Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The walk to the containment wing felt longer than it had any right to be.

Harley kept his eyes on the floor as he moved, barely registering the soft whir of ventilation or the muted sound of elevator doors closing somewhere behind him. His chest was tight, like he couldn’t quite catch a full breath - like guilt was wrapped around his lungs, heavy and damp and clawing.

He shouldn’t have said yes.

That was the sentence looping in his head, over and over like a scratch in an old vinyl record. He shouldn’t have said yes. Should’ve told Peter no. Should’ve left. Should’ve been smarter. Kinder. Stronger. Peter had asked him - begged him - and Harley had listened. And worse, he'd done it. He’d repeated the words. Had watched Peter’s eyes glaze and his limbs go slack, because that was what he had wanted.

Except it hadn’t felt like want. Not really. Not the kind that made Harley’s stomach flutter or his face burn. It felt like desperation, like Peter trying to disappear inside his own head, and Harley had helped him do it. He hadn't kissed a boy. He hadn't held someone in the dark and shared a quiet, aching moment. He'd thrown a match on something fragile and watched it burn. 

God, what if Peter remembers?

That thought hit harder than it should’ve. Peter might. Despite everything, despite what he’d asked for, despite that blank-eyed obedience by the end of it - what if some part of him remembered? What if he came back to himself and all he felt was betrayal?

What if he hates me for it?

Harley dragged in a slow, shaky breath and scrubbed both hands through his hair. His palms were clammy. His throat was raw.  

He kept walking.

Rostov had ruined him. Had clawed Peter’s brain up so badly that he craved being broken down. Harley knew that now. Peter didn’t just respond to command - he relied on it. Relied on structure. On the illusion of choice.

Because when there were rules, he didn’t have to think. When someone else was in control, he didn’t have to spiral. And Harley hadn’t even hesitated to slip into that role. That was the part he didn’t want to look at too hard. Not yet. Not when the echo of Peter’s voice - low and shaking and just barely coherent - was still rattling around in his head.

“Then prove it.”

He had. God help him, he had.

Harley didn’t remember the walk through the final corridor. Just blinked and found himself at the sealed glass door of Peter’s room, heart hammering like it was trying to crawl out of his ribs. His hand hovered over the panel. The hallway was quiet. No footsteps. No voices. Just the low hum of electricity in the walls and the soft, hollow sound of his own pulse in his ears.

He braced himself and pressed the panel. The lock hissed open. The lights inside flickered once as the door peeled back, and-

The room was empty. Blankets half-fallen off the cot. Pillows crushed. Chains undone. No limbs. No boy. No sound.

Harley’s whole body went cold. He stood there, frozen in the threshold, just…staring. It took a second too long for his brain to catch up. 

“...Peter?” he called, his voice cracking.

No answer.

His shoes hit the floor faster than he realized, feet dragging him forward without thought. He stepped in, spun once, checked under the bed - nothing. He turned back out, already wheeling on the hallway-

“FRIDAY,” he barked, louder than he meant to, voice scraping against the walls.

A pause. Then the voice, smooth and artificial as ever. “Yes, Harley?”

“Where is he?” Harley’s throat tightened. “Where’s Peter? Where did he go - why isn’t he in his room-?”

“Peter is currently on Captain Rogers’ floor,” FRIDAY replied. “He is being closely monitored while he recovers.”

Harley reeled back a half-step, the word catching in his chest like a punch. Recovers? He blinked, trying to make sense of it. They did it already? That… that wasn’t possible. Not yet. He was only gone a day. The lights in the hallway hadn’t even changed cycle yet. They weren’t supposed to do it without him. They weren’t supposed to-

“Wait-” Harley stepped back into the hallway, shaking his head. “Wait, what do you mean ‘recovers’? Recovering from what? What the hell happened?”

“The removal procedure has already taken place,” FRIDAY answered evenly. “Doctor Cho is overseeing Peter’s medical recovery.”

“Already?!” Harley exploded. “You - they did it without me?! ”

His hand curled into a fist without him thinking. The wall was just there - unmoving, impassive, hard - and he drove his knuckles into it with a dull thunk. Pain flared up his arm, sharp and immediate, but it wasn’t enough. Not even close.

He should’ve been there. Should’ve known. Should’ve seen.

“You should’ve told me-!” Harley rasped, his hand still pressed to the wall.

“I’m sorry,” FRIDAY said gently. “Access to the procedure and its timing was restricted to Tony Stark and James Barnes. You were not authorized.”

That stung. His jaw clenched. He stayed there a moment longer, head pressed to the cool metal of the wall, trying to breathe through the knot building in his chest. They hadn’t even told him. Peter had gone through it alone. Without him.

And God, maybe that was better.

Because Harley had already fucked things up. He’d already said the words Peter begged him for. And maybe it was a mercy that the kid didn’t want to see him right now. Maybe it was better if he stayed away. At least while they got him stable.

Harley let his head fall forward, shoulders hunched. His bruised knuckles throbbed in time with his heartbeat. “Just-” he muttered. “Just let me know if he asks for me.”

“Of course.”

The hallway echoed faintly as he turned and walked away. He didn’t look back.

—

The apartment was too quiet. That kind of heavy, unnatural silence that made everything feel like it was holding its breath.

Steve moved through it like a ghost, each footfall softened by the worn floorboards and still air. The afternoon light slanted in through the sheer curtains, casting long rectangles across the living room floor. It was the kind of quiet that settled under your skin - heavy and tight, like something had been knocked loose in the foundation and you were just waiting for the whole thing to creak.

He finished straightening the bed in the spare room - Peter’s room, when he stayed here. He'd remade the bed three times already. First to straighten the sheet, then to fix the fold in the comforter, and now just to have something to do with his hands. The duvet settled too neatly across the mattress, tucked tight at the corners. It looked like a hospital bed. Lifeless. The sheets were fresh, tucked tight with military corners. There was a comfort in it, in doing something precise. Something normal. He fluffed the pillow once more than necessary, then stepped back, hands on his hips.

He hated it.

It still didn’t feel right.

The kid wasn’t here. The room wasn’t supposed to feel empty. He always left it just a little messy; sheets on th floor or a cushions wedged under the bed from when he had bad days and slept under there, instead of on top of it.  Just a few minor signs of life scattered here and there. A pair of socks kicked halfway under the bed. A mug on the desk with a hardened ring of cocoa at the bottom. The kind of clutter that meant someone lived here, even if only for a while. Now, it was all stillness. Sanitised. Waiting.

Steve tried not to think about the medbay. About the way Peter had looked lying there, mouth slack, wires sprouting from his skin like he was being held together by tech instead of biology. Cho had said a few days. Maybe a week. Just to let the inflammation settle. Just to give his brain a break.

Steve exhaled through his nose, tried to relax the muscles in his jaw. It didn’t work. He didn’t know what a break looked like anymore.

On the bedside table, half-buried under an old hoodie, something caught his eye. He moved to pick it up. It was one of his books - they’d gone through stacks of them recently; Steve reading aloud, Peter pretending to ignore him but always drifting closer by the second chapter.

The book he picked up had been missing for a while.

A Tree Grows in Brooklyn.

The spine was cracked; the front cover slightly curled from too many hours pressed beneath Peter’s forearm. Steve thumbed the edges of the pages, smiling faintly at the dog-eared corners, the worn leather bookmark slotted halfway through.

He’d lent it to Peter weeks ago. The kid had curled up on the couch one night and started flipping through it with quiet reverence, fingers skating over the sentences like they meant more than they should. He must’ve tucked it away at some point, brought it into the spare room for safekeeping. Steve’s thumb dragged absently across the embossed title. The edges of the cover were fraying. He remembered reading it in high school; something about hardship, about surviving and still finding beauty. It was one of the few books he could come back to again and again.

Peter must’ve felt the same.

God. Peter.

He turned it over in his hands, fingers brushing along the soft, battered cover. The corners were bent. The spine was creased like it had been reread too many times. Steve’s thumb caught on the worn leather bookmark halfway through, and when he flicked the book open, he saw his own handwriting in the margin - just a small note, something dumb about a metaphor Peter had scoffed at. The page was dog-eared.

Steve stared at it for a long moment.

Peter had kept it. He’d been reading it without saying anything. His chest tightened sharply. Grief coiled low in his gut. He brushed his hand across the cover again, smoothing it flat before setting the book back on the bedside table.

Steve’s stomach twisted.

He placed the book carefully on the nightstand beside the bed. Right where Peter could see it when he got back. If he got back. The thought wormed into his chest before he could stop it, a hard knot of guilt and helplessness. He forced it down. This wasn’t supposed to happen. None of it.

The door was shut. The walls of the apartment were thick. But Steve swore he could still hear echoes of the yelling from the Medbay days ago. The memory felt bruised. He’d come home because he couldn’t take being around any of it anymore - Tony pacing like a caged animal, Cho stone-faced, Peter limp in that goddamn bed with machines doing what his body couldn’t anymore. And Bucky-

Steve swallowed hard.

He didn’t want to think about Bucky. Not right now. Not until he had the strength to look at him and not-

There was a knock at the door, and the sound made him jump. He clutched his chest out of instinct as his heart kicked up, adrenaline slamming through him too fast and too sudden.

“Jesus,” he muttered, turning before everything in him sank as he turned to the source. "You scared me."

Bucky was standing outside the door to Peter’s room. Not quite inside. Not quite out. Just… hovering. Like he was waiting to be let in. His knuckles rested against the wood, hand still half-raised from knocking. He didn’t look sheepish, but Bucky rarely did. But something in his posture was off; shoulders too square, face too still. Closed off, like the way he looked after missions when he was shutting everything down to keep himself from feeling it.

“I knocked,” Bucky said quietly, not moving from the threshold.

Steve looked down again. Back at the book. Let his palm rest gently over the cover before lifting it and setting it on the nightstand with care.

He didn’t answer at first. Didn’t know how to. He just kept replaying the memory of Peter’s body lying in the Medbay cot. Of the recording of Peter convulsing in the chair, Tony slamming his fists against the reinforced door. Of the way Bucky had stood, calm and resolute, while Peter screamed.

Steve looked at the floor. Swallowed around the bitterness in his throat.

