?” He takes another sip, staring at the ring of moisture under the pint before glancing back at Nat.

She doesn’t even crack a smile. No surprise there.

“Tony offered us something else. A permanent gig.” Bucky feels his muscles tense because that sounds like the setup to a really bad joke. “We keep doing what we’re doing. Keep an eye on things. Use our skills and his resources to keep the folks in charge honest.”

“Fuck,” Bucky mutters, rubbing a hand over the bridge of his nose, then down to his mouth. He takes another gulp of beer. “Let me guess, you’ve got the name picked out and everything already.” He looks at their idiotic sign in the window.

Then looks at Nat again. Her lips twitch, just a bit, but still not a smile. Not even close.

“Think on it. It’s up to you. We… want to do this. But it’s all or none, and we go where you go, you know that. We’d rather… but we get it. We know how you feel about the whole thing. The killing, the job… all of it. But it could be different. You could, I don’t know… run logistics. Do surveillance. Hell, train others if it comes to that. If we need more. And we might. Tony’s got a plan. A solid one. It’s not just about pulling triggers.”

“Yeah, and that’s the problem, isn’t it? How the fuck do you stop when all you’ve ever known is pulling triggers?” Bucky huffs out a bitter laugh, his hand dropping to the bar as he shakes his head.

“You don’t,” Nat turns to look upstairs to where Peter is, likely pacing about the room, waiting for Bucky to come back and… say what? “You just find a better reason to do it. Stark… Stark’s got something for him too. If he wants.”

Peter’s perched on the windowsill, shoulders hunched, posture stiff. Bracing. Reminds Bucky of that time—Christ, a lifetime ago—when he’d walked in, barely holding it together, not ready to offer a damn thing, but desperate enough to beg Peter to stay the hell out of it. Would’ve gotten on his knees if needed.

Bucky walks over, doesn’t hesitate, and sits down on the nightstand. Peter’s legs dangle over the edge, and Bucky pulls them into his lap, hands finding Peter’s ankle, rubbing absently. It’s familiar, comforting in a way that almost makes Bucky laugh at himself.

“You never asked me why,” Bucky murmurs, finding that small bone on the side, circling it with his fingers.

Peter looks down at him, lips tight. He doesn’t seem confused by the question. Smarter than most people give him credit for—not just the sharp jawline or the pretty eyes. 

“Why you needed a job in the first place,” Peter says, confirming it with a vague motion of his hand, encompassing, well, everything. “Given all this.”

“You can ask me now,” Bucky nods. “Should ask me now.”

Peter turns back to the window like it’s got all the answers written in the fucking sky. He chews on his cheek, a nervous habit Bucky’s come to recognize, then finally speaks, quiet but steady, almost apologetic.

“Don’t need to. Figured it out a while ago. I think. Sorry.”

That’s—

That’s something. Bucky rubs his thumb along Peter’s ankle, humming softly.

“If you need me to say it,” Peter shrugs. “Wasn’t… I wasn’t the only one who needed saving, I guess. Unless I’m wrong.”

“You’re not,” Bucky grimaces despite himself. 

Not an easy thing to hear. Not the easiest truth to swallow either, but truth rarely is. Bucky was a bad day—and let’s face it, every day back then was a bad day—away from eating lead. Barrel in his mouth, finger on the trigger, just waiting for that final push. That’s where his head was at. So, he went out, looking for something, anything, to keep his hands busy with something other than blowing his brains out. And somehow, against all odds, found more than he was looking for. A hell of a lot more. Who even gets this fucking lucky? Not him. Not ever.

And now here he is, Peter’s legs draped over his lap, actually thinking about handing Peter the reins, letting him decide what they should do next. Why? Not just because Peter saved him, dragged him back from the edge without even knowing it at the time. And not just because he’s sharp, stubborn, and too smart for his own damn good.

The actual truth? Bucky was always happy enough letting Steve take the lead. Steve making captain was the best thing that could’ve happened. Command was never for Bucky. He hated making decisions that weren’t about where to aim a rifle. Just because you’re supposedly decent at something doesn’t mean you should be the one doing it. Peter’s seen him fumble through enough by now to realize Bucky doesn’t have a clue what he’s doing half the time.

So why not offer the choice to him? The others were all too eager to push that shit on Bucky. 

“Don’t even think about it,” Peter shoves at him with his foot. “I am not deciding shit for you.”

The balls on this one. Seriously, the fucking balls. After everything Bucky’s done for him—except, wait, what the fuck has Bucky actually done for Peter? Bought him fries that one time. Maybe. But if they’re keeping score, Peter’s got him beat just by existing in Bucky’s orbit.

Fine. Fine. Bucky grabs Peter’s ankle, yanks him off the windowsill and plants him properly on his lap. Peter lands with an "Uff," straddling him, and now they’re face to face, Peter’s knees digging into the nightstand that’s probably about to tap out of existence.

“Fine,” Bucky huffs out, because he’s not above being a stubborn asshole.

“Fine,” Peter echoes, because apparently, being a stubborn asshole is contagious.

“Okay, so you’re onboard with me runnin’ a secret fuckin’ spy organization, our entire goal being to stop global domination by absolute dickheads, while you intern with Tony Stark?”

Peter doesn’t even blink. Just shrugs, no big deal, then leans in and kisses him, soft and sweet, like that’s supposed to make everything better. It does. 

“And no,” Bucky adds, narrowing his eyes, “don’t even think about fuckin’ him. I’ll end you both.”

“You can watch,” Peter smirks, going for another kiss, only to hiss when Bucky bites down on his lip, none too gentle. “Kidding, kidding. Jesus, your sense of humor sucks. Kiss it better.”

A real pain in the ass, this guy. Bucky knew he was trouble the second he laid eyes on him. 

He grins, feeling way too fucking satisfied for someone who’s basically arguing in circles.

“Fine. Now, c’mere.”