“I heard,” he said, voice low. He didn’t look up. Didn’t want to. Didn’t trust what would happen to his face if he did. He exhaled again - tight and bitter - and turned toward the bed again. His boots scuffed against the hardwood floor.

He hated being mad at Bucky. He’d hated it in 1937. He hated it now, but he hated what Bucky did to Peter more . And that was what made it unbearable.

The silence stretched thin.

Bucky stepped into the room properly now, and he didn’t say anything or make excuses. Didn’t rush to explain himself. Just stood there, jaw set, posture soldier-stiff like he was bracing for a blow.

Steve hated that, too. The way Bucky held himself like he deserved to get hit, like pain was easier than apology. Maybe it was. Steve dragged a hand down his face and turned his back to him, only because he didn’t trust himself to look at him yet. The book was still on the nightstand. His fingertips brushed the edge.

“He’s a kid,” Steve said finally, voice rough and barely above a whisper. “You know that, right?” Behind him, Bucky didn’t move. Not even a sound. Steve turned, slow and deliberate. “Even if - even if he’s been through a lot, he’s just a kid, Buck.”

That landed. He saw it hit right between Bucky’s eyes. Saw the little twitch in his jaw he tried to bury, before Bucky looked away with his mouth flattening into something like shame, but not quite. Not enough.

“He’s not-” Bucky started, then stopped. Adjusted his stance like he couldn’t quite settle. Steve waited. “He hasn’t been a kid for a long time,” Bucky said finally. Quiet. Controlled. Measured in the way that meant it cost him something to say. “I know you don’t agree. But it was the kindest thing to do for him, Steve.”

Steve stared at him.

“Bullshit.”

Bucky blinked.

“You don’t get to decide that,” Steve went on, voice rising with every word. “You don’t get to stand there and tell me he doesn’t get to be a kid anymore just because someone hurt him. That’s not your call, Buck. It was never your call.”

“I was him,” Bucky said, more forcefully now. “You weren’t there. You didn’t see what he looked like when he thought no one was watching. He wanted to die.”

“So you helped him?” Steve snapped, disbelief twisting sharp through his chest. “You put him back in the chair, Bucky. You used the words and turned him into something he was terrified of becoming again.”

Bucky didn’t respond. Didn’t blink. Just let it hit. “You saw the mouthguard,” he said at last, like that explained anything.

Steve stepped closer. Chest heaving. “You think that makes it better?”

“No,” Bucky said. “It just means I knew he’d bite through his tongue if I didn’t.”

That stilled Steve. Just for a second. Just long enough for the image to rise again - Peter’s body convulsing in the chair, blood sliding from the corner of his mouth, spider limbs thrashing like an animal in pain. God. God. Steve turned away, gaze settling out the window where the city outside was blurred; just light and motion. Nothing real. Nothing steady. 

“He trusted you,” Steve said, quieter now.  

Bucky’s mouth twitched. Not a smile. Just something close to grief. “I know.”

The words hung between them like a weight. Steve turned back around. “I thought we were supposed to be better than them,” Steve said. “I thought that was the whole point. ”

Bucky didn’t answer. Steve could feel the heat behind his eyes building. Didn’t let it show. Didn’t blink. He took a breath. Then another. 

“You know what the worst part is?” he said, voice trembling. “You didn’t even tell anyone. You just decided. You and you alone. You put him in that chair and flipped the switch and told yourself it was the right thing to do-”

“It was,” Bucky said, voice low but firm. “He was going to hurt someone. He was going to hurt himself. He asked me to do it, Steve. He begged me.”

“That doesn’t make it okay,” Steve snapped.

“No,” Bucky agreed. “But it makes it his decision.”

That stopped Steve cold, and maybe, in some twisted way, that was the closest thing to an apology he’d get. It wasn’t enough. Not today. Not after seeing Peter in that bed, unresponsive, lips split and hands still curled into fists even in sleep.

Steve stepped back. “I want you to leave.”

“Stevie,” Bucky said softly, taking a step into the room. The nickname landed like a weight in Steve’s chest - familiar, warm, awful. It came with the kind of muscle memory you didn’t shake easily. It sounded like Bucky in the 40’s, like cigarettes on rooftops and coffee cups with lipstick prints and “you worry too much, punk.”

But now it just felt like salt in a wound.

Steve didn’t look at him. He couldn’t. His gaze stayed fixed on the edge of the blanket, smoothing it down with slow, measured strokes. Every wrinkle was a problem to fix. Something clean. Something safe. Something quiet. He didn’t need to turn around to know Bucky had moved closer. He felt it that shift in the air. The scent of him - gun oil and winter wind, faint metallic tang underneath. There were memories attached to it. So many good ones, and now they felt like they’d all been scraped raw.

He only looked up when Bucky’s hand slid up his arm, slow and tentative, thumb brushing the fabric of his sleeve. It wasn’t much. Just a little pressure, a little heat. A silent apology, maybe. A question.

Steve stared at the wall ahead and didn’t move.

“You come to apologise?” he asked, wry, bitter. His voice cracked in the middle, but he didn’t let it show. He just kept his tone dry, like he wasn’t ready to let it crack open into something worse.

Behind him, Bucky gave a crooked smile. Not a real one. The kind that said, I knew you’d say that. “I’d have to be sorry to do that,” Bucky said, quietly. “And I don’t want to lie to your face.”

His hand fell away. Steve felt the loss more than he wanted to admit.

For a second, the only sound in the room was the faint creak of the floorboards under Bucky’s boots and the distant hum of the fridge. The apartment was too quiet. Still smelled like detergent and warm dust, like the kind of space someone was trying too hard to keep clean.

Steve sighed. It left his chest in one long, heavy breath. He stepped away from the bed, back to smoothing the blankets again even though there wasn’t a single wrinkle left. “I appreciate the honesty,” he said, flat. “But if that’s all there is, I don’t feel like talking.”

There wasn’t heat in it, not exactly. Just… tiredness. Bone-deep weariness.

He just couldn’t stop seeing it. Peter’s body arching off the table. His mouth open in a silent scream. The spider limbs twitching, flailing, the horrible shudder that went through his frame when the current spiked. Tony slamming the control room door with his fists. Cho’s voice, even and cold, saying chemically induced coma. And Bucky - Bucky - standing there, voice low and calm, like it was all calculated. Like Peter wasn’t a kid, wasn’t already a grave half-dug.

Bucky shifted behind him, and Steve could feel the weight of his stare. The quiet intensity of it, the way it settled between his shoulder blades.

“I wasn’t-” Bucky started. He paused. “I wasn’t trying to hurt him.”

Steve didn’t answer. He just kept tucking the sheets again. A sharp corner fold, crisp and military, like everything else in his life hadn’t just slipped sideways.

“He asked me to help,” Bucky tried again. “He said he’d do anything. You didn’t see him, Steve. He was-” His voice caught. “You think I wanted to do it? You think I liked saying the words?”

“No,” Steve said quietly. He didn’t turn around. “But I think you were trying to fix something that looked like you. And that’s not the same thing.”

The silence hit like a slap.

Steve straightened the pillow one last time. Clean. Tidy. For Peter, when he got back. If he got back. He kept thinking of the oxygen mask. The machines. The little red numbers blinking quietly above the monitor. The way Peter hadn’t even flinched when they moved him, when he and Bucky had shouted at each other two feet away. No resistance left in him at all.

Behind him, Bucky didn’t move. He just stood there, still as stone.

“You let HYDRA get the better of you,” Steve murmured. “You let it get in your head. And now you’re projecting it onto Peter, and he’s the one paying for it.”

That got a reaction. Bucky’s breath hitched. Not loud. Just a barely audible sound, like something winding tighter in his chest. Steve didn’t have to turn to know his jaw had gone tight, eyes flint-hard. “You think I don’t know what I did?” Bucky asked, low and dangerous. “You think I haven’t been thinking about it? But if I hadn’t - if we kept waiting, going one word at a time - he wasn’t coping.”

Steve flinched. He hated that Bucky was right, but being right didn’t make it okay.

He opened his mouth to respond, some cutting line already halfway up his throat, when FRIDAY’s voice broke through the apartment - low and apologetic. “Captain Rogers?” she said. “Apologies for the interruption, but Peter’s awake.”

Steve’s head snapped up. “What?” he said sharply. He turned on his heel, already moving. “He’s not supposed to be awake for another couple days.”

“He woke early. He’s showing signs of distress,” FRIDAY added, voice clipped.

Steve didn’t wait. He stepped past Bucky, stalking down the hallway as his heart leapt into his throat. All the guilt and anger fell away like cut strings. Behind him, Bucky followed.

The elevator barely had time to finish opening the doors before Steve shoved his way through the doors, boots hammering against the tile floor like a threat. The moment he stepped out onto the Medbay level, he could tell something was wrong.

Chaos greeted him at the end of the hallway. Shattered glass glittered like ice across the floor, overturned carts and trays littered the area outside the main room, and Cho was standing in front of the Medbay door, arms braced wide as though she could physically stop him from getting through.

She looked shaken. Hair pulled back in a loose knot, scrub top splattered with something dark that Steve didn’t want to look at too long. Her eyes snapped up as soon as he rounded the corner.

“Steve,” she said firmly, voice low but serious. “Stop.”

He didn’t. Not immediately. “I need to see him.”

“You don’t understand. He woke up early,” she said, stepping forward, planting herself between him and the door. “Too early. He’s panicking, and he’s completely nonverbal. He’s - he’s not tracking anything. I don’t even know if he recognised me.”

Steve’s heart thudded hard against his ribs. He could feel the tremor in his fingers.

“I can handle it,” he said, more to himself than to her, and moved past her with a quick, apologetic glance. Bucky was right behind him as they slipped into the room.

The difference in atmosphere was immediate. The door slid shut behind them with a soft hiss, and the silence that followed felt wrong. Not still, just… waiting, like the room was holding its breath.

The lights were dimmed, casting everything in a blue-grey wash. The heart monitor screen was flickering slightly. On the far side of the room, a tray of tools had been flung against the wall, metal instruments scattered like shrapnel. One of the IV poles lay on its side, the line still hissing where it’d snapped.

But Peter was nowhere in sight.

“Where is he?” Steve said quietly, scanning the room.

Bucky didn’t answer at first. His gaze swept the space in long, slow arcs, and then he stopped. His brow furrowed. He took a step forward before he paused and murmured, “Steve.” 

Steve followed the line of his sight. There - barely visible in the low light - something was poking out from under one of the med cabinets. Just a sliver of glossy brown-black chitin. A spider limb.

Steve’s gut twisted.

He approached slowly. Carefully, like he would a wounded animal. The limb twitched the moment his boot scraped the floor too loud. Then, with a scraping sound, it retracted quickly - flicking back like a scalded nerve and the cabinet door tried to shut.

Steve reached out gently, palm open, his voice low and steady even though his pulse was racing.

“Hey,” he whispered. “Pete. It’s me. It’s Steve. You’re okay.”

There was no answer. Just a noise, thin and broken and not quite human. A wet, low whine that trembled at the end like it didn’t know what it was trying to become. A keen. A whimper. Something that had crawled too far down into itself to surface properly.

Steve’s throat tightened.

“Peter,” he tried again, crouching now. “I’m not gonna hurt you.”

The silence that answered him was louder than anything else in the room. And then - a slow scrape. Another limb, slightly visible now as it flexed and curled into itself. Defensive posture. Desperate. He could see the edges of Peter’s body now. Just the outline - tucked into the dark interior of the cabinet like he was trying to disappear inside it. Limbs cocooned around his frame. His face was turned away, buried in the curve of his shoulder.

He didn’t respond to the name. Didn’t look up. Didn’t make eye contact. Just trembled harder, the soft rustle of metal restraints brushing across the floor like windblown leaves.

Steve didn’t push. Not yet. His knee twinged as he knelt lower, angling his body so he wasn’t directly in front of the cabinet but offset, unthreatening. He exhaled slowly.

The silence held too long. It wasn’t stillness anymore - it was something worse. Something brittle. A vacuum, like the room had been holding its breath for too long and had started to cave in on itself.

Steve was kneeling now, one hand braced on the tile, the other hovering uncertainly in the air near the cabinet. Peter hadn’t moved again - not toward them, not away - just stayed curled up tight, the spider limbs coiled close to his frame like armor. His head was still turned, eyes barely visible in the gloom, tracking in jittery, instinctive flicks. But the moment Steve said his name again - softly, gently, with all the kindness he could muster - Peter pressed himself further back against the rear wall of the cabinet with a low scrape of metal-on-metal.

Not a flinch. A retreat.

Bucky stayed behind him, silent, tension rippling across his shoulders. Watching. Not moving. “I think-” Steve started, then stopped. Swallowed. Tried again. “I don’t think he recognizes us.”

He could feel it in his bones. It wasn’t anger on Peter’s face. Not avoidance. Not the sulky, prickly silence of a teenager furious at the world. This was something raw and scared. Peter’s wide, bloodshot eyes flicked between them too fast, pupils too blown. His lips were parted slightly, breath coming in shallow, fast pulls that stuttered every time Steve moved even slightly.

There was no recognition there. No understanding. Just instinct.

Fear.

Steve’s heart twisted, a slow, painful turn of something ancient and tender. “Hey,” he tried again, softer now. “Hey, Pete. Are you hurt? Can you talk to me?”

Peter didn’t blink. Didn’t move. Just stared. His jaw trembled, a tic twitching in his cheek. There was a thin trickle of dried blood still flaked at the corner of his mouth, and his hands - no, his limbs - were curled protectively against his sides like a nest, but his fingers had gone slack.

When Steve slowly reached out - a hand, palm-up, open, gentle as he could - Peter jerked like he’d been struck. His whole body stiffened. Limbs flared out again, curling up defensively, not to attack - never to attack - but to shield. His shoulders curled in. His eyes snapped shut, teeth gritted. And then he just… tried to wedge himself deeper into the metal alcove, like the space might open wider and swallow him whole if he asked nicely.

Steve froze. He didn’t pull back, but he didn’t push forward either. Just held himself still, feeling something in his chest cave in a little further.

He thinks I’m going to hurt him.

That was what cut deepest. Not that Peter was scared - but that he wasn’t surprised. That this reaction wasn’t new. That it was rehearsed, practiced, habitual. As if he’d been trained to expect pain and make himself small before it landed. Behind him, Bucky didn’t say anything. Steve didn’t look.

“Okay,” Steve whispered. “Okay. You’re alright, okay? Just - you’re safe. You’re safe here.”

But Peter didn’t respond. Just a quiet, high-pitched sound left him - a miserable little warble, wet and inhuman, something from the back of the throat that sounded more like an animal than a boy. His limbs twitched again, and then - tentatively, like even the movement hurt - he peeked out from between them. Just a flicker. One wide, glassy eye, ringed in red.

Steve didn’t move. Not until that moment.

He shifted in closer by inches, careful not to let his boots squeak on the tile. Not until he was kneeling right outside the cabinet, knees against the cool metal. He reached out again - slow, deliberate - and laid his fingertips against Peter’s shoulder. Just enough to feel the tension thrumming underneath. The heat of him. The terrible fragility.

Peter stiffened - rigid, spine locking up - but he didn’t pull away.

Steve’s hand trembled slightly as he moved. Just a little. Up from the shoulder to the side of Peter’s neck. Then, with infinite care, he cupped Peter’s face.

And that’s when the dam broke.

Peter let out another one of those awful noises - quiet and lost and wrong, all tremble and no words. His cheek leaned into the touch like he couldn’t help it, like he needed it more than air. The noise died into a wet little sound, and his head tipped forward. He slumped.

Steve caught him.

One arm curled behind his back. The other around his ribs. He eased Peter out of the cabinet slowly, carefully, feeling the way the boy collapsed forward like his bones had gone to jelly and he’d given up holding himself upright. Steve pulled him in, cradling him with more gentleness than he’d ever had to use on anyone in his life, like Peter might shatter if he breathed too hard.

The kid didn’t resist. He just let himself be held.

The limbs uncurled, one by one, slow and deliberate. Two of them wrapped loosely around Steve’s back, the rest bracing against the floor as Peter sagged into his chest. His head tucked under Steve’s chin. His breath came in slow, hitching waves. Still no words. Still nothing human in the sounds he made - but they were quieter now. Not panic. Just exhaustion.

Steve held him, hand sliding down up and down his shoulders in a slow, instinctive motion, one that felt like it came from some ancient part of him that remembered how to comfort even when everything else had stopped working.

And still - he didn’t look at Bucky. Not once. He couldn’t.

Peter made another sound against Steve's chest - that same low, fractured noise, something between a whimper and an exhale - and Steve held him a little tighter. His arms wrapped firm and steady around the boy's back, and the spider limbs coiled more loosely now, like they were mirroring the relaxation, or at least trying to. For a moment, Steve just breathed. In. Out. Felt Peter's ribcage stutter against his. Tried not to shake.

Then, carefully, he shifted. Just enough to see.

"Hey, bud," Steve murmured, one hand rising to brush the matted hair back from Peter's clammy forehead. "Can you look at me? Just for a second."

Peter didn't respond at first. But when Steve nudged him gently, thumb at the side of his jaw, Peter's face tipped upward. His eyes cracked open, sluggish and squinting. Not quite focusing. Steve frowned.

"Does your head hurt?" he asked, trying to keep his voice low, comforting.  

Peter blinked. Slowly. Like the motion was difficult. His pupils were blown too wide, swallowing almost all the brown, and his lashes fluttered against the harsh medbay lights. His mouth opened a little - but instead of words, another soft trill emerged. A low-frequency sound that buzzed against Steve's collarbone.

Then he curled again, folding inward until his face was tucked back against Steve's shoulder. Steve held him. Let his hand rest against the nape of Peter's neck, stroking once.

Behind them, Bucky shifted. "He recognizes you," Bucky said quietly. "But he doesn't get the words."

Steve glanced at him, eyebrows drawn.

"You sure?"

Bucky let out a breath through his nose. Almost silent. "Pretty sure. He knows who you are. Just not what you're saying."

Steve looked back down at Peter, whose lashes fluttered again with overstimulation, and felt his stomach drop. "You think it's-?"

"Yeah." Bucky's mouth was a hard line. "Language center. We probably… we probably fried it."

The words hit like a brick to the gut. Steve felt them. Cold. Hard. Heavy. He turned to look at Bucky, but his expression was unreadable. Set. Distant. “ You probably fried it,” Steve's voice dropped further. "You were supposed to do it one word at a time."

"He didn't have time," Bucky replied. "He wanted them out-"

"So we took away his entire understanding of the English language instead?" Steve hissed, trying not to shake Peter while he raised his voice. Peter whimpered faintly. Steve immediately lowered his tone. "Jesus, Buck."

Bucky's hands curled at his sides. "We'll figure it out. There are therapies. There's tech. If it means he's not killing himself in a panic attack, it-"

Peter made another sound. Louder this time. Agitated. A weird, sharp keening that pierced the space between them. Steve flinched, then immediately pressed a hand to Peter's shoulder. "Shh, hey - you're alright. You're alright." Then, to Bucky, he hissed, "Shut up. We'll deal with this later. Go get Cho."

Bucky hesitated, jaw clenched, then he turned and strode for the door. Steve leaned in closer, murmuring soothing nonsense until Peter's muscles started to unlock again.

The door slid open a moment later and Cho stepped in, a digital thermometer and small penlight in hand. She looked tired. Cautious. Her gaze swept over Steve holding Peter, and her expression softened slightly. "He shouldn’t even be awake yet," she murmured, crouching down beside them. "He metabolized the sedatives faster than expected. His vitals are stable, though."

Steve shifted just enough to let her in, but Peter still recoiled the second she reached for him.

She paused. "Can I check your eyes? Just quick. You can stay with Steve."

Peter made no response. His eyes were still open, but barely. Steve nodded to her, holding Peter steady as she flashed the light once across each eye.

Peter let out a wounded sound and tried to recoil.

"Sensitivity," she said softly, apologetically. "His whole sensory system's on fire right now. That would have felt like a camera flash inside his brain."

"Jesus," Steve breathed. "How do we help him?"

"Low stimulation. Dim lighting. No loud sounds. Cool cloths. Hydration, if he’ll take it. I can prep a nutrient IV if he refuses food. But honestly, he should be out for a while still."

Steve adjusted Peter a little more against his chest. The boy hadn’t moved again. "He can stay on my floor," Steve said quietly. "I’ll set him up in the spare room he was staying in before. Dim the lights. Quiet. I'll get him something to eat and drink."

Cho hesitated. "He should be monitored-"

"FRIDAY can do it," Steve replied. "And you can come check on him whenever you want. But I'm not leaving him down here alone."

Cho looked at him for a long moment, then nodded slowly. "Alright. I’ll bring a kit up later. We can talk more once he’s stable."

"Thank you," Steve said, voice rough.

Cho didn’t answer. She just packed up her things, stood, and left.

Peter didn’t stir.

Steve crouched carefully beside the bed, easing an arm around Peter’s shoulders. His skin was hot through the gown - too warm, like his body was still burning off whatever had kept him unconscious. He hadn’t said a word, hadn’t made a sound that could be called human, but he hadn’t pulled away either. That was something. A start, maybe. But now that they had to move him, Steve felt a knot form tight in his chest, hard and pulsing.

“Alright, kid,” he murmured low, just in case Peter was still in there enough to hear the gentleness in it. “Let’s get you home.”

Peter didn’t respond; he just stayed curled around himself like a spider folding in its legs, those organic limbs twitching erratically against the blankets like they weren’t quite under his control anymore. Steve swallowed. He shifted his grip - tried to make it as unthreatening as he could, slow and steady. His other hand slid under Peter’s knees, ready to lift, when Bucky stepped up beside him.

“I’ve got the other side,” Bucky said softly, voice rough and scratching at the edges. His face was unreadable, jaw set like stone, but he moved carefully, like Peter might shatter under too much pressure.

They moved in sync, practiced from a lifetime ago - war hospitals, field evacuations, too many times dragging each other through broken rubble and blood-soaked floors. It came back fast, terrifyingly easy. Between them, they eased Peter upright. The second his weight shifted downward, Peter’s knees buckled. He slumped forward with a strangled noise, almost boneless, and for one sharp second Steve thought he might be seizing again. But then he realized - no. Not a seizure. Just… no motor control.

“Whoa - got you - easy,” Steve breathed, catching him fully, keeping his hand cupped behind Peter’s head before it could thud forward into his chest.

Peter was trembling. His muscles weren’t locked - they were loose, unresponsive. His left foot dragged slightly as Bucky repositioned him, and Steve felt the tremor under his hands. Something about it felt wrong in a way that went deeper than injury, because it wasn’t pain. It wasn’t exhaustion. It was disconnection, like Peter’s body wasn’t listening to him anymore.

“Is this…” Steve trailed off. He didn’t finish the thought. Couldn’t.

Bucky didn’t answer. Just adjusted his grip on Peter’s shoulder and gave a tight, short nod. The same way he used to in the field, when someone was too far gone for triage.

Steve gritted his teeth.

They made it to the elevator in silence. Bucky punched the button with one hand, the other still braced around Peter’s slumping form. Peter’s forehead rested against Steve’s collarbone now, mouth slightly parted, breathing shallow and fast. His body jerked occasionally in Steve’s arms - tiny, involuntary spasms like the residual flinches of an animal too overstimulated to rest.

Steve held him a little tighter.

“Almost there,” he muttered, though Peter didn’t answer. Didn’t even twitch. He was still blinking slowly, eyes half-lidded but not tracking anything, and Steve couldn’t stop himself from watching each movement - scanning for awareness, for recognition, for anything that said I’m still here .

The elevator doors opened, and Steve stepped inside first, carrying Peter against his chest like dead weight. Bucky followed close, expression grim. The hum of the elevator was too loud, too sterile, and Peter flinched at the overhead lighting. Not visibly - he didn’t recoil or cover his face - but Steve felt it in the sudden tension across his shoulders, in the way his breath caught like a startled inhale that never made it out.

When the doors slid open again, Steve didn’t wait. He headed straight down the hallway to Peter’s room despite the fact that every second felt like he was walking through wet cement, the kind that dried behind him, cutting off any chance to go back.

The room was cool and quiet. The light through the curtains was thin and grey, the sky already beginning to bleed toward evening. Steve nudged the door open with his foot and stepped inside.

“Here,” Bucky said quietly, already reaching forward to pull the comforter down. “Just lay him down, slow.”

Steve didn’t need to be told. He knelt beside the bed, easing Peter down like he weighed nothing. Peter didn’t resist. Didn’t help. He just slumped against the pillows, blinking sluggishly at the ceiling as his limbs folded back against the mattress in strange, loose angles. The spider limbs curled protectively inward, not threatening, but… wrong. They twitched and spasmed now and then, barely coordinated - like the connection between thought and motion had been frayed at the edges.

Steve reached to draw the blanket up and caught himself. Peter had flinched earlier at just the light - touch might be even worse.

So he moved slowly, cautiously, like calming a spooked animal. One hand slipped under Peter’s shoulder, the other tugging the blanket up by inches. Peter didn’t protest, but when Steve brushed his wrist too close to Peter’s neck, the boy made a soft, garbled noise - half-whimper, half-click - and turned his face into the pillow.

“Okay,” Steve whispered, withdrawing his hand. “Okay. That’s enough.” He adjusted the comforter one last time, then turned to Bucky. “Curtains.”

Bucky nodded and stepped across the room, drawing the blackout curtains closed until the room dipped into an artificial twilight. The low light seemed to help a little - Peter’s breathing evened, and his jaw unclenched slightly, but his eyes still didn’t focus. Still looked through things, not at them.

Bucky moved to the nightstand and set down a glass of water, just in case. Peter wouldn’t reach for them - Steve could already tell - but maybe later, when the haze cleared, he’d find them.

He turned to Bucky again, and for the first time in a long while, he didn’t have anything to say. Neither did Bucky.

They just stood there for a minute, watching the shape of the kid in the bed. Watching the gentle rise and fall of his chest. The barely-there flex of fingers. The twitch of one spider limb tapping once - twice - before falling still again.

Steve waited another minute - just to make sure Peter wouldn’t stir, wouldn’t panic - and then closed the door behind him.

—

The living room was dim - just the warm wash of the kitchen light spilling faintly across the hardwood, the low hum of the HVAC the only thing making noise. It should’ve felt like a sanctuary. A safe place. But Steve sat on the edge of the couch with his elbows braced on his knees, staring at the floor like it might offer up answers if he looked long enough.

Peter was still in his room. Asleep, maybe. Or just… curled in on himself, silent. He hadn’t made a sound since they’d gotten him into bed, hadn’t looked at either of them with anything close to recognition. He’d clicked a little - those strange, low sounds like sonar - but no words. Not even an attempt. Just pain and instinct and the barest thread of trust left, and Steve couldn’t get the image out of his head.

That blank, wide-eyed stare. The way Peter had melted into him like he wasn’t even a person, just a warmth he recognized and clung to.

No kid should be like that.

Steve swallowed hard. Rubbed a hand over his face.

Bucky was sitting in the armchair across from him. Not slouched - he never really slouched - but the weight of his body leaned heavy against the frame, like he’d finally run out of fight. His eyes were on Steve, not unkind, not defensive, just… tired. Haunted, maybe.

The quiet held a little longer.

“You think he’ll come back?” Steve asked eventually, not looking up.

Bucky didn’t answer right away. Steve could hear him shift, metal fingers brushing over the fabric of the armrest. Then, after a beat: “Yeah. I think he will.”

Steve finally looked at him. “You don’t know that.”

“No,” Bucky said quietly. “But I think it.”

Steve exhaled through his nose. The air in the room felt too still.

“He hasn’t said anything. Not even a word,” Steve muttered. 

Bucky tensed slightly. It was subtle - just a twitch at the corner of his mouth, a flicker of something raw that passed through his eyes and vanished again. “He knows you now. Even if he doesn’t understand everything. He knows you .”

Steve dragged a hand through his hair, then scrubbed at the back of his neck. “It’s not enough. I can’t just - hold him every time he’s in pain and pretend that makes up for the rest of it. For what happened to him. For what we did to him.”

That hit the silence hard.

Bucky leaned forward slightly, forearms on his knees now, mirroring Steve’s posture. He didn’t say anything right away. Just watched him for a moment, face unreadable. “You didn’t do this,” Bucky said finally. “If you wanna be mad at someone, be mad at me.”

“I am mad at you,” Steve said without hesitation. “Still.”

That didn’t get a rise out of Bucky. If anything, he looked relieved to hear it out loud. “Good,” he murmured, voice low. “You’d be a real shitty friend if you weren’t.”

Steve gave a humorless huff. He didn’t smile. Just looked down at the floor again, jaw tight. “You messed him up real bad, Buck.”

“I know.”

“You knew what that would do.”

“I know ,” Bucky said again, this time leaning forward a little more. “But if it didn’t work - if one word was left behind - he would’ve gotten himself killed trying to get it out. You know that.”

Steve went quiet again. His hands curled into loose fists between his knees.

“I should’ve stopped you,” he said quietly. “Even if it didn’t work. Even if he kept all the words.”

“Then we’d be burying him by now,” Bucky said, just as quiet. “And you’d hate me for that too.”

Steve didn’t answer. Just sat there, breathing through his nose, trying not to fall into the pit of helplessness that had been chasing him all day. Bucky’s hand reached across the space between them - hesitant, uncertain - and rested against Steve’s arm. Just above the elbow. Not gripping. Just there. The pressure of old familiarity.

Steve didn’t shrug it off, but he didn’t move into it either.

They stayed like that for a moment.

Then Bucky shifted, stood slowly, and stepped in. His body moved carefully, deliberately - not a threat, not pushy, just… present, and he leaned in. The hug wasn’t much. Just arms around Steve’s shoulders, his body pressing in close. Warm and solid and a little awkward - like they didn’t know how to do this anymore but were trying anyway. Steve didn’t return it at first. Just sat there, motionless, letting it happen.

Then - slowly - he leaned in too. His forehead found Bucky’s shoulder. His hand came up to press weakly into Bucky’s side. Not a full embrace. 

“I’m still mad at you,” Steve murmured into the fabric of Bucky’s shirt. The words weren’t angry. They were quiet. Exhausted.

“Yeah, I know,” Bucky said. There was something almost fond in it. “You always held grudges.”

Steve huffed a little into his shoulder. It wasn’t quite a laugh. More like the idea of one. A ghost of a sound that almost became something more. The room stayed quiet around them. Nothing else moved.

And down the hall, Peter slept - silent, flickering in and out of awareness, tangled in shadows and half-formed memories, waiting for something that didn’t hurt.

—

The first thing Peter registered was heat.

Too much of it, close and pressing and unfamiliar. The second thing was silence. He could hear the low mechanical hum of something - vent maybe, or distant wiring - but it didn’t register as safe or unsafe. Just noise. His cheek was pressed to fabric.  Not metal, not stone. Soft. A bed. He knew that much.

His body ached.

Everything inside him throbbed like it had been set on fire and left to smolder. His head felt like it had a heartbeat of its own - sharp, pounding, too loud behind his eyes. He couldn’t open them all the way. Light filtered in under his eyelids and made bile crawl up his throat.

He rolled, slow and sluggish, onto his side. The motion sent a bolt of nausea straight through his chest. He stayed still for a moment after that, breathing shallow, waiting for it to pass.

One of his spider limbs twitched above him, and he startled - jerked hard enough to send sparks through his spine. It took a long minute to realize it was his . Still attached. Still functioning. His brain had just - lagged behind. Or maybe gotten severed from the rest of him.

His tongue felt too big in his mouth. Dry. Wrong. He tried to swallow and gagged instead.

The room was too quiet. Not the silence of security, but the stillness of abandonment . A cold kind of silence. The kind that made him want to burrow.

His fingers curled into the blanket under him. The texture scratched at his skin - soft, but too warm. His limbs (all eight of them) trembled faintly from strain or residual electricity or something worse.

Where was-?

He opened his eyes.

Immediately closed them again with a hiss.

Too bright. Even dim as it was - too bright. The edges of everything burned behind his eyelids like a chemical flash. He whimpered, pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes until blackness folded back over the pain.

No words came out. Not even a name. Not even a please .

He wasn’t sure who he’d ask for.

Tony? Harley? Steve?

Harley.

Something inside his chest twisted, but he didn’t have the right shape for the emotion. Too slippery. Couldn’t catch it. Just left with the ache.

He tried again - one hand reaching toward the edge of the mattress, fumbling. Trying to find his bearings. His weight was too far forward; when he pushed up, he nearly slid right off the bed. One spider limb shot out instinctively, stabbing the ground with a loud thunk to catch him.

He made a sound - low, panicked, guttural - and yanked the limb back.

The sound felt wrong too. Too raw .

His human fingers found the wall. He used it to anchor himself, dragging his weight upright. His muscles were jelly. His legs - when he finally swung them down - barely obeyed. One knee buckled instantly. He hit the edge of the bedframe with a sharp gasp.

He crouched on the floor, panting.

His throat burned. His chest felt like it was full of static. None of the air went in right. The light was too much. The room was too much . Every sound - the hum, the shuffle of his own limbs, the rattle of his breath - was like someone whispering directly into his skull.

He made another sound.

Not a word.

A desperate, strangled thing. Frustrated and miserable and helpless all at once. He didn’t understand anything. His body didn’t feel like his. His brain was wrong. Too many holes. Too many gaps. When he tried to focus on a shape or a feeling or a thought, it slipped through his grasp like smoke.

He wanted - he didn’t know what he wanted.

His limbs curled close around his body, surrounding him in a makeshift cage. A little fortress. He buried his face in his arms, shuddering. Let out a low, warbling hum, desperate and unformed.

No one came.

He didn't know if they were even nearby. 

Part of him thought: they left. You’re broken, and they left. Another part said: good. Less to hurt. Less to see you like this.

He rocked forward once, twice. Tried to breathe through it. He didn’t know how long he stayed there.

Eventually, his body forced him to move. Too uncomfortable. Too tight. His right foot had gone numb. He peeled himself off the floor and stumbled toward the ensuite bathroom. Couldn’t keep straight lines. Walked diagonally, one hand on the wall. He made it to the door by feel alone.

Inside, he didn’t turn on the light. He collapsed against the wall beside the sink and reached blindly for the cold tap. Water splashed into the basin, too loud. He flinched.

Cupped his hands. Brought it to his mouth.

Spilled most of it.

Tried again.

The water was a blessing and a curse. Cold against his hands, soothing - but the pressure was too much. The sound roared in his ears like a jet engine. He shut it off quickly, shaking.

He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror and staggered back.

He looked wrong.

Pale. Eyes bloodshot. Lips split. A smear of blood still trailed from his nose, dried dark and crusted near one nostril. The spider limbs hovered protectively behind him, trembling faintly.

He didn’t recognize the thing in the reflection.

Didn’t want to.

He dropped his gaze. Curled in. Waited for the dark to press close enough that the ache behind his eyes stopped throbbing. He didn’t know how to fix this, even as he slipped back to his bed.

Didn’t even know the words to ask anymore.

—

The room was still when Steve slipped in.

Dim light filtered through the cracks in the heavy curtains, casting pale lines across the carpet and the edge of Peter's bed. The kid hadn’t moved much in the hours since they'd brought him back. Steve had checked in twice already, quietly - just enough to reassure himself Peter was still breathing, still warm, still there . But this time he didn’t stop at the doorway.

He stepped in slowly, bare feet silent against the hardwood, a fresh glass of water in one hand. His other hand hovered near the light dimmer, but he didn’t dare raise it more than a sliver. Peter would hate that. His body was still trembling under the soft weight of the comforter, curled half into his side like a kid. One hand was twisted into the sheets, fingers curled and twitching faintly with each breath.

Steve crouched next to the bed, careful not to jostle it. “Peter,” he said softly.

Nothing.

He reached out, touched a hand to the blanket, then more boldly to Peter’s arm, brushing with enough pressure to stir. “Hey,” he murmured again. “C’mon. Time to wake up, buddy.”

Peter flinched, head twitching slightly. His eyes blinked open blearily, red-rimmed and barely focused. There was a moment where he stared at Steve without recognition - then his spider limbs tightened around the blankets, and his whole body pressed deeper into the mattress like he was afraid it might disappear.

“It’s alright,” Steve said quickly. “You’re okay. Just me.”

Peter made a small noise - not a word, not even a groan. Just a low, chittering hum from the back of his throat, barely audible. His mouth moved like he was trying to say something, but no shape came of it.

Steve swallowed. “You’ve been out a while. Thought you might be thirsty.”

He held up the glass. Peter's eyes tracked it slowly, but he didn’t reach for it. Or maybe he was reaching - his fingers twitched slightly under the blanket, but his limbs didn’t cooperate. Steve shifted closer, sitting gently on the edge of the bed.

“Okay. That’s alright. We’ll try this together.”

He slipped one hand behind Peter’s shoulders and lifted him, slowly, gently, until Peter was upright enough to lean against his chest. The kid was all bones and shivers, his breath going tight and fast with effort. One of his hands came up, slow and uncoordinated, reaching toward the glass. Steve steadied it with both hands, tilted it forward just enough.

Peter tried. He really did. His mouth parted slightly, jaw working clumsily. The water sloshed against his lip, and he licked at it like it was too heavy to hold.

Then he coughed. It started as a small splutter but quickly turned rough, wet. He jerked forward, choking a little, water dribbling down his chin. Steve set the glass aside instantly and pulled the blankets back, wiping his mouth gently with the edge of the sheet.

“Hey, easy,” Steve murmured. “Don’t rush it.”

Peter made another noise then. Not quite a word. Just a soft, plaintive click , almost like frustration. One of his limbs curled tight around Steve’s thigh.

“You okay?” Steve asked softly.

Peter blinked slowly. His gaze was watery and unfocused. He opened his mouth like he wanted to speak, but no sound came. His brow furrowed, lips twitching. He looked like he was trying so hard to say something, anything, but couldn’t shape it.

Steve waited. Gave him time. But when the noise came, it wasn’t a word. It was a soft warble, a chittering trill like something out of a forest, alien and animal and young .

Steve’s heart ached.

“It’s okay,” he whispered. “You don’t have to talk yet. You’ll get there.”

Peter blinked again. His hand brushed the air, then dropped back to Steve’s chest, curling in weakly. Steve just held him. The kid was hurting. Disoriented. Still half-lost. But he was here. He was trying . And for now, that was enough.

—

The hum of the lab was constant, low and steady, like a mechanical heartbeat. Harley sat on one of the stools by the workbench, hunched over a tablet he wasn’t reading, jaw tight, fingers tapping irritably at the edge of the screen. He wasn’t really in the lab to work. Not today. Not when Peter was somewhere upstairs, silent and curled in on himself and- 

And not asking for him.

Across the room, Tony was hunched in front of the main display. He looked like hell. Unshaven, exhausted, eyes glassy in that way they got when the guilt sank deep enough to replace sleep. He hadn’t said more than a few words since Harley arrived an hour ago.

Harley cleared his throat. Tony didn’t look up.

"Have you seen him?" Harley asked.

Nothing. Tony ran a hand down his face. Grease smudged across his cheekbone. His fingers trembled. Harley waited a beat. Two. The tension in his chest bloomed, hot and sour.

"Tony."

"No," Tony said, voice raw. He finally looked up, but not at Harley. More through him. Like Harley was a thought he didn’t want to deal with.

Harley stood, tablet clattering to the bench behind him. "It’s been days."

"I know."

"And you haven’t seen him."

Tony shrugged. It wasn’t casual. It was defensive. Cowardly, like the gesture could hold off the truth of it. "He’s stable. That’s what matters."

"He’s not even - you don’t know how bad it is."

"Cho said he’d recover," Tony muttered. "It just - it takes time."

Harley stared at him. He couldn’t decide what he felt more: fury, or shame. "I didn’t mean the brain damage, man. I meant me." That made Tony pause. Just a flicker. Harley kept going. "He hasn’t asked for me. Not once. You don’t think that’s weird? After - everything?"

Tony looked like he wanted to be anywhere else.

"What if he hates me? I - I didn’t see him when it happened, and - he’s not asking for me now. It’s been a week. Usually he’d be upset if I didn’t go down to see him everyday."

Tony’s jaw worked. "He’ll get there eventually."

"That doesn’t make me feel better."

"Wasn’t trying to."

Harley dragged a hand through his hair, pacing a slow, angry circle in the center of the room. His limbs felt too tight, his chest like it was being squeezed. "I’m going up there."

"Don’t."

Harley stopped.

Tony looked up again. Really looked, this time. There was something wrecked behind his eyes. Something hollow. "Just wait. Let him settle."

Harley hated how calm Tony sounded. How easy it was for him to sit there, to hide behind guilt and silence and tell Harley to do the same. "Settle into what? Not being a person anymore?"

Tony flinched.

Harley grabbed his jacket off the back of the stool. His hand shook as he shoved his arms through the sleeves. "You can wait if you want. I’m not."

He turned and walked out without waiting for a reply.

The elevator doors opened with a hiss, too soft for how loud Harley’s pulse was in his ears. His boots scuffed against the polished floor of Steve’s floor as he stepped out, jaw tight, hands clenched in the pockets of his hoodie. He hadn’t planned anything past getting there - hadn’t even told them he was coming upstairs. He was done waiting for permission. Done stewing. Done pacing circles in the lab while everyone else got to see Peter. While Peter didn’t ask for him.

The apartment smelled faintly like leather and shampoo. Low TV noise echoed from the living room. He rounded the corner.

Peter was curled up on the couch, limbs everywhere. His real arms were tucked against his chest under a blue blanket, but one spider limb was curled around the back of the sofa like a scorpion’s tail. Another dangled off the side, twitching lightly in rhythm with the cartoon playing on the screen - some bright old-school thing with muted voices and big expressions. It looked like something Steve had picked, and yeah, he was there too, sitting stiffly at the other end of the couch like he was half-distracted, like he’d been watching Peter more than the show.

Peter was draped across the cushions, slouched hard to one side, looking half-melted into the fabric. His hair was sticking up, and he was bundled in a sweatshirt several sizes too big, sleeves bunched around his fists. His head tilted back slowly, lazily, spider-limb tightening just a little when he noticed movement - and then he saw Harley.

Across the room, near the kitchen, Bucky straightened. His whole posture shifted, from hovering-neutral to something cold and bristling.

“The hell are you doing here,” Bucky said flatly, no heat behind it - just immediate disapproval, like Harley was a piece of gum stuck to the floor. Harley didn’t stop. His legs kept carrying him forward, even as the back of his neck prickled.  

Peter blinked up at him from where he dangled upside-down over the armrest. His pupils were huge. Glassy and unfocused. His mouth twitched - somewhere between a smile and a grimace - and for a second Harley thought it was a grin. But then Peter’s jaw wobbled slightly, and Harley realized the left side of his face was kind of slack. Numb. Like he’d just come from the dentist. It was crooked, uneven.  

Harley swallowed thickly and stepped past Bucky without acknowledging him. His feet made almost no sound on the floor, just a soft hush of rubber sole. His heart was beating harder than it should’ve been.

Peter reached toward him with one slow, uncoordinated hand - his fingers splayed like he wasn’t sure how to close them all the way. His arm hovered in the air for a second, and then drooped like the effort of reaching had tired him out.

Harley didn’t say anything until he was kneeling beside the couch, sinking down onto the carpet like the air had gone too heavy for standing. “Hey,” he said softly. “Hey, Peter. How you doing?”

Peter didn’t answer - not in words. Just blinked at him again, his eyelids out of sync. One slower than the other. But his body shifted. A spider limb creaked downward. And then, with a noise like a low, syrupy hum, Peter just sort of... slid.

Right off the couch. Down onto Harley’s lap in one slow-motion spill of sweatshirt and limbs and warmth and weight.

“Whoa - hey-” Harley didn’t even get the chance to react before Peter was practically on him.

No warning, no hesitation. Peter surged forward and immediately latched onto him with a kind of eager desperation that made Harley stumble back a step. Four spider limbs wrapped around Harley’s shoulders, waist, and thighs in one swift motion, the kind of movement Harley had always associated with danger - with precision, with combat. But now it was… soft. Loose, almost. Just enough pressure to steady, to hold.

And Peter. God. He was burying his face in Harley’s shoulder like a cat trying to disappear into a sunbeam, nuzzling against the crook of Harley’s neck like it was instinctual. He smelled like antiseptic and shampoo. Warm, fevered skin pressed up against Harley’s throat, and his breath hitched against his collarbone.

Harley grunted, catching him automatically. “Oof - Jesus - okay.”

Peter didn’t seem to care. He melted into the contact like a heat-seeking missile, pressing his forehead into Harley’s shoulder, a soft huff of air escaping his nose. His body was warm, and his limbs - real and not - looped around Harley’s sides in slow, awkward drags.

Harley froze. For half a second, his body wanted to recoil, to tense up at the sudden press of limbs and heat and need. But then, Peter made a sound.

A soft, high chitter. It wasn’t quite a whine, wasn’t quite a sigh. It vibrated in his chest and trickled out into the space between them like static electricity - harmless but charged. Comforting in a way Harley didn’t know how to explain. Peter.

Harley relaxed all at once.

He didn’t even mean to, but his arms came up automatically, looping around Peter’s waist like gravity had finally caught up. One hand pressed lightly to the small of Peter’s back, the other resting at the base of his neck, fingertips threading lightly through the hair that had gotten too long again.

“You miss me or somethin’?” Harley tried to joke, but his voice came out cracked and too-soft, the humor already halfway drowned in the back of his throat.

Peter didn’t answer. He just hummed again, quieter now, like the tension had already drained from his spine the moment Harley touched him. He tucked in tighter, spider limbs folding inward, one curling gently around Harley’s calf like it belonged there.

Harley glanced over Peter’s head, blinking hard to find Steve watching them carefully. His expression was unreadable. “Harley,” he said, voice low. “You shouldn’t be here. Not while he’s still recovering.”

“He’s fine,” Harley replied, sharper than he meant to be. One of his hands curled protectively around Peter’s back anyway, steadying him. Peter made that hum again - pleased or dazed or just overloaded, Harley couldn’t tell - and rubbed his face against the curve of Harley’s neck, his breath tickling at Harley’s collar.

He didn’t even know if Peter was aware what he was doing or if he was just reacting to warmth and familiarity. The thought made Harley’s stomach twist sideways.

Bucky didn’t move. Just stood like a shadow at the edge of the kitchen, his jaw working. Harley couldn’t even bring himself to look at him.

Peter’s breath hitched a little. One of the spider limbs twitched erratically behind them, a little flinch. Harley shushed him without thinking, running a hand up the back of Peter’s shirt in slow strokes. Peter made a sound like a sigh, or maybe just an exhale he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. The tip of his nose pressed into Harley’s throat. His limbs trembled faintly - not scared, just... overstimulated. There was so much heat pouring off him.

Harley let his eyes flutter shut, chest tightening. He wasn’t even sure what was happening. Or what it meant. Only that Peter was here - real, alive, curled against him like nothing had happened. 

Like nothing had changed. But everything had changed.

Peter was already climbing further into Harley's lap - not all at once, but enough that Harley had to reach out automatically and steady him, hands catching Peter under the arms. His legs didn’t seem to quite obey him. His balance was shot, but he leaned forward, nose nudging against Harley's neck like a cat scenting someone it trusted.

Harley's breath hitched.

Peter didn't seem to notice. He made a low, content sound - somewhere between a hum and a purr. His limbs fluttered faintly, twitching like they were testing the air. Then they curled in slowly, wrapping around Harley's sides in a loose sort of hug. The pressure was delicate, cautious.

Steve watched from the sofa, arms crossed, silent. The overhead light was off, sunlight filtered in through gauzy curtains, and everything felt low and warm and quiet.

Harley didn't say anything at first. He just sat there, letting Peter settle. Letting the weight of him register. Letting the unmistakable closeness of it all sink in.

Peter wasn’t acting like someone who remembered what Harley had done. Or what he’d said. Or how broken everything had felt after.

That should have been a relief.

It was.

But it also made Harley feel like he was going to throw up.

"Hey, sweetheart," Harley said quietly, running a tentative hand through Peter's hair.

Peter chirped. A real noise - sharp inhale, almost a squeak. He tilted his head, pushed further into Harley's chest. He was warm. Burning up, like he hadn’t quite kicked the fever that'd followed the coma.

"Jesus," Harley breathed. Peter didn't react. Just nestled in closer. Spider limbs tightening gently. Peter's hand had crept under the hem of his hoodie and was resting, stupidly, warmly, on his ribs. He'd always been like this - a little touch-starved, a little over-tactile - but not like this. “Has he…” Harley started, then swallowed. “I mean. Has he been like this with you?" Harley asked, not sure if he wanted to know the answer. Peter blinked up at Harley. One pupil was blown out wider than the other. Pain meds, probably. He didn't look like he was really tracking anything.

Steve exhaled, carefully. "A bit. He’s been… clingy,” Steve said, after a pause. “Affectionate.”

Harley blinked, his arms still full of Peter, who hadn’t so much as twitched since pressing himself in. “Okay, yeah, no shit,” he muttered, brushing his hand across Peter’s back. “But I mean - is he okay?”

That made Steve hesitate.

Harley felt it before he saw it - the tension that laced the air, the way Steve’s jaw flexed like he was working his way around something hard to swallow. He didn’t answer right away. And that silence - God, it made Harley’s stomach twist.

Peter shifted again, burrowing further into the side of Harley’s neck. A soft chuff left him - another inhuman sound, like a sleepy dog huffing into a pile of blankets. He didn’t seem to care that people were talking. Didn’t even lift his head.

Steve’s gaze flicked - just for a moment - over Harley’s shoulder. Toward the kitchen. A cabinet slammed shut, too loud, and Harley flinched.

“He can’t talk,” Steve said, quietly.

Harley froze. The words didn’t land at first. He just blinked, slowly, brain trying to register what he'd heard.

“What?” he said, voice flat.

Steve’s eyes flicked up to him, gaze tight.

“He can’t talk,” he repeated. “Not right now. He’s recovering.”

The words hit like a fist to the chest. Harley’s hand curled slightly on Peter’s back. He looked down. Peter still hadn’t moved. Still pressed close. Still humming softly in the back of his throat like a motor left running, like nothing was wrong.

“I…” Harley’s voice dropped out. He swallowed, lifting his hand gently, fingers brushing against Peter’s cheek. “But - he looks okay. He - he came right over to me - he knows me.”

“He remembers,” Steve said. “But remembering something and understanding it are two different things.”

Harley looked down at Peter again. He hadn’t moved. Just breathed. In and out. Shallow. Eyes half-lidded, tucked under Harley’s chin like it was his natural place in the world. Harley cupped his cheek carefully, and Peter tipped his head back into the touch, soft and trusting. Harley’s hand drifted down, brushed his throat. The skin there was warm. Delicate. 

No sound came out. Not even a hum.

Peter’s eyes were foggy, unfocused. He blinked too slowly. His lips parted, like he might try to say something - but nothing came out.

"Does he understand us?" Harley asked, voice hoarse.

Steve leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "No. Not the words. Not really. Cho said there was swelling. The procedure targeted regions of the brain tied to speech and coordination. She says he’ll recover, but it’s going to take some time. But… he understands tone. Body language."

Harley stared down at the Peter wrapped around him. Peter, who’d dragged him in and held on like he meant it. Peter, who wasn’t crying, wasn’t flinching, wasn’t angry. He couldn’t talk. He couldn’t understand them.

Peter let out a soft warble. One of the limbs stretched up and curled lightly against Harley's hair, brushing over it. Harley swallowed hard. “So he doesn’t - he doesn’t remember the words?”

Steve’s face flickered. “He remembers the sound of them. Maybe. But he doesn’t process them anymore.”

Harley nodded slowly. Then again. As if it would help make any of this feel less unreal. Peter curled tighter into him and made another sound - warbling this time, wet and quiet, barely louder than a breath. Harley felt it vibrate against his collarbone. Then Peter’s limbs wrapped a little more snugly, one sliding up between his shoulder blades.

“Jesus,” Harley whispered. He didn’t mean to. His voice cracked on the way out.

“He’s regressed,” Steve said. “Cognitively. Cho says it’s instinct over logic now. He knows his routines. He can eat, shower, dress himself. But higher functions are gone. Just for now.”

Harley looked back at Steve, throat tight. “And when he comes off the pain meds?”

Steve hesitated again. “Hopefully, it helps. But right now he’s still dealing with light sensitivity, migraines, and disorientation. He’s overwhelmed. Still panicking a little.” Harley turned back down to Peter. Steve smiled faintly, if sadly. "He's affectionate," he said. "But he's not really… all there. Cho's got him on some pretty strong meds, so he’s probably thinking even less clearly than usual, even without the... brain damage."

Harley didn’t know what to say. He just looked down, watched as Peter wound himself tighter around him, limbs encasing him like a blanket. The kind of hug that didn’t allow for movement or distance. Not because it was forceful, just because it was absolute. He ducked his head. Let his forehead rest against Peter's. And Peter… purred. Real, low, rattling in his chest.

Harley closed his eyes.

It didn’t feel like forgiveness. But it felt like grace.

Peter looked up at him again - eyes heavy, half-lidded, but not afraid. Not confused. Just… there . Soft and quiet and trusting in a way Harley wasn’t sure he deserved. Peter tipped his head again, pressing his forehead lightly to Harley’s sternum. One of the limbs moved to cover Harley’s hand like it was tucking him in.

“Hey,” Harley whispered, voice gone hoarse. “Hey, sweetheart. I got you. You’re okay.”

Peter made a soft chittering sound and tucked his face back into Harley’s neck, breath warm and damp against his pulse, and Harley, despite everything - despite the weeks of guilt, the nightmares, the awful wet pop of a trigger word unlocking something it was never meant to - felt himself finally, silently, start to breathe again.

Peter didn’t let go.

Even after the hush settled between them, even after Harley’s arms went a little numb from how tightly Peter was holding on, there wasn’t a single indication he planned on shifting away. The spider limbs adjusted once - fluid and natural - like the twitch of a tail or the stretch of muscle memory - but they never released him.

Harley’s throat tightened.

He thought he’d come up here to be yelled at. Thought maybe Peter would remember what he’d said, what Harley had done - what he’d agreed to - and he’d flinch, or curl up, or just look at him like he was someone else entirely. Someone dangerous.

But this was worse . This was trust. Unfiltered. Unquestioning.

It made Harley’s stomach churn.

He shifted a little, just to adjust his legs where he was kneeling awkwardly on the floor, but Peter followed the motion without hesitation. All six limbs tightened for a beat, like his body interpreted the movement as a threat of departure. Harley froze, immediately dropping his hand to Peter’s back again and giving him a soft press between his shoulder blades.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he murmured. “It’s okay. Just movin’.”

Peter let out a slow breath against his throat. The sound was almost content, if a little shaky. Harley didn’t look up, not at first, but he could feel Steve’s gaze lingering across the room. Heavy. Watchful. Not unkind, exactly - just aware . Steve was never not aware.

“Has he been doing this a lot?” Harley asked after a second. His voice barely crested a whisper. He wasn’t sure Peter could handle anything louder right now.

“Clinging?” Steve replied softly. “Yeah. It started the night he woke up. He kept looking around like he didn’t know where he was. Wouldn’t settle unless someone was near him.”

Harley nodded faintly. He swallowed around the thickness in his throat and glanced down.

Peter’s fingers had curled into the edge of Harley’s sleeve, barely visible beneath the cuffs of the hoodie. The fabric bunched in his grip, and even though his hands trembled a little, he didn’t seem like he planned on letting go anytime soon. His eyes were half-shut. He looked… exhausted. Pale. Fragile. Like the softest breeze might knock him back down into that coma again. Harley blinked hard, throat squeezing tight.

“Did he-” he started, then stopped, shaking his head slightly and correcting-  “Does he know I wasn’t here?”

Steve didn’t answer right away.

When Harley looked up, Steve was still watching - arms crossed, jaw set tight. There was sympathy there, in the shape of his frown, but it was tempered. Measured. Steve had never really been someone who let emotion dictate his words, even if Harley suspected it was always simmering just beneath the surface.

“Hard to say,” Steve said eventually. “He remembers people. Places. Feelings, I think, but not in the same way we do. Not with language. Just… associations.”

Harley looked back down. One of Peter’s spider limbs had started tracing lazy, looping figure-eights on the floor beside them. It was rhythmic. Soothing. The kind of movement you’d see from someone rocking themselves to calm down.

Or maybe - Harley thought, with something bitter curling in his chest - the kind of movement someone made when they’d already lost their words and didn’t know how else to talk. Harley let out a quiet breath. It wasn’t quite relief. The guilt pressed in again - familiar now, like background radiation. Constant and low-level and buzzing behind his eyes. He hadn’t seen Peter in days. Not since- 

Not since he used the words.

Harley’s hand tightened on Peter’s hoodie.

The memory of it still made him feel nauseous. The weight of Peter's wrists in his hands, the shiver in his voice when he’d begged - please, just do it - like it was nothing. Like it didn’t matter that he was in chains. Like the control was the comfort . And maybe it was. But it shouldn't have been.

Harley blinked again. His eyes stung, and he didn’t want to think about why. Peter shifted against him - soft, warm, still breathing a little too fast - but not afraid. Not pulling away.

“You okay?” Steve asked.

Harley didn’t answer. Just shook his head once, like that was enough. It wasn’t. Peter made another sound - quieter this time, low and hushed, a purring little vibration against Harley’s chest. Almost like a question.

Harley reached up without thinking and gently cradled the back of Peter’s head. His fingers threaded through the soft, slightly oily strands of hair. Peter leaned into it with a sigh, spider limbs flexing slightly and then curling in tighter, one of them resting over Harley’s shoulder like a weighted hand.

“Is this…” Harley swallowed. “Is this how he’s gonna be now?”

Steve was quiet.

Then, carefully: “I don’t know. Cho thinks it’s temporary. But it’ll take time. Rest. Recovery.”

Harley nodded faintly. “He’s not even really awake.”

“Not fully,” Steve agreed. Peter twitched at the sound of Steve’s voice but didn’t lift his head. “He’ll get there,” Steve said after a pause. “He’s tough. He’s got people who care about him.”

That made Harley flinch.

He didn’t say I don’t deserve to be one of them , but he thought it loud enough that maybe Peter could feel it. And still - Peter stayed pressed against him. Still curled in close. Still trusting. Harley closed his eyes. He didn’t move.

Steve stood up slowly.

It wasn’t abrupt, but Harley felt it in his bones all the same - that quiet, deliberate shift of weight that meant someone was going to ask him to do something he didn’t want to do.

Peter was breathing against his throat in slow, uneven pulls. One of his limbs stayed curled around Harley’s ribs like a loose harness, twitching now and again like it was trying to keep its grip. It didn’t hurt. But it felt… desperate. Like Peter didn’t know where he was, not really, and Harley was just the first safe place he’d touched in a while.

Steve didn’t meet Harley’s eyes right away. Just looked down at Peter, expression unreadable, his arms folded over his chest like they might hold in whatever reaction was simmering under the surface.

“Harley,” Steve said quietly, the same voice he used in briefings when someone was about to get benched. Harley didn’t answer. He just shifted one hand up to cradle the back of Peter’s head. Steve cleared his throat. “Can I talk to you for a second?”

That landed. Heavy. Cold. Harley glanced up, jaw clenching. Peter didn’t move.

“Please,” Steve added, softer now.

That cracked it open.

Harley looked down at the kid again, still half-draped over his lap. His hair was damp with sweat. His hoodie clung to his back in places where he must’ve overheated. His mouth was parted slightly, dry, the corner still wet where he hadn’t quite wiped it clean. One of the spider limbs shifted again, then stilled, curling back into itself like a twitching vine.

“I don’t think he wants me to go,” Harley said, and winced at how raw his voice came out.

“I know,” Steve said. And it didn’t sound like judgment. Just weariness. “But I need a word.”

The spider limb curled tighter.

Harley exhaled slowly, carding his fingers through Peter’s sweat-matted hair. “I’ll be right back,” he murmured, as gently as he could. “You’re okay. You’re okay.”

Peter didn’t respond. But the limb loosened just a little, like it was reluctantly giving permission.

Harley peeled himself away. Every movement felt like it required a manual override - one muscle at a time. He eased Peter back against the couch, tucking the blanket more firmly around his waist, brushing a thumb over the corner of his mouth to wipe the dampness away. Peter leaned unconsciously toward the touch, but didn’t track him when he stood.

Harley’s chest ached. He followed Steve out.

Bucky hadn’t moved. Just watched from the kitchen, face shuttered and arms folded. He didn’t look triumphant. Just distant. Withdrawn. Like he already knew what Steve was about to say and wanted no part in it.

They stopped in the hallway outside the living room. Just out of sight. The sound of the cartoon filtered through the air - a soft, nonsensical murmur that felt a million miles away.

Steve turned, arms still folded, jaw tight.

“He’s not ready for you,” he said, quiet. “Not yet.”

Harley felt it like a slap.

“I didn’t do anything,” he said, voice tight. “He came to me. I didn’t even-”

“I know,” Steve said, cutting him off gently. “I’m not saying you did anything wrong. I’m saying - he’s overloaded. And we don’t know what he’s processing right now. We don’t know what he remembers.”

Harley looked away. His mouth twisted. “I just wanted to see him.”

“I know that too.”

There was a long, bitter silence between them. Something hot burned behind Harley’s ribs - hurt, mostly, but coiled up in guilt too. Shame he hadn’t figured out how to name yet.

“He hasn’t asked for me,” Harley muttered, not really meaning to say it out loud.

Steve’s expression softened, barely. “He hasn’t asked for anyone.” Another silence. Then, quieter: “That doesn’t mean you’re not important to him.”

It didn’t feel like enough. But Harley didn’t argue. Behind them, the cartoon played on. The sounds were muted and distorted, like they were underwater. Peter hadn’t made a noise since Harley left the couch. The limb that had been clinging to him was now hanging off the side, twitching once or twice.

Harley stared at the floor.

“I just want to help,” he said quietly.

“I know,” Steve said again. “And you will. But right now, he’s… not himself. And if he panics, or gets hurt, or lashes out - we need to be able to manage that. Not react to it.”

Harley closed his eyes.

He didn’t want to say he understood. But he did.

“Okay,” he said eventually. “Okay.”

Steve put a hand briefly on his shoulder. It was solid. Heavy.

Then he stepped back into the living room, leaving Harley alone in the hall with the soft, broken flicker of cartoon voices and a sick weight in his chest that hadn’t gone away in days.

—

The hallway door clicked softly behind Harley.

Steve stood there for a beat, still watching the doorway like maybe the kid would come back in, change his mind, ask to see Peter just one more time. But it stayed shut. No footsteps. The elevator chime, then just the low hum of the ceiling vent and the flickering colors of the TV still playing on a loop behind him.

He exhaled quietly and turned.

Peter hadn’t moved.

His whole body was still half-slumped into the couch, chin tucked awkwardly against his chest like his neck couldn’t hold the weight of his head anymore. One of the spider limbs had curled in toward his hip, claws lightly brushing the fabric of the blanket. The rest hung off the couch in slack, looping arcs, trailing across the floor like discarded cables. One had knocked into the coffee table and dragged a coaster onto the rug without seeming to notice.

Steve walked back in slowly, careful not to make too much noise. His boots creaked faintly against the floorboards as he crossed the room, easing himself down into the far end of the couch again. The cushion dipped. Peter didn’t respond.

But one of the limbs - one of the back ones - twitched. Not aggressive. Not defensive. Just… a pulse, like sonar.

Steve leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees, hands clasped loosely together. He watched Peter for a long moment. The kid was still pale. Dark shadows pooled under both eyes. His face looked thinner than before, hollows under his cheekbones like his body had burned through whatever energy it had just trying to keep going.

Cho had said the coma would last a few days. Maybe more. That his system needed time to recover. That the damage wasn’t permanent - but that she couldn’t promise anything either.

Peter had woken up early.

Too early.

And the first thing he’d done was latch onto Harley like gravity didn’t matter.

Steve rubbed at the back of his neck, fingers kneading over the tension there. He wanted to be angry. At Harley, for coming up. At Bucky, for putting the kid in this position in the first place. At himself, for not stopping it before it got this far. For letting them believe that this would fix something.

Instead, he just felt… tired.

Peter’s head lolled sideways a little, face tipped faintly toward him now. His lips were parted. Dry. His breath rasped lightly - barely audible. Steve’s chest ached.

He reached over carefully, fingers brushing the edge of the blanket that had started to slip from Peter’s shoulders. Gently, he tugged it up again, tucking it under the kid’s chin before he pulled away again.

Then, a low, keening sound built in Peter’s throat - something high and fluttery and wordless. Not pain, exactly. Not fear. Just… distress. Faint and muffled.

Steve swallowed hard and leaned in, voice still low. “Hey. It’s okay. You’re alright. I’m here.” Another soft noise. Peter’s fingers twitched against the blanket like he was trying to find something that wasn’t there.  Steve moved carefully, shifting in close. “You want to lie down?” he asked gently. “Back in your room? Little quieter there.”

No answer. But Peter’s limbs moved again - slowly, clumsily. He tried to sit up. His human arms pushed at the couch cushion, but they buckled under him, and he slumped back with a frustrated, wordless grunt.

Steve moved instantly, catching under one arm. “I got you,” he murmured.

Peter leaned heavily into him, like his whole weight had collapsed. One of the spider limbs gripped Steve’s bicep, fingers clenching the fabric of his shirt but not breaking the skin. 

“Easy now,” Steve said. “We’re going slow.”

Peter’s legs gave out the second they stood.

Steve caught him fully before he could fall - one arm around his waist, the other hooked under his knees. He lifted him carefully, adjusting for the twitching limbs that tangled against Peter’s own arms and shoulders. The kid was too warm. Too quiet.

He could stand on his own, after a beat. He could walk, too, but Steve didn’t let him move so far out of the way that he couldn’t catch him if he fell.

In the spare room, he laid Peter down with infinite care, settling him against the mattress and smoothing the blanket over his body. The spider limbs curled in protectively, making a loose barrier between him and the outside world. Steve dimmed the lights, leaving just the glow of the bedside lamp on its lowest setting. He placed a bottle of water beside the bed. Peter didn’t move.

The room was silent except for the faint tick of the ceiling vent and the occasional twitch of limbs. Steve stayed there for a moment longer, crouched beside the bed.

“You’re gonna be okay,” he said quietly.

No response. Just the soft rustle of Peter curling slightly tighter under the blanket. Steve stood and backed out slowly, shutting the door behind him with a soft click .

It wasn’t loud, but it still made him wince. The whole floor felt too quiet now - like the air had thinned out while he was gone. Too still. The kind of still that came after a storm, when the wreckage was all around you but the sky had the audacity to go blue anyway.

He stayed there a moment, hand still on the doorknob. Let his eyes fall shut. Let himself breathe.

Peter hadn’t said a word.

Hadn’t looked at him, not really. Hadn’t flinched when he was moved, but hadn’t relaxed either. Just… folded in on himself. Like everything inside had burned out and left a body behind.  Steve had carried people before. Wounded soldiers, fallen allies, injured civilians. But this - this had felt different. Wrong in a way that made his skin itch. Peter had always been light, wiry, deceptively strong. Always buzzing with some kind of impossible kinetic energy even when he was trying to hide it. But when Steve had lifted him just now, it felt like picking up someone who’d already given up. Not dead. Just… gone quiet inside.

He let go of the doorknob and turned.

Bucky was in the kitchen, leaning against the counter. His hair was half-tied back, the loose strands damp around the temples like he’d run cold water over his face and never dried off. His metal hand tapped absently against the side of his thigh in a stuttering rhythm. Not impatience. Not nervousness. Just noise. Something to fill the space.

Steve walked over slowly, feeling every one of his own footsteps like weights tied to his ankles. He dropped into the armchair across from the couch and rubbed his hands over his face. “He’s not gonna be able to talk again, is he,” he murmured, voice muffled by his palms. “Not a single word.”

Bucky didn’t answer right away. Just stopped tapping. “He’s hurting,” he said finally. “It’ll take time.”

Steve lowered his hands and looked at him. Bucky’s jaw twitched.

“He tried to get up when I asked if he wanted to lie down. He followed me with his eyes. But when I talked to him-” Steve shook his head. “Nothing. No flicker. No recognition. Like it was white noise.”

“Language centers are delicate,” Bucky said, quietly. “You know that.”

“I know that ,” Steve snapped. He winced a second later and looked away. His voice dropped back down. “I know that.”

The silence stretched between them. The apartment creaked faintly. A radiator kicked in somewhere in the building, rattling the pipes. Steve stared down at his hands, at the faint pink line where Peter’s limb had caught him earlier.

“He’s overloaded,” Bucky said quietly. “You know what that feels like.”

Steve shook his head slowly. “It’s not the same.”

“Isn’t it?” Bucky’s voice was barely audible. “Not knowing where you are? Not knowing what’s real or what’s yours anymore?”

That shut Steve up.

He slouched back in the chair, arms crossing over his chest, gaze fixed on the floor. “I just-” He let out a long breath, jaw tight. “I wanted this to help. I wanted it to give him something back. Not take more away.”

Bucky nodded once, slow. “I know.”

Steve looked at him again. The lines around Bucky’s eyes were deeper than they’d been last week. His shoulders hadn’t fully dropped since the Medbay. There were still blood stains under his fingernails, even though Peter hadn’t bled much. Steve wondered how many times Bucky had washed his hands since then anyway.

“I’m still mad at you,” Steve muttered.

Bucky looked over, something wry but weary tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Yeah. I know you, you stupid punk. You still hold grudges.”

Steve huffed out something that might’ve been a laugh. Or just breath catching sideways in his chest. “Don’t call me that.”

“You like it.”

“I don’t.”

Steve leaned back in the chair and let the silence settle again. “He’s going to need help,” he said eventually.

“Yeah.”

“I don’t know how much we can give him.”

Bucky nodded. “We’ll figure it out.”

“You better be right.”

“I’m probably not,” Bucky said. “But I’ll try anyway.”

Steve closed his eyes again. Peter slept behind the door. Quiet. Still. Barely more than a presence. But he was here.

And that was something.